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cloudyluun · 4 months ago

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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 ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry

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#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff

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sunshineangel0 · 4 months ago

Text

-late night adrenaline.. ☾

pairing– han jisung x reader summary– after a suffocating day, the walls start closing in, and you need an out. so, naturally, you show up at jisung’s doorstep in the middle of the night, throwing your car keys at him. fast cars. empty roads. music so loud it rattles through your bones. it’s supposed to help, supposed to clear your head. but nothing—not the speed, not the wind whipping past—drowns out the fact that jisung sees right through you. genre– friends to lovers, slow burn, high tension, late night recklessness word count– 2.5k warnings– mentions of stress/overwhelm, dangerous levels of tension, reckless driving, suppressed feelings finally snapping, intense first kiss, mutual pining, jisung being unfairly attractive while behind the wheel. a/n- so. i wrote this yesterday evening after a fight with my boyfrined so it may be a litle angsty (sorry). hope you enjoy it anyways babes. also, i accidentally published this on the wrong acc, so here is take number two.

It’s one of those nights—an unbearable weight of stress compresses against your chest, squeezing your ribs until breathing feels like a challenge. The walls of your apartment seem to inch closer, threatening to swallow you whole, while your thoughts clamor noisily in your head, refusing to quiet down. Restlessness buzzes beneath your skin, making it impossible to stay put.

You don’t even know where to start.

It’s everything. All at once.

You're drowning in work, deadlines looming ominously, the weight of responsibility pressing down like an unyielding vice. Each task you complete seems to multiply into three more, a relentless cycle that leaves you questioning if you'll ever catch up. No matter how hard you push yourself, it's never quite enough.

Then there's your personal life—an entangled mess you can't quite face. Texts go unanswered, calls are ignored, plans canceled because the thought of dealing with people feels insurmountable. Everyone seems to want something from you, pulling you apart in every direction, leaving you utterly exhausted.

And then there's Han.

Han, your best friend, the one you've secretly loved for five long years. Han, who never demands but somehow intensifies your turmoil just by being there—those dark, knowing eyes seeming to peer into your very soul, hearing what you never dare to say. Han, who dates other girls but never really commits, leaving you in a limbo of hope and despair. Han, who treats you like you're something more but never takes that crucial step.

You're caught in a whirlwind of exhaustion and restlessness, feeling on the brink of breaking apart. The thought of staying still for even a moment longer is unbearable, yet moving forward seems just as impossible. You're torn, unsure if confronting these feelings will bring relief or only deepen the chaos.

So you do the only thing you can think of.

You grab your keys and go.

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself standing at Jisung's doorstep, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as your knuckles strike the solid wood with a desperate urgency, defying the screaming impulse to flee. The door bursts open, and there stands Jisung, blinking in bewilderment, his expression an electrifying blend of confusion and intrigue as he absorbs your chaotic state—hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind, eyes blazing with intensity. Without uttering a single word, you hurl your car keys toward him with a flick of your wrist, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension.

He arches an eyebrow but catches them effortlessly, his fingers curling around the cool metal. “Uh… hello to you too?” he says, a hint of amusement tinged with concern in his voice.

“No talking. Just get in,” you demand, your voice edged with urgency and an undercurrent of something raw and restless, like a storm about to break. It sends a shiver down his spine, an electric charge in the air.

For a second, he hesitates, his eyes lingering on your tense figure. Not because he doesn’t want to follow—he always does—but because he can almost see the crackling energy swirling around you like a brewing storm. Your fingers twitch restlessly at your sides, like a coiled spring ready to snap, as if you're on the verge of punching something or bolting out the door. Jisung exhales sharply, the sound slicing through the charged air, then he snatches his hoodie from the couch and trails after you without another word.

The cityscape blurs by in a muted rush as you speed along the highway. The usual city noise is subdued, reduced to a low hum as streetlights streak past like scattered stars, casting brief, glowing halos through the car windows. Jisung grips the steering wheel firmly, his knuckles pale in the dim glow, driving with his signature style—quick and efficient, yet with a touch of caution. Normally, he's in control, but tonight there's a different energy in the air.

The car's speakers thrum with heavy bass, each beat pulsing through the seats, merging with the thunderous growl of the engine. It creates a cocoon of sound that isolates you both from the world outside, intensifying the charged atmosphere inside the vehicle. The faint scent of leather mingles with the crisp night air that sneaks in through the slightly open windows, carrying a hint of something almost smoldering, like the promise of something about to ignite.

"Drive faster," you urge, your voice barely cutting through the blaring music

. Jisung casts a quick glance at you, his jaw set. "Y/N, I'm already pushing almost 100 miles per hour,"

he snaps, his tone fraught with urgency. But you fire back instantly, your words sharp and impatient, "Clearly, it's not enough."

“Y/N, for God's sake, what’s going on? What the hell happened?” H

His voice quivers with raw concern as his knuckles turn white, gripping the steering wheel with a desperate intensity.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, your eyes fixed on the blur of landscape racing by, your voice a ghostly whisper.

“No, you’re not,” he presses, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide, filled with alarm. “You just told me to go faster when we’re already tearing through the speed limit. Are you trying to get us killed?”

"I'm fine, Jisung. I just need to clear my head, that's all," you insist, your voice strained, struggling to sound convincing.

Jisung’s gaze remains locked on you, worry etched deep into his features. "Tell me what’s wrong, or I’m pulling over," he demands, his voice a mix of firmness and gentle resolve.

You feel the tension in your body as your fingers curl tighter around the worn fabric of your jeans. You turn your head slowly to look at him. The streetlights whip past, casting sharp, fleeting shadows across his face. You can see the way his jaw is set, the hard line of his determination. His knuckles are white, gripping the steering wheel with a force that betrays his worry.

"Keep driving," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a while, he obliges. The car speeds down the highway, the engine humming beneath the loud, rhythmic thump of the music that fills the space between you. It’s a familiar escape—driving too fast, the music too loud, pretending the weight of your thoughts is just a whisper in the wind. But eventually, the car slows, and Jisung pulls over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The engine idles quietly, and the night air seeps in through the cracked window, cool and expectant.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts the car into park with a soft click and leans back against the seat, eyes fixed on the empty stretch of asphalt ahead. The silence is suffocating, a heavy blanket smothering all other sounds. Outside, the world feels frozen in time—only the gentle hum of cicadas fills the air, and the distant, sporadic flicker of neon signs from a lonely gas station punctuates the night.

Inside the car, the tension is palpable, thick enough to make breathing a struggle. Jisung remains motionless, his fingers gripping the steering wheel as if preparing for an unseen collision. The music plays softly in the background, a faint, steady rhythm that fails to distract from the oppressive weight of the unspoken words hanging heavily between you.

You can feel his gaze on you, a palpable weight that you choose to ignore. Your forehead leans against the cool, misted surface of the window, and your eyes are fixed on the dark horizon stretching beyond the highway.

But then—

"Y/N."

His voice is quiet, yet there's a sharpness to it, like a blade edge barely concealed beneath a velvet sheath. There's something raw, something unyielding in the way he says your name. You swallow hard, feeling the dryness in your throat. “What?”

Jisung lets out a sudden, frustrated breath, his hands finally loosening their tight grip on the steering wheel. He shifts in his seat, turning his body slightly towards you, determination etched into his posture. “Look at me.”

You hesitate, your fingers tracing the seam of your jeans. The seconds stretch, filled with the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of the tires against the road.

He waits.

When you finally muster the courage to turn, his eyes—dark and intense—are pinned to you with a force that makes your chest constrict. He looks at you as though he's peeling back every layer, seeing through every flimsy excuse, every half-hearted "I'm fine" you've ever tossed his way. His gaze says he already knows the truth, but he's patiently waiting for you to find the strength to voice it yourself.

But you can’t.

You don’t know how.

So you do what you do best. You deflect.

"You didn’t have to pull over," you murmur, shifting your gaze to the dashboard, anywhere but him. "I just needed to—"

"Needed to what?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a bite to it, something pressing, something fraying at the edges. "Race through the city like you’re running from something? Pretend like you’re fine when you’re clearly about to break?"

Your breath catches. “I don’t need you to fix me, Ji.”

His jaw tightens. “I never said I did.”

The words sit between you like an open wound, bleeding, aching.

You close your eyes for a second, inhaling deeply. The night air slips through the barely-open window, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. The words slice through the space between you, raw and aching, like an open wound that neither of you have the strength to ignore anymore.

And then Jisung shifts closer. Not much. Just enough for you to feel it. And suddenly, the space between you feels unbearably small. His presence a slow-burning fire licking at your edges. Jisungs hand lifts, hesitant at first, before his fingers ghost over yours, a barely-there touch that sends something electric racing up your spine. You freeze. His thumb brushes lightly against the back of your hand, tracing slow, aimless circles. It’s soft. It’s careful. But somehow, it feels louder than the pounding of your heart, louder than the music still humming in the background.

“Just tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. "Whatever it is, I can take it."

His words wrap around your ribs, tightening. You want to tell him. You want to tell him that it’s not just the stress, not just the deadlines or the exhaustion or the way the world keeps demanding more from you. It’s him. It’s always been him. It’s the way he’s been your constant for five years, the way he’s the only person who can read you like an open book. It’s the way he looks at you—like you matter, like you belong, like you’re his even if he’s never said the words. It’s the way he’s never crossed the line, but he’s always stood so damn close to it that you’ve spent years wondering if he ever would. It’s five years of wanting, five years of aching, five years of pretending that this friendship is enough. It’s the unbearable ache of wanting him.

And suddenly, the air inside the car is too thick, too heavy.

You don’t think. You don’t second-guess. You just move.

Before either of you can process it, your hands are tangling in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer. Jisung barely has time to react before your lips crash into his— messy, burning, rough and desperate, a wildfire consuming everything in its path. With something neither of you are ready to name.

He makes a sound—soft, surprised—but then he’s gripping. The sound swallowed by the way he presses you closer. One hand tangles into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tilting your head back just enough for him to deepen the kiss. The other finds your waist, curling tight, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s reckless—like an open flame. It’s adrenaline and burning rubber on pavement and breaking every unspoken rule. It’s five years of tension snapping in an instant, five years of stolen glances and almosts unraveling between his teeth. It’s the taste of midnight air and unspoken confessions, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

When you finally pull away, both of you breathless and wide-eyed, the world outside feels eerily still, as if it, too, is holding its breath.

Jisung stares at you, lips parted, eyes dark and stormy. His chest rises and falls heavily, like he’s struggling to process what just happened.

And then—

Jisung exhales sharply, a breathless sound that’s half-laugh, half-disbelief. He drags a hand through his already-messy hair, his fingers tangling at the roots as if he needs something to ground himself. His lips are still parted, kiss-swollen, the ghost of your touch lingering there like an unanswered question.

"Holy shit."

Your hands remain clenched in the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles white, as if releasing him means accepting the weight of what just happened. Your pulse is a violent drum against your ribs, your lungs burning like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

"Yeah."

The word barely escapes, a whisper carried away by the hush of the night.

Silence stretches between you, no longer suffocating but something else entirely—something that crackles, something that waits. The only sound is the steady tick of the cooling engine, the soft hum of the radio playing a song neither of you are really hearing. The air in the car has thickened, charged with something electric, something inevitable.

Jisung is staring at you, his gaze dark and unreadable, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and you follow the movement, pulse jumping, skin prickling. His eyes flicker down to your mouth again—once, twice—before dragging back up, locking onto yours.

And that’s when you realize.

You don’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

His fingers twitch against his thigh, and before you can think, his hand moves—slow, tentative, yet deliberate. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against the back of your hand, tracing lazy circles, sending a shiver rippling through your entire body. It’s nothing, barely a touch—but it’s everything.

You exhale shakily, the sound catching in your throat, your grip finally loosening on his hoodie. He notices. Of course, he does.

Jisung’s lips part, his voice low, careful. “So… do we talk about this, or do I just keep driving?”

His tone is light, teasing, but there’s a slight waver to it—an edge of hesitation, a quiet vulnerability that tugs at something deep inside you.

Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again, harder, faster.

You could talk about it. You could dissect every moment, lay everything out on the table, risk everything you’ve built with him over the last five years. But the thought of breaking this fragile, raw moment terrifies you.

Instead, you bite your lip, eyes never leaving his.

"Drive," you murmur.

Then he spoke. Softer, deadlier—"But don’t you dare run from this." The smirk that tugs at his lips is slow, almost dangerous—like he knows exactly what youre about to say. Like he’s daring you to hold him to it. His fingers tighten slightly around yours, a promise, a warning, a silent challenge.

"Not a chance." you whisper.

And then, just like that, he’s moving.

The engine growls back to life, the soft rumble vibrating through your seat. Jisung’s hands find the wheel again, steady now, but his knuckles are still faintly pale, his pulse still erratic beneath his skin. The car eases back onto the highway, tires rolling smoothly over the asphalt, but the energy inside the vehicle has irrevocably changed.

The city lights blur past, neon reflections casting shifting patterns over his skin. You watch him out of the corner of your eye—the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension still coiled in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap absently against the wheel like he’s thinking, processing, feeling.

You exhale, letting your head drop back against the seat, the adrenaline still humming through your veins.

Outside, the world rushes past in a blur of midnight hues.

Inside, the two of you are no longer just running.

This time, you know exactly where you’re headed.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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hard-core-super-star · 5 months ago

Text

OWN MY MIND [wandanat]

pairing: top!wanda maximoff x bottom!natasha romanoff

summary: wanda's crush on natasha has grown to nearly unbearable levels. instead of pining after her, she decides to do something about it during a party.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! -> porn with plot; wanda has a crush and she's about to make it EVERYONE'S problem; semi-public sex; slightly obsessive wanda go brr; so much teasing; the clothes stay on because i say so; thigh-grinding; fingering [nat receiving]; neck kisses; i got hooked on the idea so there's a lot of expostion; shitty dirty talk; so much bickering

wordcount: 3.8k

a/n: I'M ALIVE! i did not mean to disappear again but life had other plans 😅that being said, I'M OKAY! i survived a very stressful january and my writer's block seems to be easing somewhat. every year i say i'll be more active on here and it doesn't always work very well BUT i'm trying! anyway, i hope you guys are doing well, my askbox is always open for you all. that being said, i hope you enjoy <3

[part two | part three]

* * * * * * *

There wasn't much Wanda was sure of anymore.

At some point, she'd been sure her and her family were going to be safe. She'd been proven wrong the day a Stark Industries missile crashed into her living room, sending all her childish hopes of safety with it.

After that, she'd been sure she'd never leave her brother's side, even agreeing to become an experiment for HYDRA to guarantee their safety. Their powers had helped and even when Ultron appeared, she was sure they'd figure things out together.

That dream had instantly been shot down, along with Pietro and the remnants of her home, after Ultron's attack.

She hated thinking about it. About everything she lost. About the dreams she'd held onto for most of her life that were meaningless now. That didn't serve any purpose other than reminding her she was alone.

Sure, she had the Avengers now but...they didn't understand her. Not the way her brother had.

Clint tried his hardest to be there for her before he left to be with his family, do doubt feeling guilty over something that wasn't his fault. He wasn't to blame for Pietro's sacrifice and they both knew blaming him wouldn't bring the speedster back anyway.

In a weird way, though, the archer was the only one who truly understood her grief so when he left...Wanda did what she had always done. She retreated into herself, ignoring the looks of the rest of the team and Vision's borderline annoying insistence that she talk to someone.

She didn't need to talk about anything. There was nothing to talk about. Nothing that could change the pain she carried every day.

Nothing...except Natasha Romanoff.

Their friendship hadn't come out of nowhere despite how hard the older woman liked to act otherwise. Even without her powers, she knew Clint had been the one to push Natasha in her direction. It was also obvious that the Widow had no idea what to do.

It was weirdly charming.

Despite how hard she tried to act like she cold and heartless, Natasha cared. She cared a lot more than she wanted to. Especially about Wanda.

So, when the older woman started appearing outside her door at ungodly hours of the night, seemingly unaware of the tear that stained the witch's cheeks, and inviting her to train with her...Wanda decided trusting her wouldn't do any harm.

That much was true. No real harm came from getting close to Natasha. If anything, she helped more than anyone at the Tower had even tried. She didn't care that Wanda didn't want to talk about what happened in Sokovia, that her inner demons showed their face every night and left her with nightmares too intense to ignore, that her powers grew stronger every day.

The Widow didn't seem to care about the details. She simply cared enough to be there. Sometimes she showed up earlier, before any nightmares could haunt her dreams, other times she showed up later and with a tea in hand that she quickly offered to her. There were no words exchanged but she knew.

And that meant more to Wanda than she could even put into words.

Those feelings, though, quickly grew out of her control. It happened almost on accident, practically without thinking. All she knew is that one day she felt...drawn to Natasha in a way she hadn't noticed before.

To the curve of her neck, the flex of her biceps, the tension in her jaw when she throws a punch. All the little details came together and left her feeling far too confused for her liking.

Confused and yet far too in control.

And to say Wanda was slowly becoming obsessed with control would be an understatement.

This flurry of thoughts is what leads her to do something too far out of her comfort zone. It's a shitty idea, she knows that, but when Vision off-handedly tells her of the party Tony will be throwing later that day, a plan slowly starts forming in her head.

A plan that involves a certain redhead and the confusing feelings that settle low in her stomach when they're alone together. Of course, she's not a stranger to desire, she knows what her feelings really are, but that doesn't mean she's exactly okay with them. With the suddenness and the intensity of her thoughts. Of the fantasies she longs to make a reality.

She's just as patient as she is stubborn, though, so she waits. Waits until the party is in full swing, until she's all dolled up in her favorite dress, paired with the leather jacket she never gave back to redhead, and then she strikes.

It must look weird. It certainly feels weird, stepping out into the crowd instead of avoiding everyone in her room. She has to step out of her comfort zone if she wants to go after what she wants, though, and she's determined to sink her teeth into Natasha before the end of the night.

Thankfully, she doesn't have to wait long for her opportunity.

As soon as she makes her way into the bustle of the party, she scans the room for the Widow. She finds her by the bar, chatting with Tony and Rhodey with a drink in hand.

Even though she wants to waste no time, she decides to linger. To let the anticipation build and see how long it'll take Natasha to bite. It's both torturous and enticing. A borderline perverted mix of longing that makes her heart threaten to burst out of her chest.

When Natasha's eyes finally meet her gaze, she sends a soft smile her way before pretending to be incredibly interested in her drink. It's a cheap strategy, she knows that, and yet it's one that works in her favor.

She only has to wait a few more minutes before the Widow untangles herself from Tony's drawn-out (although probably annoyingly entertaining) story and makes her way over to her.

"I didn't take you for a beer girl," she says, raising a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at her.

"There is a lot you don't know about me," Wanda replies, her accent coming out strong. It's half on purpose and half on accident. It tends to slip out easier when she's around people she's genuinely comfortable with.

And Natasha is right at the top of that list. Even if she doesn't fully know it.

The Widow lets out a soft huffing sound in response. It's not quite a laugh, but there's an edge of fondness to it that neither of them can fully ignore. It's not every day she allows herself to be so unguarded.

"You're pretty and witchy, what else is there to know?"

The teasing remark only makes the younger woman's smile grow wider. "Does that mean you think I'm pretty?"

Wanda accompanies her question with an alluring tilt of her head, watching in amusement as Natasha takes a long sip of her drink to avoid answering. Even if she doesn't say the words, she's been caught red-handed and the witch couldn't be happier about it. Maybe her sudden desire for the woman isn't as one-sided as she'd allowed herself to believe.

"What are you even doing here?" Natasha asks, her tone far too casual for the intensity in her gaze. "You hate Tony and you hate parties."

The witch in question simply shrugs. "I was tired of sitting on my ass."

This time, the Widow actually laughs. "Clint should have never taught you that phrase."

"I don't know, I think it's quite fitting." She pauses for a moment, letting the air between crackle with a hard to define energy. One just as powerful and unpredictable as her own powers. "You seem to like looking at my ass."

The older woman's eyes widen before quickly darting around them. Sure, they're leaning up against the ridiculously placed bar but no one around them is paying attention. Tony and Rhodey left to find someone else to bore with their competitive stories and everyone else is scattered around the room, too engrossed in their conversations or their drinks to pay them any mind.

Not to mention, Wanda would never allow them to notice them. It's not mind control, not really, which means she feels no guilt at manipulating reality for a few moments.

"Since when are you so bold, Maximoff?"

"Since I decided to start going after what I want."

This time, she pairs her words with a subtle step forward. It's not enough for their bodies to press together, but the intention is more than clear. It's a hint and a warning all wrapped up in one. One the Widow could easily ignore if she wanted to.

Wanda almost expects her to, considering how shifty her eyes are. How her attention seems to bounce around the room more and more. She's sure she's never seen the older woman so nervous before. It's as cute as it is enticing.

Finally, Natasha relents. She lets out a long sigh, her gaze shifting back to Wanda's. "You couldn't find a more appropriate time for that?"

The younger woman's smile turns into a smirk. Her free hand reaches out, manicured fingers running down the length of the redhead's arm. "We could always...sneak away, just the two of us..."

Natasha lets out a soft chuckle at that, her resistance clearly wavering, even as she tries to hold strong. "I don't think that's a smart idea, princess."

Wanda's pout is almost enough to make her melt. Almost.

"Why not? Aren't we on the same page about this?"

"It's not that simple."

The witch knows she should at least ask why. That she should pretend to care about the hesitations she knows are swimming around in Natasha's head. She doesn't need to read her mind to know what they are, why they matter. But it's hard to think straight when her advances aren't being rejected. When she's so close to getting what she wants.

So, instead of doing any of the rational things the Widow seems to be struggling with, she wordlessly grabs her hand and leads her away from prying eyes. They're a few ways away but still near the hustle and bustle of the party. Far away to fully hear each other but close enough to be caught if someone decided to wander around.

She's not fully thinking about that possibilty, though. All her focus is on Natasha and getting her to admit how much she wants her. How much she needs this too.

Without thinking about the consequences, she pushes the older woman up against the wall, their eyes meeting once more. The bright green flecks of Natasha's eyes seem to sparkle almost dangerously. Unfortunately, Wanda is too far gone to heed the warnings.

"Wanda, we can't." There's no real discomfort in the Widow's voice. No real attempt at getting the younger woman to stop.

So, she doesn't.

Wanda merely lets out a soft hum but makes no attempt to step away or fully listen to the older woman's complaints. Instead, she leans in more insistently, her lips trailing up Natasha's neck and leaving heated kisses on her skin.

The redhead wants to pull away. To tell Wanda to stop and let her walk away before they do something they'll regret. It's impossible to fight against her, though. Especially when her hands join the slow exploration.

"Why can't we?" The witch asks, her hands settling on Natasha's hips. "Why do you want to pretend like you don't want me?"

The sound the redhead makes is somewhere between a huff and a groan. "That's not what I'm doing. I'm just trying to be smart about this."

"There's nothing smart about this," she replies. "But I want you and you want me. What more do we need?"

Natasha opens her mouth to answer but Wanda doesn't give her a chance. In one swift move, she hooks the redhead's leg around her waist before pressing herself against her, drawing a soft gasp from her parted lips.

"You were saying?"

"You're so annoying, little witch."

The teasing nickname makes Wanda huff. Sure, it also makes her heart skip a beat but mostly, it annoys her. "Then tell me to stop, 'Tasha."

"Just shut up and kiss me already."

There it is. The permission she'd been waiting for. The clear admittance that their feelings were the same. That the sparks of desire she'd been feeling during training weren't one-sided delusions.

The witch wastes no time in connecting their lips once the realization hits her. Despite the intensity of their desires, the kiss is surprisingly soft.

It's still more than a little desperate and yet there's an edge of affection that makes them melt. That leaves them craving more.

Thankfully, they both have more than enough ideas on how to fix that craving. The youngest of the two takes the leap first, though, not one bit embarrased of showing how desperate she is for more.

Wanda grinds her hips up against Natasha's, slowly hiking her dress up to reveal the smooth skin underneath the fabric. There's something about both the setting and their outfits that drives them both mad. Something about being so exposed and yet so composed at the same time. Something about the matching black fabric of their dresses that turns them on more.

Her lips leave the Widow's just to trail down her jaw, her hands moving down her body with purpose. She grips her hips hard enough to move the older woman against her as she easily slots one of her thighs between her legs, giving her the perfect surface to grind against.

"You're so quiet, 'Tasha," the witch teases, unable to stop her flourishing dominant side for rearing its head.

Natasha knows she's allowing herself to slip. That she shouldn't be letting her guard down like this. Shouldn't be giving Wanda this much control over her.

It's not like she can help it, though. There's an intensity behind the younger woman's movements that she doesn't want to fight against. She wants to let it consume her until there's nothing left. No trace of her fears or hesitations.

She's not about to admit that any time soon, though. Even as her bucking hips give her away.

"That's because we're in public," she replies, keeping her voice as even as she can. "I can actually control myself unlike some people."

Wanda chuckles, keeping up her slow movements. "That's not what your hips are telling me."

"You're the one moving them," she shoots back.

The witch leans back slightly, a smirk forming on her face and pairing beautifully with her dialated pupils. "Is that so? If I move my hands away, you'll stop trying to hump my leg?"

Without waiting for an answer, she moves her hands away from the redhead's hips, allowing her fingers to trail up her torso toward her chest. She keeps her touch light and teasing, using it to further draw out the other woman's desires.

"That's not fair," Natasha huffs, her cheeks flushing a light shade of pink as the attention piles on. "You're the one that started this, you have to finish it."

"But we haven't even started yet, have we? You still have too many clothes on."

Wanda's fingers linger on the strap of Natasha's dress, sliding it down just enough to allow her lips to connect to the exposed skin. She focuses her attention on that spot just enough to make the older woman's hips buck against her.

"Fuck," she groans. "This is so unfair."

"I think it's more than fair. I can feel how much you want me. You're soaked, aren't you?"

Her question is met with another groan, this one in a sightly higher, more desperate, pitch. The witch is right, of course. She's already drenched and all she's done is lazily grind against her thigh.

It's practically impossible to stop her body from responding to her, though. Even without reading her mind, she knows her cues all too well after spending so much sparring with her.

Then again, she's pretty sure she wouldn't mind allowing her to invade her thoughts. Something about the lack of control makes her gush.

The low chuckle Natasha's thought is met with makes her eyes widen in response, her hands coming up to grip the younger woman’s shoulders. “Are you seriously reading my mind right now?”

Wanda knows the redhead is trying to sound intimidating but she’s far too breathless, far too wet against her thigh, for her to feel anything but satisfaction. “I couldn’t help it, your thoughts are so loud.”

The response is exactly what she had been expecting and all she can do is huff. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Her words only make Wanda bolder. With her words, her touch, her unbearable need to make the other woman fall apart just for her. “I thought you wanted me in your mind, ‘Tasha?”

The Widow knows she's been caught. That even if the witch didn't spend much time in her head, she knows how much she loves this. How much she wants this. This back and forth dance that will no doubt end with her on her knees.

And still, she's far too stubborn to admit it.

"Shut up." It's a weak remark but it's the only one she has. The only two words she can coherently form as her hips roll against the hard muscle pressing so insistently against her heat. "If you wanted to talk so much, you should have taken me on a date."

"If you don't like me talking so much, why are you so wet?"

It's infuriating. For every snarky response she can form, Wanda has two more waiting for her. It's like she knows exactly how to work her up, exactly how to meet her where she's at instead of trying to change her. It's more than infuriating, it's...it's sweet. In its own complicated, slightly fucked up way, the witch is being sweet.

Maybe it's that realization that makes her melt. Or maybe she's just too pent up to care anymore. She knows what the answer is, but she ignores it in favor of gripping Wanda's wrist and guiding it between her legs.

"I'd prefer it if you stopped talking and started doing, princess."

The witch's body tenses for a second, almost like her brain is struggling to catch up to reality, but then her fingers are working their way into Natasha's underwear and they both let out twin moans at the feeling.

Instead of taking a moment to tease her, Wanda dives right in, her patience fading with every buck of the older woman's hips. She sinks two fingers into Natasha's aching cunt, barely reminding herself to take it easy. To draw her pleasure out until she's writhing and groaning.

"Is this better for you, 'Tasha?" She asks, her lips making their way to Natasha's neck once more. She knows better than to leave too many marks behind, but she can't help her urges and she sinks her teeth into the side of the older woman's neck.

Natasha's walls clench around her fingers, nails digging into the witch's jacket as sparks of pleasure shoot up her spine. She arches her back into her touch, her hips bucking a little too wildly for her taste. It's not like she can help her movements. Not when it feels so good.

"Wanda," she moans, her cheeks heating up as she realizes how desperate she sounds. "Fuck, don't stop."

If Wanda was slightly more sadistic she would push her to beg. As enticing as that sounds, she'd much prefer to show her how good she can make her feel instead.

"I won't," she says as her thumb finds its way onto Natasha's swollen clit. "Not until you fall apart for me. Until you admit how good I make you feel."

Her pride seems like a small price to pay for the pleasure that's turning her brain to mush. She opens her mouth to stroke Wanda's ego some more when the younger woman speeds up her movements, her fingers curling just enough to leave her gasping.

She pushes her hips into her fingers with every thrust, looking far more needy than she ever allows herself to be. "Right there, fuck, feels so good."

Natasha's never really been one for talking during sex, far too accustomed to selfish lovers who don't need her approval to feel like they're doing things right. It's different this time, though. Not just because she genuinly feels good, but because it's so clear that Wanda feels good. That this is what she wants. Touching her, pleasing her, driving her to the brink of madness. The witch has never looked more comfortable, more in her element, than she does right now.

"You gonna cum for me already?" The witch teases, pretending she's not doing everything in her power to make the older woman fall apart. "Here? Where anyone could see you? See how desperate you are for my fingers?"

The slight degradation shouldn't turn her on more, but it does. It makes her head fall back as an incoherent string of curses leave her lips. She knows she should at least feel a little emberrased but she can't. Can't think about anything except Wanda's fingers pistoning in and out of her wet pussy.

"Yes," she replies breathlessly. "I need- need to cum."

Wanda doubles her efforts as soon as she hears Natasha admit how close she is. Her thumb presses down on her twitching clit, rubbing fast circles against it until the Widow's walls are spasming around her fingers.

"That's it, let go for me, 'Tasha. Make a mess on my fingers."

She doesn't have to be told twice.

The coil in Natasha's stomach snaps almost instantly, leaving her clinging to the witch as the pleasure crashes into her all at once.

Wanda watches her with wide eyes, greedily drinking in every twitch of her face, every desperate sound she can't hold back. She's sure she's never seen anything so breathtaking in her life.

All it does, though, is make her realize how much more she wants. How badly she needs Natasha. How her mind has filled up with fantasies she's not sure she can live without.

After losing everything she's ever had, she has to have the older woman.

That will come later, though, right now, she has more important things to focus on. Like making sure Natasha can walk long enough for them to retire to her room for the night.

* * * * * * *

taglist: @boredandneedfanfics

#wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wandanat #wandanat smut #wandanat fic #wanda maximoff smut #natasha romanoff smut #black widow #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #avengers fanfiction #mcu imagine #marvel fic #wlw fic #writing

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im4rmy · 7 months ago

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your first time together - haechan (idol AU)

IMAGINE: You realize he’s the perfect fuck-buddy to blow off some steam.

TW: steamy sex, fwb, fingering, MDNI.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

• The first time you met, all you did was grab dinner, but the tension between you two? Off the charts. Practically unbearable—even though you’d just met, and in the weirdest way possible. Now, a week and a half later, you can’t stop thinking about how much you want him to just… fuck you. Honestly. Life’s been testing your limits: college is kicking your ass, and living with your parents and two younger siblings is doing nothing for your stress levels. You need something to loosen you up—and while you know that a wildly famous idol like him is far from an ideal option, you also know your attraction isn't one-sided. And you're right.

• Haechan’s found himself thinking about you more than he expected. Sure, you’re hot as hell—but after that intriguing dinner together, he figured that would be it. But damn, you really managed to stick in his head. With a sigh, he gets up to wash his plate after a solo dinner and some YouTube to unwind from a long day at work. He’s not physically exhausted tonight, but mentally? Off-the-charts stressed. So when his doorbell rings, a chill runs down his spine—saesangs are a literal nightmare. He checks the clock before heading to the door: 8:20 PM.

• But when he checks the security screen, his eyes go wide. You’re standing there. He opens the door embarrassingly fast and just stares, secretly savoring how incredible you look in that black leather jacket and high ponytail.

“I think I forgot my… something. Here. Last week,” you say.

“And what exactly did you forget?”

You swallow. You hadn’t planned that far. “My… scarf?”

“You could’ve asked your mom to look for it. She was here a few hours ago.”

At this point, you're just glaring at him, silently begging him to catch your drift. Truth is, he knew exactly what your intentions were the second you rang the bell—but he’s enjoying watching you squirm.

“You home alone?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then let me in, asshole.”

• He doesn’t even reply—just grabs your jacket and pulls you inside, slamming the door behind you before lifting you by your thighs and setting you on the kitchen counter. You let out a breath of relief and kiss him instantly, hands in his clean-shaven face, pulling him closer. He groans into your mouth and runs his hands over your thighs, kneading them through your jeans. You try to slip out of your jacket without breaking the kiss, and he’s clearly on the same page—he pulls your white t-shirt off as you reach for his.

• Haechan slides his face down your body, gently laying you back across the counter as he buries his head between your breasts. He kisses your sternum, then reaches behind you to undo your blue bra. You wrap your legs around his waist, relaxing into his warm hands exploring your torso, his mouth trailing down from your neck to your chest, stomach, and hips. Then he hooks his fingers around the button of your jeans and looks up at you, his chest rising and falling fast. You sit up and pull him into another kiss by the hair—and he takes that as a yes.

• He undoes your jeans, and his clever hand wastes no time—slipping into your panties and pulling a gasp from your lips. But it’s a good kind of surprise. His long fingers move inside you, and you melt right there on the kitchen counter. You’re practically crying from the pleasure at this point. Seeing you arch your back, eyes shut, skin trembling, hearing those helpless little sounds you're making—it’s obscene, and it drives him crazy. His erection is unbearable now.

• “I gotta ask you something.”

“Right now? You’re literally fingering me.”

“Exactly. Are we doing this? Are we actually gonna fuck? I need some clarification.”

You growl, still sitting up with his fingers inside you. “I need a stress relief, not a relationship. You in?”

Haechan clears his throat. “You’re, like… incredibly naked on my kitchen counter and you look like a goddess—so yes. I’m ultra, super, mega in—”

“For the love of God, shut the fuck up.”

You kiss him hard again, pushing him back so you can get to your feet.

“Bedroom?”

“Too far.”

He drags you down to the floor with him, and you straddle him right there, settling over his hips. You undo his sweatpants, pull them off along with his boxers—and toss your soaked panties aside, too.

• You don’t even need to touch him—his cock is already more than ready for you. You lift yourself up, line your entrance with his hard length, and finally—sink down on him, taking him in deep. All of him. Riding him for your first time together. Haechan groans loudly and arches up against the floor, the intense pleasure from your tight heat making him grab your hips to guide your rhythm. It’s a total mess—both of you moaning and whimpering like you’ve lost control. The floor is cold, you're both sweating—but fuck, it’s amazing.

• And that orgasm—oh my God. You literally collapse on top of him, probably whipping him in the face with your ponytail as he tries to catch his breath.

“That was—”

“Yeah.”

“You coming back tomorrow?”

“Same time?”

“Same time.”

♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤

other haechan's chapters:

bf!haechan scenario

haechan - when you first met

haechan - your first time together ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ you're here!

bf!haechan scenario II

OT7 chapters:

your contact names in each other's phone

his favourite part of your body

when he hurts you during sex by accident

when he comes back from tour

⇘ nct dream idol AU index ⇙

·˚✎ ﹏im4rmy's masterlist

♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤

#nct #nct dream #nct dream imagines #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct dream haechan #haechan imagines #lee haechan #haechan x reader #nct haechan #haechan #haechan smut #nct dream donghyuck #donghyuck x reader #nct donghyuck #lee donghyuck #donghyuck

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callme-holly · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! Wow, do I like your writing. It's really creative and honestly makes me so happy. I was wondering if I could request like what a sleepy morning with Dallas would look like? I just feel like he'd be super clingy when he's half awake, you know?

Anyways! Love your writing and keep doing you🤩

𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - so sorry that this took me so long to get back to - I've been swamped with revision lately and stress levels have been high. I will try my best to get round to all the requests in my inbox but updates might be a little slow. As always my asks are still open for requests!! 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 1.2k words 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - none

The room is surprisingly cool despite the fact that it is mid-summer; the temperature is already hovering on the borderline of unbearable as the sun slowly creeps up into view over the horizon.

At some point in the night, the thin sheet that Dallas keeps draped over your bodies has been lost, sitting in a crumpled heap on the hardwood floor below, forgotten and discarded, leaving you both exposed to the harsh rays of light seeping in through the window.

Dallas is lying on his side, curled towards you, one arm slung loosely around your waist in a protective gesture, his body radiating warmth against yours. His hair falls in light wisps, framing his face, and for once he looks peaceful, that wall he always puts between himself and everyone else falling away in sleep. It's a rare sight, indeed, to see his face wiped completely of that cocky smirk or that guarded expression that usually marres his features, but a welcome one nonetheless.

Shifting slightly, you push yourself up onto your elbows, stretching out your limbs and groaning quietly in protest. A grunt sounds from beside you, Dallas muttering something unintelligible as he shifts closer to where you are, wrapping both arms around your torso in an attempt to pull you back down next to him, though without success.

He seems oblivious to the time, seemingly not caring whether or not you’re late to your job, and you can’t help but run your fingers through his hair, your nails scratching gently at his scalp, in an attempt to rouse him but only earning another discontented noise response.

“Dal,” you mumble, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “I gotta get up.” But it seems that your attempts fall on deaf ears, and Dallas only pulls you closer to him, burying his face further into the crook of your neck, still refusing to budge. His lips press firmly against the bare skin of your collarbone, pecking repeatedly at the skin.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere today, doll,” he mumbles, his voice deep and muffled. “It’s too early.” He continues peppering kisses around your neck, his hand sliding lower, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, and fingertips lightly dancing across your stomach.

You realise there's no point in arguing with him. He's far too stubborn for his own good, and once he’s got his mind set on something, you best believe he’s doing it. And right now, he’s decided that what he wants is you all to himself, and you aren’t going anywhere until he lets you go.

Your resolve wavers slightly when you feel his teeth graze against the skin of your throat, and a small involuntary shiver runs down your spine as a result.

“Dallas,” you try again, pushing at the arm wrapped around your waist in a weak attempt to pry him away, resulting only in him tightening his grip on you further.

“It’s only eight thirty,” he says, still not moving an inch from his position, his breath hot against your skin. “Your shift doesn’t start ‘til nine.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, kissing your teeth and trying yet again to pry his arms loose, determined to still be out the door on time. “I still have to get ready. If I’m late, I’ll be fired; you know that.”

He grunts again, looking entirely unamused as he raises his head slightly to glare at you. His eyes are still heavy, glazed over with sleep, and you can’t help but chuckle fondly at the sight.

“Just call in sick,” He mumbles, his tone almost petulant. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them." And with that, he turns over, pulling you along with him despite your feeble protests, effectively pinning you underneath him.

For a few moments, neither of you move, just lying silently together, staring out the window at the rising sun before it finally breaches over the horizon, bathing both of you in golden light. Dallas’ hair appears almost white in its hue, like a halo encircling his head. It’s funny, really, you think; he looks so angelic in that moment, but every soul who has ever laid eyes on him knows better. Dallas Winston is certainly no angel—far from it, in fact. He’s cold, tough, and mean—a guy who takes pride in his scars and imperfections.

You can’t help but wonder how you ended up with someone like him—someone so roughed up and hardened by the world. But then he smiles, flashing you that stupid, crooked grin that drives you crazy, making the butterflies flutter wildly in the bottom of your stomach.

“Enjoyin’ the view, doll?” He asks, his words a lazy drawl that sends a chill down your spine despite your warm cocoon beneath his strong chest.

Your cheeks flush pink, the colour standing stark against your skin, and you roll your eyes, unable to keep the smile off of your face.

“It’s alright,” You reply nonchalantly, not willing to make the greaser's head any bigger than it already is, trying your best to starve off his rapidly growing ego. The blonde gives you a wolfish grin, eyebrows raising as if waiting for you to go on.

“Just alright?” He challenges you, leaning closer so that his lips are practically brushing against your ear, his breath causing goosebumps to break out across your exposed skin.

“Mhmm... Just alright,” You hum, forcing yourself to meet his gaze evenly, trying your best to keep your voice steady. “Now let me go.”

You struggle to pull yourself free, but he holds fast, his grin widening and his hands sliding slowly downward, palms skimming across your sides, before coming to rest on your hips, hands rough against your soft skin. “No can do, dollface.” He offers you a helpless shrug, and if it weren’t for the smug look written all across his features, you would almost believe that he is being entirely sincere. However, you also know that he is just as troublesome as he is charming, and that being sincere is something Dallas Winston hardly ever does.

Still, your resistance wanes after he places gentle kisses along the column of your neck and shoulder, and you can't help but melt at his touch, closing your eyes as you lean into him, allowing your head to fall backwards and resting on his broad chest, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart.

“Just a couple more minutes,” he mumbles, his breath fanning across your skin as he trails open-mouthed kisses up your neck, nipping playfully at your throat and grinning wildly.

“Fine,” you concede. You don’t really want to get up yet anyway, not when you could just stay here with him. Sure, you’ve now only got roughly fifteen more minutes until you have to be leaving for work, but you can cross that bridge when you get there.

For now, you want to spend these last few fleeting moments wrapped up in the thin sheet Dallas keeps draped over the both of you, relishing in the hushed silence that hangs throughout the room, rare yet forever welcome, just like these soft moments.

They’re rare, but oh so precious, and even though this isn’t exactly how you’d imagined spending your morning, you couldn't imagine having it any other way.

𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬!!

#the outsiders #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders preferences #the outsiders imagine #dallas winston #dallas winston x reader #dallas winston headcanons #dallas winston imagine #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #ponyboy curtis #johnny cade #two bit mathews #steve randle

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melancholicstation · 1 month ago

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SECRETARY (2002) INSPIRED BOSS!BOBBY KENNEDY AND SECRETARY!READER: a collection of headcanons!

tags: @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @remotewatch @stargiirl27 @strryhaze @bluevelvetsunset @recentremreports

warnings: reference to erotica, boss employee dynamic, secretary (2002), dominant and submissive dynamics,

authors note: in memoriam of secretary (2002) release date, 29th of may, here's some nice and clean good old freakum fun! and i tried something new with adding outfit formulas to the end of the hc's let me know if you like them and i'll continue, or you can ignore them completely! whatever you decide. much love, melancholistation ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 also this is not proof read hope it's legible! muah

for context i'm imagining this au to be in the timeframe of his time as new york senator!

secretary!reader definitely had no idea who bobby was prior to applying for the job listing she found in the new york times

bobby's definitely initially sceptical as reader's resume could get her a much better job that transcribing his crinkled coffee bruised notes, and re-arranging his insomnia-inducing schedule

he basically tries to make the job sound unbearably unpleasant, in a pseudo effort to encourage her towards a greater, more enlightened path with more of a future (this definitely has something to do with bobby's inferiority complex, always believing that everyone has something better to do than spend their days with him etc. etc...)

yet, reader persists. and he's a weak man... so you know how that ended up!

i'm picturing bobby really trying to be a good man and be on his best boss behaviour for at least a month but after sensing the reader's clear penchant for incessant praise and the way she stares at the sliver of arm hair peeking out of the cuff of his favoured and hallowed oxford shirt, he's a man burdened with a deep sense of yearn so profound he feels physically ill

hot take: the "courtship" era of reader and his relationship literally causes him to stress lose 2 pounds just from sheer anxiety of scaring reader off

he'll literally think reader is mad at him because she only brought him his coffee with one chocolate covered almond instead of her status-quo two... (he's literally sick in the head)

reader is literally terrible at all the transcription to the point where bobby had to bring in a second secretary that looms in the background to fill in the gaps of what you missed (which is a lot!)

your "office hours" are mostly spent picking handfuls of wildflowers that grow on the windowsill of bobby's main office (a planter box he specifically had installed upon learning about your botanist inclined natural back in preschool) and reading trashy erotica and highlighting the funny passages to read back to bobby as he drives you home from the office (you insist of your capability to get home in one piece, yet he adamantly protests that!)

notable mention that this is definitely readers choice of a type writer: either this one, or this one.

on those days where bobby is kept in the office until the sun rises on a new day you bring through a manic assortment of his most treasured delicacies (you make it a point to feed him because let's be honest that man will not take the initiative himself) which consist of: noam beer and a baker bleu baguette stuffed with an bliblical level greed amount of smoked ham and smooth dijon mustard from a local moutardier in brooklyn

literally just like this, except assorted on an old nickel-plated cloche:

readers style imagining to be quite eclectic yet refined yet haute couture... it contains multitudes

this is the exact coat (it's 100% wool with satin cupro lining and 3 bands... i need it in my armoire yesterday so this is me projecting) reader wears on all of the late night strolls she accompanies bobby on to clear his mind after a long day of being pushed from location a. to b. and being needed everywhere. reader's most definitely a calming presence, primarily for the fact that he feels she doesn't need more from him than how he comes naturally

reader would definitely pair that coat with gloves of some sort (or rather bobby would threaten to leave without her unless she was adequately dressed for the weather since he would literally never forgive himself if you contracted the slightest whiff of a cold. no mind that's he's literally only dressed in a cotton poplin shirt with a boucle knit overtop: exhibit a and exhibit b the merino mittens for the city's winter and the rick waved calfskin gloves for the everyday autumn chill that befalls midtown after ten pm.

reader definitely smells like harvest mouse by zoologist

i feel that in this relationship bobby really is the submissive (lee) in all non-sexual situations, he enjoys needing instead of being needed for once (in his whole life actually... but let's not talk about that...)

and i really think that bobby personally had a lot of bad habits (not specifically self-harm but he definitely subconsciously seemed things that were not always the healthiest for him) that could be solved with a girl matching his freak...

calling him a "good man" would definitely change his brain chemistry and heal some deep seeded issues inside of him... just something about him needing that validation that he is "masculine" in many ways, especially after being repeatedly emasculated by his family members, and believed to be less of a "man" (or at least not fitting into the societal and cultural standards of what is considered masculine at that time!). he would get all the way off on that...

but back to secretary!reader style (authors note: got a bit of topic there didn't i!)

her day-to-day work style is either this sweater or this sweater (there is no deviation she has a personal style and she's sticking to it. she was doing capsule wardrobes before they were even a hashtag on tiktok...) paired with either a cute pinafore: this one, or that one or a trusty pair of wool trousers

the shoes will, and will always be: rain or shine, tabi t-bar pumps in black patent

and bobby on more than one occasion fantasies about her pressing her pumps against the prominent bludge in his pants until he severely embarrassed himself in a government building and earned his new pants a much needed trip to the dry cleaners... and this is the way he's sitting while it happens by the way:

bobby definitely loves a good "care taker" role (or has been groomed by his parents to always love cleaning up other peoples messes... but lets not get into that!) so he'd definitely be a part of reader's "self-care routine"

he'd get so into french pharmacy's and always bring back the niche, hard to find skincare when he goes on international tours...

definitely loves a good bath routine and he takes such care when bathing you that your hands are always crinkled.

he's definitely humming while he washes your hair... and it's most likely some song he hears playing from your record player during office hours

and it's routine for both of you, no matter the circumstances, no matter if bobby almost got into a screaming match with a republican souther senator he still comes back in the night to repeat the routine once again. basically, your self-care is his.

he invites himself into reader's apartment one of the days where he personally drives her home and is sort of horrified yet unbearably turned on that she has acquired a left-over poster from his ny senate run and hung it on the same wall as some very suggestive if not down right erotica prints...

but that's not even the number one thing that disturbs him during that visit... ever the nepotism baby he's horrified at the lack of square footage of reader's apartment

and efficiently sets reader up in a nice townhouse in the upper east side that's coincidentally a 10 minute (chauffeured) drive to his penthouse facing the east river (true story alert: i found this nyt 1965 article which detailed him buying east river suite immediately north of the UN HQ, it's a nice short read for anyone interest in his niche realestate acquirements)

reader definitely feel guilty from him spending so much unnecessary money on her but later discovers he definitely has a thing for women using him for money... like gets off on it sort of vibe...

it's a delicate give and take... reader goes into niche grocery stores and forages for the perfect assortment of treats to greet bobby's desk and bobby buys her $28 million dollar investment property! it evens out eventually!

to be honest i don't see reader being a secretary for long after a relationship has been established between her and bobby... cause one thing about #that man is that he knows when to lock it down...

in short they have a courthouse wedding that nearly sent rose and joe sr into a grand mal seizure (they definitely loathe you but are afraid of bobby, as they should be cause he's literally a pit bull for you)

and you two live your freak lives happily ever after!

the end.

outfit formula 1: day at the office

outfit formula 2: errands running day

#rpf political #kennedy rpf #political rpf #rpf fanfiction #kennedy fanfic #kennedy fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #x you #smut #rfk headcanons #rfk fanfiction #rfk fanfic #rfk x reader #bobby kennedy x reader #robert f kennedy x reader #melancholicstation pilled #melancholicstation writes #melancholicstation

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ilovetoxicfictionalmen · 8 months ago

Text

PUT A WIFE BACK IN HER PLACE

KINKTOBER DAY 25 - SPANKING WITH MARTIN

Pairing.| Martin x fem!reader

Summary.| When Martin’s attempt to win your heart back with a nostalgic trip on a secluded Scottish island fails, he has one last resort to remind you who’s wife you are.

Warnings.| Dubcon, dry humping, spanking, arguing, infidelity, implied breeding.

Word count.| 1.4k

Notes.| This ain't that good but yolo because Martin is hot.

In Martin’s defense, you couldn’t say that he didn’t put in his all to revive your marriage, it’s been on the rocks for months now, every opportunity for intimacy always resulted in bickering at the best outcome. The arguments were daggering to the heart, zero remorse on either of your ends at times. But Martin was devoted to you, you were his world, he needed you more than oxygen.

His marvelous plan on resparking your attraction to one another seemed to be working like a blender unplugged from the power outlet. This will mark your third time vacating on the secluded Scottish island. You were quiet the whole boat ride, but it went unphased by Doug, he merely chatted on with Martin. Your husband would glance over at you every now and then, but you were in a different world.

With every day passing, Martin lost a handful of hope. Nothing was working like it used to. The way you’d smile at him when he’d come back after fishing had vanished. The gratitude for the small things he did for you was no more. Your marriage was flatlining. The small talk felt unbearable, turned shoulders made him want to rip his hair out. He only wanted to look at you, hold you, feel you. When you hid yourself in the bathtub, Martin felt his stomach turn in a mixture of shame and pleasure. How could you shy away from your husband? But then when was the last time he had even seen you naked.

He ran across the coastal shore, his expression was stern as he sprinted as fast as he could. His ears went blocked, heart pounded uncontrollably in his chest as the aches in his muscles grew. When he reached the top of the cliff, his hands formed into balls as he smacked the air.

“Fuck!” Martin roared, a vein popped out in his forehead.

Martin heaved out, his hands rested above his knees as he tried to catch his breath. After inhaling his asthma pump, his hands searched into his pocket for his phone. His fingers jabbed at the screen, then he scrolled to keep his motivation alive. He flicked through the countless screenshots of evidence, his grip tightened after each swipe.

I want to be with you.

I think of you every night.

You’re in my dreams, I picture the day when we’re together.

Now, Martin wasn’t sure of the details of your affair, only the little love messages George would send you, you’d always respond with something similar back, but your level of passion was lower, he was sure of it.

I love you.

He stared at that message for the longest, because it was sent by you the night before you two left. Why didn’t you love Martin anymore, your husband, the man you declared your vows to, the man you devoted your life for. In sickness and in health, you were his.

Martin decided to walk back to the cottage, for the chaos would unfold that night. Every few steps, Marin would roughly rub his eyes. The smell of the seaside did little to ease his stresses, the wind was picking up, the scent of rain grew.

When he entered the cottage, you took a moment to even acknowledge him, your attention drawn to the book you were reading. You gave him a small smile, his jaw locked, he turned his heel and headed to the kitchen. Martin did try hard to remain calm, he poured himself a large glass of red wine, then another for you. As he handed the glass to you, he sucked on his lower lip.

You thanked him, oblivious to his boiling anger. Impulsively, Martin took a large swig of the nectar and clinked it onto the table. His eyes burnt into you, but you ignored him completely, you were driving him mad.

“So, does he fuck you good?” Martin abruptly asked.

You choked on your wine, your eyes darted up at him as you analyzed him, surely he couldn’t know? It was as if you were a deer caught in headlights, Martin could swear he could hear your heartbeat race. You were waiting for the punchline, but eventually realized it wasn’t coming.

“What are you going on about?” you replied, trying to remain cool as if you weren’t a kettle boiling on the hot stove.

“Does George fuck you good?” Martin clarified, huffing out in anger, his name tasted like venom on his tongue.

“Martin” you warned.

“I should have figured it out sooner, I always knew he had the hots for you, but I didn’t realize you were such a little whore” Martin insulted.

George worked with you, and yes, he did always have the hots for you. Despite your constant rejection, he kept on making sly advances on you. Until one day, when you were fed with your sickening feuds with Martin, that you just gave in to George’s affection.

In a childish manner, you abruptly stood up and turned your direction to the hallway. Martin followed you just as quickly and you flinched, he looked unhinged.

“Step back Martin!” you demanded as you hurried to the hallway.

“Where are you going to go! It’s just you and I honey, a husband and his wife” Martin teased harshly as he followed after you.

When you didn’t stop, he yanked you back by the shoulder and shoved you against the wall. You cried out as he pressed his body up against yours, his face drew close to yours.

“You think I’m not manly enough for you? Aye!” Martin shouted by your ear, you winced at his behavior.

“No Martin!” you cried.

Martin’s eyes squinted together as he felt the tears forming. His hand smacked on the wall besides your head in anger, you shrieked out.

“Why don’t you fucking love me anymore” Martin snarled, his face twitched.

There was no response from you. His hands gripped onto your curves and you gasped out as you felt his erection grow against you. His stubble brushed over your heating cheek, you shuddered out. Quickly, he flipped your front onto the wall, you gasped out and swallowed down the ball of spit in your throat.

“You’re my fucking wife, you’ll stay with me” Martin determined with a nod.

“O-okay, just calm down” you shuddered. “Martin!” you yelped out as he yanked your comfy pants down to your thighs.

“Shut it, just giving you what you deserve” Martin responded harshly and he forcefully pressed your face on the wall.

You choked on your sob as he smacked your rear harshly. His hand pressed against your shoulder blade, you were confined against the plastered wall as he spanked your cheeks. Never has your husband been so rough with you, he was always gentle, kind and thoughtful. Martin would mutter curse words under his breath as he felt his cock twitch in his athlete shorts. The sounds of his slaps echoed throughout the walls, you bit back your moans, your eyes almost rolling back as you unknowingly squeezed your thighs together to create friction.

“I love you” Martin confessed, his lips pressed to your ear as he continued to bring his palm to your flaming skin.

“I know you do, Martin” you panted out, your breathing rugged, hips shifting.

“I’d do anything for you” Martin grunted as he hit you with full force.

“I know you would!” you whined.

His blue eyes could see how your body was reacting, how horny you were becoming. Martin heaved out, his body molded against yours as he rubbed his erection over your stinging cheeks. Your knees felt weak, his body weight was holding you up. Desperately, his humps humped against your ass, Martin could hardly control his desires.

“You want a baby?” Martin whispered, almost romantically.

“W-what?” you whimpered out.

“Do you want a baby, my darling? I’ll put one in you right now if it’d fix everything” Martin explained, his hands rubbing your hips.

You stammered out as you tried to think logically. A baby was all that you wanted, for so long. But Martin just always put his job first and shooed away the possibilities of creating a family together. You hated him for it. But now he wants to change?

“Come on, how many arguments did we have over it? How badly does it make you despise me?” Martin continued on, his head rubbed against yours.

You mumbled out, you tried to think of George, of your plans. But he seemed to be disappearing from your mind. Martin’s hands caressed over your stomach, you moaned out gently and turned around to your husband, your lips neared his.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #smut #dark smut #cillian murphy kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #martin x reader #retreat 2011 #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy x reader

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