#and how good he looks in the pink light ~

[seasprincess]

Bf!drew and actress!reader

fluff

warnings: none!

Drew had finally made it onto a talk show. And god was he nervous and excited. But more nervous. Shaking in his room backstage as he takes deep breaths. But luckily for him he had his pretty girl to calm him down.

God you were to good to him. Making his coffee the way he likes. Buying him the snacks that just make him feel better. Feel happy.

You are the perfect helper to calm his nerves. You make him happy.

Claps and cheers erupt the room as Drew smiles, light beaming down onto him as his palms get all clammy and sweaty. However his nerves have calm down a bit as he’s now here and actually doing this. He’s actually doing this.

As the claps die down, bringing quiet back to the studio. Drew sits up, slightly readjusting his tie as he waits for Jimmy to speak again. Letting him take the lead.

“Well as well as a new movie coming out Drew, you have some new news too.” Jimmy says as he fiddles with his ring finger. Drew’s mind immediately clicks onto what he’s getting at. His fiancé. “You recently got engaged.

The claps and cheers erupt back up again as Drew smiles. Nodding his head as he fiddles with his finger.

“Yes. Yes.” Drew says as he just keeps smiling like a teen girl being asked about their crush. He’s utterly in love with you that even on one of the most important moments of his life. He’s thinking of you. Talking about you.

Metaphorically, he’s kicking his feet. Blushing under the harsh white lights, his cheeks visibly pink at this point.

“You two met four, five years is it?”

“Five.”

His mind goes back to the moment on the set of outer banks when he first met you. The way you smiled and laughed within two minutes of meeting him.

He knew then and there that he’s either going to marry you or you’re going to be the biggest heartbreak of his life.

Thank god it was the second one.

“Five years ago.”

“And she’s here tonight isn’t she?”

“She is.” Drew says as he adjusts in his seat, eyes flicking back to Jimmy. “She’s backstage.”

Of course you’re backstage. Where else would you be when your future husband’s having one of the biggest moments of his career. You’re his number one fan, of course you’re there.

Your arms wrap around him as you shake him side to side slightly. Proud is an understatement of how you feel. You know how much he wanted this. How much he deserves this.

“Good job baby.” You say as you kiss his cheek. You can feel him sigh and unravel at this action. All those nerves and fear leaving his body with just a simple kiss. That’s the effect you have on him.

a/n: made this because babe looks good in this interview. Yum.

[nemisuki]

Good Soup

Fantasy AU | In a world of whimsical wonders and magic, the only thing you're curious about is why the blonde suddenly got shy at a simple goodnight. The language barrier between them is what keeps them closer. 

᧔o᧓ || Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader, no manga spoilers, no nsfw, pure fluff, no angst, aged up, mutual feelings, split pov, language barriers, bkg learning english, silly bestie kirishima included, love confessions gone wrong, oneshot, bkg is a softie, 2.1k word count

"Go on! You can do it!"

An encouraging smile forms on her face. Her hands clasping together as she practically jumps up and down from mere excitement that he finally agreed to her request. 

Her eyes are completely on him, not wanting to look away. 

It takes a moment for Bakugo to register her words. Attempting to recall what she's been teaching him. 

He assumes she's saying something encouraging, given that bright smile of hers.

He can't believe he's doing this. If it was anyone else he wouldn't even be attempting this shit. But one look at her excited expression made his mind think otherwise.

Plus she's been bothering him about this for weeks now. 

Under his breath, he grumbles a handful of curses in his native language, courtesy of his tribe. He switches his weight onto the other foot, crossing his arms over his chest.

She is quick to notice his sudden fidgeting. A sign of discomposure.

But she thinks it's charming. So she'll keep it to herself.

Y/N takes a step forward in his direction, softening her eyes at the sight of him. Realizing she may have unknowingly put too much pressure on him, "Oh I'm sorry! You don't have too, if you don't want to-"

"N-ɳαɱҽ.... αɾҽ... Bαƙυɠσ Kαƚʂυƙι...."

 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 

Her heart hastens at the sound of his deep voice. His slow and hesitant words echoing in her ear. The foreign accent made her skin tingle with bliss.

After his words, she lets a few giggles escape her lips. Not directed at him, but because the way he avoids eye contact was simply adorable.

She can tell he tried his best.

"Almost!" she says while gently taking a hold of his hand. His body tensing as she makes physical contact.

His eyes darted back and forth between her hand and delicate eyes. She speaks gradually to correct his wording, "my name.... is.... bakugo katsuki.”

She nods in his direction for him to try again.

The sensation of her much smaller hand holding his, the warmth of it, gives him an odd sense of tranquility.

How stupid.

"M-Mყ ɳαɱҽ ιʂ Bαƙυɠσ Kαƚʂυƙι"

"Yes! You did it!"

She squeals with delight. Having to restrain herself from pulling him into a hug. Knowing he'll probably shove her off not a moment after.

So instead she simply squeezes his hand. Honestly a bit shocked he hasn't pulled away yet-

Without warning, she can feel his fingers slowly intertwine with her own. Causing a shiver to go up her spine. 

What is he...

"Gσσԃ.... ��σσԃ ɱσɾɳιɳɠ"

Huh?

Y/N stares at the blonde, now perplexed at his words. He must've picked it up from their travels together. But does he know what it means? It's not morning but night time.

She tilts her head and lets out a small laugh. How refreshing.

"Hm? Did you mean goodnight?"

The tips of his ears quickly turn red as he hears her laughter.

“Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ" he says, tightening his grip on her hand. Looking into her eyes, now a bit more sincere with his words.

"Ah- you're going to sleep already? I suppose you do sleep early" she hums while nodding in his direction.

"Goodnight Bakugo!"

She's about to pull away yet his grip on her doesn't lessen. His eyes slightly widening at her words.

The blush from his ears immediately spreads across his cheeks in a light dust of pink.

"G-Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ Bαƙυɠσ?" he mumbles to her in slight disbelief.

"Huh? Uh- yeah... Goodnight Bakugo" she says now bewildered by his reaction.

He doesn't move for a few seconds but then his own eyes soften. Completely catching her off guard.

She's never seen such a calm look on his face. And she didn’t know how she lived up til now without seeing it. 

Y/N watches as he pulls his hand away from hers. Now feeling cold without the physical contact. Her fingers twitch, wanting to feel that warmth again.

He takes a hold of the red necklace that's resting along his collarbone. Tugging it off and draping it over her head instead. Lifting her hair so it could sit perfectly around her neck.

She can feel her cheeks warm up at the gesture, "what- your giving this necklace to me? But it's yours" she says, looking down at the red pendants hanging off the black string.

"ʏ/ռ Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ"

His hand lifts up to gently touch her flushed cheek. Only making her more bashful by the minute. 

What's up with him?

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ  ⎯⎯ ✦

The next morning was quite chaotic.

Y/N emerges from their tent, still feeling drained from her sleep. They’ve been traveling a lot recently and haven’t had the chance to rest up properly. 

She steps over to the campfire, joining Bakugo and Kirishima for some breakfast. Seems like the blonde is cooking some soup. 

"Hi you two" she says, yawning and attempting to rub her eyes awake.

She didn’t even have the time to sit down when-

"Y/N?! Why are you wearing Bakugos necklace?!" Kirishima quickly whispers to her, looking baffled and sending a suspicious look her way. 

Kirishima was completely fluent in the English language unlike Bakugo. Apparently when dragon kind are mere fledglings, they're especially quick to pick up multiple languages.

Hence this left Kirishima to be the translator for the trio. 

The duo found Y/N a few months ago, a rogue traveler who enjoyed exploring the world. She practically clung to the two after they helped her take out some bandits, who previously attempted to steal her rare items such as unicorn hair and some potions. 

She grew fond of the duo and decided to tag along ever since. At first Bakugo was completely against the idea. But the red haired dragon took a quick liking to her. So against Bakugos will, Kirishima allowed her to join them.

And so they’ve been traveling together since then. Exploring the world and taking on quests for gold. 

For now they needed rest, so they set up a little camp for a few days. 

"Huh? Oh this!" her hand gently traced over the variety of red beads. A sheepish smile sneaked on her face as she recalled yesterday's events, "Bakugo gave it to me last night when you went out to collect more firewood.”

The blonde ignores the whispered chatter behind him, continuing to stir the pot of soup around. Well not like he could understand what they are saying anyways. 

Meanwhile, Kirishima practically jumps out of his seat from her words. Looking at Y/N as if she had two heads.

"Kirishima? What's wrong?"

"You're telling me Bakugo willingly gave that to you?! Did he tell you anything else?!"

"Uh- well... he just told me goodnight is all"

"Goodnight?"

But before she could respond, Bakugo was already walking towards them. Holding two bowls of warm soup and handing one to Kirishima. 

His head then turns to look at Y/N, holding the other out to her. He seems to be in thought, trying to recall the right words to say, "...ԋι... ʂσυρ... ϝσɾ ყσυ?"

 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 

"Good Morning Bakugo! Ah thank you so much" she takes the warm bowl and looks back up at him. Feeling her body tingle with joy. A warm smile displayed across her face. 

Kirishima's eyes are practically bulging out of his sockets as he looks between the two. Having a sudden realization.

He quickly looks in Bakugos direction and starts speaking in their native tongue. 

"BαƙυႦɾσ! Aɾҽ ყσυ ƚɯσ σϝϝιƈιαʅ?!"

The blonde's mood suddenly switches as he stares at Kirishima. Immediately soured at the dragons words, "Tƈԋ ɳσɳҽ σϝ ყσυɾ ԃαɱɳ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

"Hσʅყ ƈɾαρ ყσυ αɾҽ! Yσυ ɠαʋҽ ԋҽɾ ყσυɾ ɳҽƈƙʅαƈҽ αɳԃ ιƚʂ ƚɾαԃιƚισɳ ι�� ყσυɾ ƚɾιႦҽ ƚσ ɠιʋҽ ιƚ ƚσ ყσυɾ σɳҽ ƚɾυҽ ʅσʋҽ! Cσɳɠɾαƚʂ ɱαɳ!" he shines an excited grin and pats Bakugos back encouragingly. His wings fluttered involuntarily with pure delight.

"Hαɳԃʂ σϝϝ ԃαɱɳ ιƚ!" Bakugo yells back, trying to shove his hand away. Followed by a couple of empty threats directed at the red head. 

After a few seconds, confusion suddenly dawns on Kirishima. He takes a peek back at Y/N who is sitting down on a log calmly eating her soup. Already used to the twos bickering so much that it doesn't faze her. 

"Wαιƚ, ԋσɯ ԃιԃ ყσυ ƚɯσ ҽʋҽɳ ƈσɳϝҽʂʂ? Dιԃ ყσυ ƚҽʅʅ ԋҽɾ ιɳ Eɳɠʅιʂԋ?"

"Lιƙҽ I ʂαιԃ Ⴆҽϝσɾҽ! Nσɳҽ σϝ ყσυɾ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ!"

"Aɯ ƈ'ɱσɳ BαƙυႦɾσ! I'ɱ ƈυɾισυʂ!"

The blonde lets out an annoyed sigh. Knowing Kirishima won't stop his pestering anytime soon unless he answers. So reluctantly he speaks in a quiet grumble, "I ʂαιԃ.... goodnight ƚσ ԋҽɾ"

A moment of silence passes between the two. 

Kirishima tries processing his words but he furrows his brows completely lost, "Uԋ σƙαყ? Sσ ɯԋҽɳ ԃιԃ ყσυ ƈσɳϝҽʂʂ ƚσ ԋҽɾ?"

"Hαԋ? I ʝυʂƚ ƚσʅԃ ყσυ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

"Wαιƚ- ɯԋαƚ?! Nυ υԋ!"

"I ƚσʅԃ ԋҽɾ goodnight! Aɳԃ ʂԋҽ ʂαιԃ ιƚ Ⴆαƈƙ!"

"Hσʅԃ σɳ, ԋσʅԃ σɳ! BαƙυႦɾσ! Wԋαƚ ԃσ ყσυ ƚԋιɳƙ goodnight ɱҽαɳʂ?"

"Eԋ? Wԋαƚ ƚყρҽ σϝ ϙυҽʂƚισɳ ιʂ ƚԋαƚ! Iƚ ɱҽαɳʂ I ʅσʋҽ ყσυ ιɳ ҽɳɠʅιʂԋ!"

Kirishima couldn't believe what he was hearing. From Bakugo out of all people. 

The dragon practically bursts into a fit of laughter. Holding his stomach and wiping tears from his eyes that started to form at this revelation.

Bakugo stares at him baffled then a look of embarrassment forms on his face,"ԃσɳ'ƚ ƚҽʅʅ ɱҽ-"

"D-Dυԃҽ! Goodnight ԃσҽʂɳ'ƚ ɱҽαɳ I ʅσʋҽ ყσυ ιɳ ҽɳɠʅιʂԋ!" Kirishima manages to say in between his relentless giggles.

"Mρԋ-" Bakugo quickly turns around to hide his face. He couldn't believe it. But it makes sense now, last night's look of confusion on her face.

The way she went straight to the tent after he gave her the necklace. He just assumed she was just as shy as he was. 

"Hey what are you two talking about?" Y/N says walking in their direction with a look of interest in her eyes. 

"Nothing, just Bakugo thinking he confessed-"

At the sound of his voice, the blonde spins around and slaps the back of Kirishima's head. Not understanding much but knowing he's up to no good. Making the dragon stop mid sentence to whine and rub his scalp.

Bakugo eyes travel to Y/N, more specifically the necklace around her neck. His necklace. 

He huffs and points at the piece of jewelry. Then proceeds to open his hand at her. Asking for it back silently.

He waits, expecting her to hand it back. 

The blonde was beyond embarrassed that she didn't understand his motivates yesterday. Thankfully she seemed oblivious to it all. 

In his tribe, it's tradition for males to pass on their necklaces to their lover, signifying eternal devotion and trust. Yet the two weren't official after all like he originally thought. 

He'll just give it to her another time. When he learns how to properly confess.

But then all his thoughts pause when he sees Y/N pouting and shaking her head no. Holding the necklace closer to her body so he can't snatch it away.

"I want to keep it please" she says softly to him, hearing her own heartbeat in her ears from the nerves. She doesn't know why he wants it back, but she feels closer to him this way. It's the first thing he's ever given her.

Kirishima being the third wheel, quickly translates to Bakugo with a sly grin.

Bakugo listens then lets out a sigh of defeat. Waving his hand dismissively to her, allowing Y/N to keep it. She smiles brightly and nods towards him, “thank you bakugo!” 

He grunts in response and walks away to serve himself a bowl of soup. Or perhaps to hide the flushed look on his face. 

One day he'll learn how to confess. Maybe he’ll ask Kirishima for some help later on. 

What a pain.

But little did the blonde know.

Y/N was already planning to ask Kirishima the same thing. Trying to learn Bakugos native language in hopes of confessing her feelings. 

Kirishima could only bite back his tongue to hide his knowing smile. Looking at the oblivious pair as they all eat breakfast around the campfire.

Though he couldn't help but to let out a small chuckle at the sheer coincidence of it all.

"Hm? What's so funny Kirishima?"

He dismissively waves his hands at Y/N's comment and smirks, "nothing at all, just realized I forgot to say goodnight to you yesterday" he says, holding back a laugh as Bakugos head snaps in his direction. 

The blonde sends Kirishima a deadly glare. Standing up to teach him a lesson. Seems Bakugo reached his daily limit of the redheads teasing, "Yσυɾ ԃҽαԃ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

That's how Kirishima ends up hiding behind her as Bakugo stomps towards the two. Leaving poor Y/N as a human shield.

She still has no idea what's going on but laughs alongside Kirishima as the three chase each other around the campfire. 

What a good day…. and night?

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ     ⎯⎯ ✦

A/N ||| This fanfic was inspired by a Fantasy Bakugo x Reader piece I read a LONGGGG time ago on Wattpad. When I was younger, I was obsessed with this fic as a newbie reader & mha fan. Unfortunately it never had a proper ending, as it's incomplete like many other forgotten fanfics out there. I’ll add the link here to credit them but please remember it's INCOMPLETE! And the author won’t update it anymore so fyi! This was oddly healing to my younger self, kinda funny how I went from being a reader to the writer :)

[xshadowdelta]

FORMER MANAGER

PART 5: PURITY.

Mashiro x Male Reader (4K length)

You observed your face in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, your messy hair, the marks of the sheets on your cheeks and some visible dark circles bordering your eyes, it definitely had not been your best night. You had barely slept, tossing and turning in bed all night while your head was spinning around the scene with Jang Wonyoung.

The image of her crying wouldn't disappear from your mind no matter how hard you tried, but how did this happen in the first place? The last memory you had of her was when you said goodbye years ago before returning home, back then she also cried, but this time it was totally different, her look of disappointment on you disturbed you even more than her tears.

You catched some water from the sink, throwing it over your face, trying to clear yourself up and wake up a little, because you had to continue with your life and your work, you would find a free time lapse to be able to fix this problem.

You showered, fixed your hair, and hid the traces of a terrible night on your face as well as you could before getting dressed and leaving your apartment heading to the company.

You arrived at the building where as soon as you entered, your boss was waiting for you, folder in hand, and while you both walked he explained the itinerary of the day and the schedule for the upcoming weeks. Kep1er’s members had returned from their last shows abroad, there had been a few changes at the management level, and a new comeback was already planned, so the work was going to be hard and intense.

Both of you stopped in front of one of the practice rooms, a light touch of your coworker knuckles on the door and you entered inside, a group of girls who were stretching stared at you.

“Good morning girls.” Your partner began to speak. “Before starting preparations for this new album I want to introduce you to your new full-time manager, starting on today he will take care of all of you and about everything you need.” He exclaimed, indicating for you to introduce yourself to them with a gesture of his hand.

You bowed them instantly. “Nice to meet you! I will be at your service from now on, I hope we get along well.” You said a little nervous, a feeling that disappeared when you saw the smiles and applause they offered you. “Nice to meet you, please treat us well!” They all said in unison bowing to you aswell.

"Good." Your boss interrupted. “The dance teacher will come right away to show you and start practicing the new choreographies, I hope the best from all of you. “Fighting!” He said with his fist, before handing you the information folder and leaving the room.

You watched him leave and when you looked back you jumped when you realized how the Kep1er girls had surrounded you, occupying any personal space you could have, their eyes analyzing you carefully.

"Hello!" One of them greeted with a huge smile on her face. “I'm the leader Yujin, nice to meet you, it's incredible, it's the first time I have such a young manager.” You smiled shyly, uncomfortable with the circle of people that had formed around you.

“Wow, can I call you oppa?” A girl with pink hair and rounded cheeks asked next to her, if you were not mistaken it was Kim Chaehyun, you nodded affirmatively at her question causing her to laugh.

You noticed that penetrating eyes were focused on you to the point that you realized that gaze was passing through you, you made eye contact with it, increasing your nervousness.

“Is something wrong, Xiaoting?” You asked softly making the mentioned girl blink a few times. “Do you know my name already?” She questioned surprised. “Our new manager has studied a lot!” Dayeon shouted, starting to laugh and causing the rest of the members to laugh.

“Look at his dark eyes, he sure hasn't been able to sleep all night!” Hikaru joked, releasing one of her particular laughs that resonated throughout the room, increasing the volume and joy of the rest of the members.

These girls were really loud and restless, they were going to give you a lot of headaches, yet a smile was drawn on your lips and for a while you forgot about the rest of your problems.

The dance teacher appeared and the morning passed with the girls memorizing and practicing the new choreographies, so you took the opportunity to go to your office to work on other aspects such as contacting the wardrobe team, making venue reservations where the filming would be done, hire the recording equipment.

The days went by and with the amount of work you had it was impossible to even think about Wonyoung. Your relationship with the members of Kep1er was improving and due to the characteristics of these girls, in just a week it seemed like you had been together since their debut, and that was something that relieved you and made everything much more enjoyable.

This day in question the girls would spend it in the recording studio, testing their vocals and recording the songs for the new album, so really your presence there was not very significant so your task for the day was to clean and organize everything in the house.

If you already hated doing housework, doing it in a home full of girls made you hate it excessively. A multitude of clothes scattered throughout the rooms, boxes and cardboard in every corner.

You were infinitely grateful to Bahiyyih for trying to keep the house in order, saving you some work, but the whirlwind that was Chaehyun Dayeon and Hikaru was simply unstoppable.

You finished off the apartment Yujin Bahiyyih Chaehyun and Xiaoting shared and headed upstairs to start cleaning the next one. You hadn't been there for long but there was a room that you had not yet accessed, it was a two-bed bedroom that did not belong to anyone in the group but that had serious signs of having been habited before, it was perfectly arranged and there were still clothes hanging in the closet.

You inspected said clothes, leaving them on one of the beds, you opened the drawers looking to know what, and this really had you confused.

“W-W-Who are you? What are you doing with my clothes?” A sudden voice surprised and scared you, almost making you fall on the bed when you turned to look at the door frame of the room, finding a small girl with brown hair and a rather cute appearance carrying a cardboard box in her hands, looking at you in a scared way.

“That's what I should ask, how did you get in here? The door has a password, and what's with your clothes?” You were trying to appear as calm as possible but you were really uneasy with that presence.

“Don't tell me…A SASAENG!” You both shouted at the same time, pointing your fingers at each other.  "WHAT? ME?" Now your fingers were pointing towards yourselves.

“It's over I'm going to call the police.” The girl said, dropping the box and taking her mobile phone out of her pants pocket.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do, look at this.” You said, taking out the company ID, surprising the girl.

"Huh?"

.

.

.

.

“I'm sorry again, I had no idea you were the new manager.” The girl said with her head down, looking at the ground, feeling guilty for the previous misunderstanding.

“The mistake was mine for not having recognized you before, Mashiro-shi.” Now you knew who this room belonged to.

Apparently, and after left the grou, both Mashiro and Yeseo had been terribly busy with their new group and their own activities that they had been coming and going to the house making small moves of their things. However some things of their property were still there.

“If you need help with your…”

“Oh no no, please, I'm sure you're very busy, I don't want to bother you.” She commented, making notable gestures with her hands. You smiled at how adorable that was.

“The rest of the members say that you and Yeseo will continue to be part of Kep1er forever…” You commented, bending down to pick up the cardboard box from the floor and put it on the bed, opening it. “So now I'm also your manager, okay Mashiro-chan?” You smiled warmly at her causing her cheeks to turn a deep pink color.

“O-O-Okay” She agreed shyly, approaching you and helping you pack more clothes from her closet.

Together you cleared out the closet and packed all the clothes, and you organized the rest of the room and cleaned it. You glanced at Mashiro from time to time, even with that strange first impression you had with her, you really thought she was a super adorable girl. Her small stature, her beautiful face and the dimples that were marked on her cheeks reaffirmed it.

“What do you think of the members?” She asked casually while doing her task, your gaze drifted towards the ceiling, sketching a slight smile after a few seconds of thought.

“Noisy.” You responded simply causing her to giggle, covering her mouth with one of her hands.

“I understand you perfectly.” She supported you.

“But they are really amazing.” You continued. “They spend the day laughing and making a fuss but they don't lower the effort they put into their practices one bit, sometimes I envy them. I would also like to enjoy my work like they do.” Out of the corner of my eye you could notice a small smile melancholy on her face, so you decided not to say anything else and continue with the cleaning.

You walked over to one of the nightstands next to one of the beds to open the drawers, see what they kept and see if there was anything else that needed to be packed.

“Don't open that!” Mashiro screamed hysterically, throwing herself on the bed trying to stop you but you had already opened the drawer. You looked at her confused, even more so when she threw her hands over her face trying to hide herself, while her ears turned red.

You looked down, looking at the vibrator that was inside the drawer, blushing too and quickly moving away, falling on your ass to the floor.

"I'm sorry."  You whispered embarrassed, unable to look up, noticing how your face was burning.

“Noooooo…how embarrassing.” Mashiro sobbed, rolling on the bed. You grabbed a lock of your hair, analyzing the situation, looking for the right words for a moment like this.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of Mashiro, it is something totally normal for someone your age and…Mashiro?” You were absorbed as you looked up to see directly at the girl who was still sobbing, covering her face with one hand, while the other was now rubbing her crotch over her pants. So those sounds weren't sobs, they were moans.

You saw how she relaxed her body and lie down on the bed. The hand that covered her face no longer did so, she was now looking at you clearly, intently, a look very different from what you had seen from her before.

“It has been such a hard, stressful and emotional weeks. Leaving one group to enter another, new members, comeback, and performances. Even now all the responsibility of being a leader falls on my shoulders.”

“Mashiro…” Your words were interrupted by a new moan.

“And I forgot my stress reliever during the move, I tried using my fingers but they didn't have the same effect…” You turned your gaze to the vibrator and took it in your hands, Mashiro's eyes did not take their eyes off the device. You turned it on, listening to the vibrations it produced, making Mashiro groan in despair.

“You said before that you were also my manager…” The Japanese girl began to say. “So, I need your help, manager oppa, please…” You swallowed after hearing that request of deep need in her tone of voice.

You stood up and approached the bed, sitting on the edge near Mashiro, who lowered the zipper of her sweatshirt a little, revealing a bit of the shirt she was wearing underneath and then, moving against the bed, she managed to lower her pants until her underwear was visible.

“You are very wet Mashiro-chan.” You commented looking at the huge stain that had appeared on her panties. “You really are so needy…”

She didn't respond but she brought her hand back to where the stain was now, caressing herself again with circular movements, closing her eyes enjoying her own touch.

When she stopped she opened her eyes to look deeply at you, eyes that were screaming for your help. You sighed and got even closer to her body, vibrator in hand, gently bringing it to her desired area, coming into contact causing Mashiro's back to arch due to excitement.

“Yes, please…” She continued asking needily.

You pushed aside the fabric of her panties, visualizing her wonderful pink pussy completely flooded that was crying out for pleasure.

The sex toy now caressed Mashiro's folds mercilessly, forcing her to moan loudly, her eyes closed again enjoying the waves of pleasure that ran through her body.

That scene was fucking erotic for you, so much so that a huge bulge peeked out from between your pants. With your free hand you managed to free that bulge from outside your clothes, however it was somewhat difficult to satisfy both of you at the same time.

A naughty idea crossed your mind. If you were busy offering pleasure to Mashiro she was free to give it to you, so you took her hand closest to you and placed it around your cock.

Upon feeling that she opened her eyes again, offering you a small smile when she knew your intentions, grabbing your penis tightly and beginning to move her hand up and down constantly.

“Oppa hentai…” She whispered, biting her lip, watching how she was masturbating you.

“It's your fault in the first place…” You responded, emitting the occasional small moan caused by her touch, and lowering the zipper of her sweatshirt completely with your free hand, allowing yourself to caressing her stomach and her hips.

You threw the vibrator to the side of the bed and began to caress her pussy with your own hand, separating her folds with your fingers and inserting a couple of them inside causing a squeal of surprise from her.

“Shit oppa…it feels so good…”

“A girl as adorable as you talking so dirty.” You said increasing the pace of your caresses on her pussy, feeling how your hand became wet with Mashiro's fluids.

“You love when I talk dirty, right oppa?” She asked continuing the caresses on your penis. “It hasn't stopped growing…”

You smiled, leaning over her body, placing a few kisses across her bare stomach. She released her grip on your cock to allow you to position yourself more comfortably on top of her, slipping your hands under her shirt touching everything within reach.

Mashiro slowly melted under your body, moaning louder and louder as your fingers caressed her tits. She was breathing heavily and her hair fell over her forehead giving it an even sexier touch, her entire face was flushed and hot.

Due to the constant movement of your bodies on each other there was a moment where your cock rubbed against Mashiro's pussy, tensing her body and placing her hands against your chest, pushing you away slightly.

You raised an eyebrow in confusion, realizing how hot this whole scene had become and how you had gotten carried away with it.

“I'm sorry if I…

“I have only used that vibrator… I have never had anything inside me beyond my fingers, I am completely a virgin.” She admitted, looking away embarrassed.

"It’s okay." You whispered softly, offering her a smile, caressing her right cheek with your hand. She took your hand and let herself be caressed by you.

“It's really strange and we just met...but I feel very comfortable with you, oppa. Although I don't think I'm ready to cross that line yet, I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize for anything.”  You leaned your head over her, kissing her lips, being instantly reciprocated by her, lightly biting her lower lip, drawing a moan from her and allowing your tongue to explore every corner of Mashiro's mouth.

“Oppa.” A thread of saliva separated your mouth from Mashiro's. “I need an orgasm.”

You smiled, recovering the vibrator lost in some corner of the bed, activating it again, this time with more power making the girl's body tremble.

“OH FUCK!” Squeals and moans came non-stop from the idol's mouth as you rubbed the toy again and again over her weak area.

You alternated the vibrator with the caresses that you provided with your hands. You lay down on the bed next to Mashiro without stopping masturbating her, she quickly took your cock again with one of her hands and now you were both pleasuring each other.

You inserted two of your fingers inside her completely tight pussy, stretching it slightly feeling her walls contract against your fingers. The girl's hips moved unconsciously as the moans did not stop and her grip on your cock tightened.

You then stroked her clit with your thumb, which was like touching the self-destruct button on Mashiro's body. You touched and pressed her clit as much as you could until her back arched again and a huge scream escaped her mouth.

Her body hit the mattress again, her chest rising and falling excitedly. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath and recover from that orgasm, she turned to look at you and you quickly wiped away some tears that were now flowing from her eyes with your hand.

“God…you're better than any toy, oppa.” Despite continuing to pant, her smile was wide, she laughed at herself for the situation she found herself in.

You laughed, also flattered but somewhat embarrassed by her comment. You tried to get up to get out of bed but Mashiro immediately stopped you and forced you to lie down, surprising you with her sudden reaction.

“Wait, you're not done yet.” She said and then you looked down at your penis.

“Please let me help you, oppa.” Mashiro demanded in distress, because she had been able to free herself thanks to your touch and you, on the other hand, were still hard.

How were you going to refuse that, you thought, lowering the clothes that covered your lower area to your ankles, leaving your member in full view. Mashiro was stunned to see it like that.

“It's even bigger…” She whispered, wrapping her hand around it again, beginning to cover it completely and therefore starting the massage.

You let out a moan and bit your lip. Under normal conditions it would take you long enough to cum to get a long treatment, but the hard work of these last few days had taken its toll on you too. You hadn't downloaded for days, even weeks, and none of the Iz*One girls had crossed your path during this time, so you and your friend were especially sensitive at the moment.

That Mashiro was inexperienced was obvious, not only because she had confessed to being a virgin, it was obvious that it was the first time she had masturbated someone.

She did it delicately but nervously, her hand trembled on your cock, so you decided to help her, placing one of your hands on hers, guiding her on top of you. This helped her to calm down and gain confidence, copying the rhythm that you were setting.

You moved your hand away once you saw her more prepared and in response to that she wrapped her other hand around your penis as well.

Now both of the girl's hands were working on your erect dick, covering the entire length between them, with slow and delicate movements that made you shudder.

Your moans began to get uncontrolled due to her touch, giving her more and more encouragement and causing the pace of masturbation to increase.

Her two hands worked now at high speed on your penis, with enveloping movements, noticing how it swelled and began to tremble.

“Shit...Mashiro-chan I'm about to...” You couldn't finish the warning when the first shot was propelled upwards, surprising the girl by seeing that white liquid escape from the tip of your penis.

After the first, the rest of the shots followed, progressively decreasing the intensity with each one until finally there was not a single drop left inside you.

Mashiro's hands raised the skin of your penis one last time, observing the brilliance that the tip of your penis now offered. Finally she let you go and you were able to sit up on the bed, seeing the mess that had formed on your abdomen, now covered in your own sperm.

You diverted your gaze towards Mashiro whose eyes did not stop observing that increasingly sticky area.

You moved your hand towards it, taking some of the sperm with your fingers and looked back at the girl, who now looked back at you.

"Do you want to try it?" You asked, smiling sideways, sneaking into her thoughts. She did not utter a word due to shyness and embarrassment but nodded affirmatively.

You brought your fingers closer to her face and she closed her eyes, opening her mouth, allowing you to insert them inside, licking and tasting your seed. Her tongue moved between your fingers, wetting them but absorbing all the liquid they were impregnated with.

She opened her mouth again for you to remove your fingers and you looked at each other.

"It is...you are...you taste delicious..." She admitted self-consciously but happy and satisfied. “C-C-Can I take some more?”

A few seconds later you had Mashiro leaning over you licking all the remains of sperm that were on your abdomen and thighs. That was making you hard again but you knew you had a line that you must not to cross.

The idol's tongue cleaned you completely, savoring every last bit of liquid she could get, repeating to herself how delicious it tasted. Once she was over with you, you left the room for a moment to go to the bathroom, cleaning yourself and put your clothes back on properly, when you returned Mashiro was also dressed.

You inserted the vibrator into the cardboard box, camouflaged between several layers of clothing, and took it into your arms, despite the girl's insistence that she could carry the box.

You went down together to the street, parked there was one of Mashiro's new group's cars waiting to pick her up.

"Thanks for everything, manager oppa." Mashiro smiled sweetly at you.

"Keep this between us, okay?" She nodded briskly heading to the car, turning around before opening the door.

"I'll think about you the next time." Those words caught you off guard, making you blush.

You watched as the car disappeared into the distance of the street, blending into the traffic. You sighed and walked back up the stairs to the apartment, there was still a lot to clean.

Just when you were about to grab the broom again the phone in your pocket started ringing, you picked up after reading the name of the caller and brought it to your ear.

“Finally, I only had to call you 7 times to get a callback.” You heard a sleepy yawn from the other side.

“I've been non-stop for months, many performances, shootings, ceremony awards, and exhausting trips, you know. I deserved a good restful sleep…of 14 hours.”

“Of course, we must keep the star Ahn Yujin in good condition.” Your laughter dissipated as you took a more serious tone. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I know. See you in like 1 hour? I will send you the location.”

“Sure, see you.”

You hung up the call and heaved a long sigh, rushing to get all the work done. You had a date in an hour.

[jezebelblues]

live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 1

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

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

cw: smut18+ in pt 2, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 21.5k gulp

| idk how to feel ab this!!! stay with me now. + tumblr forced me to put this into two parts. i'm posting pt 2 right after this. smut is in 2nd part if that's only ur cup of tea

masterlist

June, 2017

It was Mitch who vouched for her.

Harry had trusted him implicitly since the first meeting. His effortless cool, his way of speaking only when necessary, and the way his guitar sounded like it could split the sky—all of it made him essential to Harry’s debut. If Mitch said someone was good, Harry would believe it.

But good wasn’t the issue.

“S’not about talent,” Harry had said one night in rehearsals, after the original second guitarist dropped out. “I just need t’feel like we fit, you know?”

Mitch had nodded, taking that as permission to make the call.

Her name was YN.

He’d heard the name before. Her reputation in the industry wasn’t loud but sharp—a razor’s edge that hinted at precision and professionalism. A prodigy of sorts, she’d landed her big break with Pink Floyd’s operatic revival of The Wall, the youngest lead guitarist in the show’s history. Since then, she’d moved from project to project, touring, sitting in on sessions, lending her guitar to artists who wanted her distinct, cutting sound.

Harry had always assumed she was someone you called when you needed the best, but not someone you kept around.

He wasn’t sure why that thought stuck in his head when Mitch mentioned her name.

He fumbled with the hem of his white t-shirt and stood at the back of the dim rehearsal space, watching Mitch set up. The low hum of amps warming up filled the room. Mitch’s quiet focus steadied Harry’s nerves—until the door opened.

She walked in with her guitar strapped across her back. She wasn’t early, but she wasn’t late either. The kind of timing that said she knew she was good but wasn’t going to make a show of it.

“Hey.” Mitch greeted her with a slight nod. He’d already taken his place behind the mixing board, leaving Harry to do the introductions.

YN turned her head toward Harry. Her eyes flickered over him briefly, as if appraising him, and then landed back on Mitch. “This the audition?”

Harry frowned. “Not an audition. A rehearsal.”

She raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn’t waver. “Right. Rehearsal.”

There was no handshake, no nervousness, no wide-eyed awe that he was used to when people first met him. She treated him like someone she was there to work with, not someone she wanted to impress.

Mitch gestured to a stand near the tall brunette. “You can set up there.”

She walked past them both without another word, unzipping her guitar case and pulling out a battered Stratocaster, crème and pine green. Harry noticed her hands immediately—nimble fingers with calluses thick enough to catch the light.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she grinned, plugging in.

He leaned toward Mitch, speaking low enough that she couldn’t hear. “Bit cocky, isn’t she?”

Mitch smirked but didn’t reply.

The first run-through was solid. She played with precision, hitting every note cleanly, and her technical skills were undeniable. But something about it felt cold, distant. Harry tried to catch her eye while they were playing, but she was hyper-focused on her guitar, her face blank.

When they finished the first song, he put his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he paused, louder than necessary. “That’s…fine. Let’s take it from the top.”

YN looked at Mitch. “Fine?”

Harry cut in before he could respond. “Yeah, fine. It’s technically good, but there’s no feeling in it. This isn’t session work. We’re putting on a live show. People need t’feel something when you play.”

She stared at him for a moment, then set her guitar down on its stand. “And what exactly do you want me to feel? We’re playing your songs.”

The tension in the room spiked. Mitch glanced between the two of them, looking ready to intervene.

He crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she started, brushing her hair back from her face, “that if you want something specific, maybe tell me what you’re looking for instead of just saying it’s not good enough.”

Her words hung in the air.

Mitch cleared his throat. “Why don’t we try the next track?”

She picked up her guitar without waiting for Harry’s input. Her fingers brushed the strings in a quick, angry strum as she tested the tuning. Harry stared at her, his jaw tight.

She didn’t flinch under his gaze.

It went on like that for the next hour.

Every time YN played, he found something to critique. Her tone, her phrasing, her timing—it didn’t matter that Mitch disagreed and kept insisting she was perfect for the role. Harry refused to back down, nitpicking every detail.

By the time they reached the final song, the air in the room was thick with unspoken animosity. YN played the opening riff of kiwi with more aggression than necessary, her fingers sliding over the frets like she wanted to punish the guitar.

When they finished, she shifted her weight and unplugged her amp. “Are we done?” she asked, slinging her guitar back over her shoulder.

Harry opened his mouth, ready with another critique, but Mitch cut him off. “Yeah. We’re done f'today.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look at Harry again as she walked toward the door.

When it closed behind her, Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “She’s not right for this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” He snapped. “She’s not a team player. She doesn’t fit.”

He leaned back against the mixing board, crossing his arms, hair falling behind his shoulders. “You ever think that maybe you’re the one who doesn’t fit?”

Harry glared at him. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that she’s a better guitarist than you’re giving her credit for. And maybe you don’t like her because she’s not trying to kiss your ass.”

He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mitch shrugged. “If you want to replace her, go ahead. But good luck finding someone else who can keep up with me…or you.”

Outside the rehearsal space, YN stood by her car, lighting a cigarette. She didn’t smoke often, only with a drink or if she was tense. 

She exhaled a plume of smoke into the warm evening air, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t angry exactly, but there was something about Harry Styles that got under her skin.

It wasn’t his fame or his music—that was fine. She’d worked with big names before. It was the way he carried himself, like he expected the world to bend around him.

He wasn’t used to people pushing back, and YN had no intention of making it easy for him.

If he wanted her to feel something when she played, she’d give him exactly that.

Even if it meant setting the whole stage on fire.

The rehearsal space smelled faintly of stale coffee and amps that had been running too long. The walls were lined with soundproofing panels, their faded gray color doing little to brighten the room. YN arrived early this time—not out of eagerness, but because she didn’t want to give Harry anything else to criticize.

Her guitar case thumped onto the ground before she adjusted the ring on her pinky—not dainty, but not loud. Her mother’s birth flower ingrained along the gold surface, a piece of her she could carry since her death in 2014. She could hear Mitch in the back, tuning his Gibson, and the faint shuffle of Harry’s sneakers as he moved across the space, adjusting mic stands and scribbling notes.

She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of beauty that crept up on you when you weren’t paying attention. Her lips held a natural pout, and her hair framed her face in a way that looked casual but impossibly deliberate, like it had conspired with the universe to fall just right. Her outfit was understated, perfect for rehearsal—straight-leg blue denim that sat just right on her hips, an off-white baby tee with cherry bomb splashed in bold red across the center, and a pair of scuffed white club c reeboks that had seen more than their fair share of years since 2015.

Around her wrist was a faded friendship bracelet, its once-bright threads dulled by time but no less significant. Jude, her best friend since high school, had tied it there the night they graduated, their laughter mingling with the hum of summer cicadas. She’d never taken it off, not once, even as life swept them into different journeys.

When YN told Jude over vodka cranberries that she’d landed a gig playing guitar for Harry Styles—yes, that Harry Styles—Jude nearly fell off her barstool. She’d been the kind of One Direction fan who made custom shirts for concerts and cried during little things. YN still remembered the way her voice shook with disbelief as she grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “You’re telling me you’re gonna play for Harry fucking Styles?” It had taken two rounds of shots to calm her down, though her enthusiasm had lingered for weeks. It was the kind of reaction that reminded YN how surreal this opportunity really was.

She promised she’d get her a front row ticket the first night in New York. 

She took her time setting up, deliberately slow. If Harry wanted to play mind games, she could too.

“Morning,” Mitch greeted, glancing up from his guitar.

“Hey,” she replied, flashing a quick smile. Mitch was the only person in the room she felt remotely comfortable around.

Harry’s voice cut through the room, sharper than it needed to be. “You’re early today.”

YN didn’t bother looking at him. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of complaining.”

The sound of Mitch’s guitar string snapping filled the silence that followed. He muttered something under his breath and bent to grab a spare string from his bag.

He walked over, his footsteps deliberate. “It’s not complaining. It’s feedback.”

“Uh-huh,” YN’s lips twitched, focusing on adjusting her amp. She crouched to test the levels, purposely ignoring him.

Harry crouched too, just enough to catch her eye. He smelt like cedar and pine. “You have something t’say?”

Her hands paused on the dials. “Nope.”

“Good.”

She stood abruptly, the motion forcing Harry to lean back. Her expression didn’t change, but her grip on her guitar tightened.

The rehearsal started the same way the last one ended: tense.

YN matched Harry’s intensity with her playing, her fingers precise but hard, striking each note with the kind of force that could shatter glass. She didn’t look at him once, even when he stopped the song halfway through to give her another round of vague critiques.

“Can you make it less…clinical?” he asked, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Clinical?” she repeated, her voice flat.

“Yeah, like…put some soul into it. Like it means something to you.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t aware Sign of the Times was a soul song.”

She didn’t mean that, not really. It was a song of his that she enjoyed, she liked the 70’s elements he took, the way his voice sounded with the instruments in the back—but he was getting under her skin, he deserved the same.

Mitch coughed to hide his laugh.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

The tension in the room was palpable now, a live wire crackling between them. Mitch stood off to the side, quietly restringing his guitar, pretending not to notice.

Harry took a deep breath, his tone softening. “Look, I just need it t’feel real. Like you’re part of it, not just playing over it.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright.”

She picked up her guitar again and launched into the song before anyone could say another word. This time, her playing wasn’t just technically perfect—it was angry. The notes tore through the air, raw and sharp, as if she were trying to prove a point with every riff.

He watched her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He couldn’t deny it sounded good—better than good—but there was something about her attitude that made him want to push back harder.

By the time they reached the last song of the set, the air in the room was thick with frustration.

Mitch played the opening riff, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, and YN followed with her part. Her playing was looser now, more natural, but the tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased.

When they finished, Harry didn’t say anything right away. He stood there, staring at her, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“S’fine,” he said, his tone careful.

“Fine?”

“You’re improving,” he clarified, though the words felt begrudging.

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “Good to know I’m living up to your impossible standards.”

Harry bristled. “It’s not impossible to ask for some effort.”

“Effort?” Her voice rose slightly. “I’ve been putting in effort since I walked through that door, but all you’ve done is nitpick every single thing I do.”

“Because I know what this show needs!”

“No, you know what you need,” she shot back. “This isn’t about the music—it’s about your ego.”

The words hit like a slap. Mitch’s guitar strap slipped from his shoulder as he froze, watching the scene unfold.

Harry’s expression darkened. “If my ego were the problem, you wouldn’t be here.”

The room went silent.

YN’s gaze didn’t waver. “Right. Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you dragged me into this.”

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and walked toward the door, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after her.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Taking a break. Unless you have a problem with that too.”

Before he could respond, the door swung shut behind her.

Mitch set his guitar down and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?” he said finally.

Harry glared at him. “At what?”

“Not making her hate you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t hate me.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “And the sky isn’t blue.”

He didn’t reply. He sat down on the edge of the stage, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, and it was throwing him off balance.

Mitch leaned against the amp, watching him. “You know, you don’t have to like her. You just have to work with her.”

“I know.” 

“Then stop pushing her so hard. She’s already good enough for this tour—you’re the one who needs to let go a bit.”

He didn’t say anything, but the knot in his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else entirely.

Outside, YN leaned against the wall, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool evening air.

She wasn’t sure what was worse—working with Harry or wanting to prove him wrong so badly it made her chest ache.

She took another drag and let the thought dissolve in the smoke.

September third

The studio was quiet now, the hum of amps and chatter of the band long gone. The others had left half an hour ago, leaving YN to pack up her gear in peace. She moved deliberately, her hands steady despite the exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

The rehearsal had been grueling. Harry had pushed harder than ever, his sharp critiques grating on her nerves until every strum of her guitar felt like a defiance. She wasn’t sure if he noticed—or cared—but by the end of the session, she’d felt like she was one wrong note away from throwing her guitar through a wall.

Now, alone with the quiet, she could finally breathe.

Until she wasn’t alone.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, and YN stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to see Harry stepping back into the room. He had swapped his stage shoes for sneakers, the cuffs of his trousers rolled slightly at the ankles. His sweater was slung over one shoulder, and the faint sheen of sweat on his neck suggested he hadn’t been gone long.

“Forgot m’notebook,” he said, his voice casual as his eyes scanned the room.

“Lucky me,” she muttered, turning back to her guitar.

He didn’t reply, but she could feel his presence as he crossed the space, moving toward the table where his things were scattered.

YN focused on wrapping her cable, each loop tight and precise. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after the day they’d had.

But Harry didn’t leave.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged, as he lingered near the table. YN’s movements slowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Something you need?” she asked, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice.

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned to face him, her hands still clutching the coiled cable.

Harry was watching her, his notebook forgotten on the table. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, and the weight of his gaze made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“You were pushing today,” he said finally, his tone measured.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“During rehearsal,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “You weren’t playing like y’normally do.”

“Maybe I was just tired.” She countered, though the words felt like a lie even as she said them.

“You weren’t tired,” he said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want, Harry? If you’re here to critique me again, save it. I’ve heard enough for one day.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. “I wasn’t trying t’pick on you,” he breathed, his voice quieter now. “If that’s how it felt, I’m sorry.”

YN stared at him, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with the man who’d spent weeks nitpicking every note she played.

“Why do you care?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looked at her. “Because I need this to work.”

His words landed heavily between them, and for a moment, the room felt too small.

“You act like it’s just me,” she said finally, her voice quieter but still tinged with frustration. “Like I’m the only thing keeping it from working.”

“I don’t think that,” he said quickly, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re good—better than good. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.”

YN froze, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his voice. She hadn’t expected that—not from him.

The silence between them grew heavier, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

Harry’s gaze dropped briefly, like he was searching for the right words. When he looked back up, there was something different in his expression, something softer but no less intense.

“You frustrate me,” he said finally, the words low but certain.

YN’s throat went dry. “Right back at you.”

He took another step closer, and this time, she didn’t move away. Her heart pounded as she looked up at him, her chest tightening under the weight of his stare.

Neither of them spoke, the silence crackling with unspoken words.

She didn’t know who leaned in first—maybe it was him, or maybe it was her—but suddenly the space between them was almost nonexistent. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he lingered just close enough to touch.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her fingers curled into the coiled cable in her hand, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Harry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

The sound of his name seemed to pull him back, his eyes searching hers for a fleeting moment before he stepped away.

“I should go.” 

He grabbed his notebook and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

YN stood there, her heart still racing, the ghost of his presence lingering in the air.

Whatever had just happened—whatever had almost happened—she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

September nineteenth

San Francisco was humming.

The Masonic sat perched atop Nob Hill like a jewel overlooking the city, its art deco façade catching the early morning light. By dawn, the line of fans already snaked around the block, blankets and camp chairs scattered across the sidewalk. A faint fog clung to the streets, giving the historic building an ethereal quality as the first rays of sunlight broke through.

It was opening night of Harry’s solo tour, and the air outside the venue was electric.

Groups of fans huddled close, wrapped in scarves and oversized sweatshirts, their conversations a steady hum of anticipation. Some clutched homemade signs or albums, while others leaned against the building, scrolling through their phones to pass the hours.

Inside the venue, it was chaos.

The crew had been there since 6 am, unloading crates of equipment, running cables like veins along the stage. Monitors were stacked, adjusted, then adjusted again. Lights were tested until they bathed the empty floor in saturated pinks and golds. A countdown clock blinked red backstage, a digital reminder that time was slipping through the cracks, too fast and too slow all at once.

By 10 am, the band was in full rehearsal mode, locked in a cycle of repetition and frustration. YN perched on a stool near the edge of the stage, her guitar resting against her thighs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Mitch was on her left, his head bent over his guitar, fingers moving like smoke over the frets. The two of them had been working together for months now, tight and efficient, a partnership forged in long hours and shared cigarettes.

Harry stood center stage, mic in hand, dressed like he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to be a rock star or a poet today. He wore a loose black blouse unbuttoned to his sternum, tucked into tailored trousers that hung just right. His boots clacked against the floor as he paced, his movements restless, his voice sharp as glass when he spoke.

“Stop, stop,” he sighed, waving his free hand. “It’s off. That transition’s not right.”

She bit down on her tongue. It wasn’t off. She knew it wasn’t off. But Harry had a way of finding faults where there weren’t any, like he needed to pick at something just to prove he could.

Mitch glanced at her, a subtle flick of his eyes that said, Don’t.

She ignored him.

“It’s not the transition,” she jutted her chin, her voice cutting through the murmur of techs and assistants scurrying around the stage. “The timing’s fine. It’s your entrance that’s late.”

He turned to her slowly, the mic dangling from his fingers like a threat. “Oh, is it?” he asked, his tone light, almost amused, but his jaw was tight. “You sure about that?”

YN met his gaze, unflinching. “Positive.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of an amp in the background. Harry didn’t say anything, just tipped his head slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then he turned back to the band. “Alright,” he paused, his voice smooth again, commanding. “Run it from the top.”

Mitch exhaled, a quiet sound that YN barely caught. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she adjusted the strap on her guitar and settled her fingers on the fretboard, ready for another round of the same song they’d played fifteen times already.

By noon, the tension was palpable.

Lunch was a quick affair, eaten standing in the dim backstage area while techs rushed past with tangled cords and boxes of equipment. She leaned against a speaker case, picking at a dry sandwich, her guitar propped up against her leg. Across the room, Harry was surrounded by his usual orbit of stylists and assistants, his laugh ringing out every now and then, low and easy. He looked completely unbothered, like he wasn’t the reason half the band was on edge.

Mitch sat down next to her, his plate balanced precariously on his knee.

“You’ve got to let it go,” he said quietly, not looking up from his food.

“Let what go?” She asked, feigning innocence.

He gave her a flat look. “You and Harry. The little pissing contest you’ve got going on.”

“There’s no contest,” she shrugged, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I already won.”

Mitch snorted, but he didn’t argue.

By 5 pm, the soundcheck was over, and the venue was nearly ready. The stage lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the room, making everything feel larger than life. Outside, the crowd had grown to hundreds, their voices rising in bursts of cheers every time someone peeked out from behind the curtains.

Backstage, the dressing rooms were a flurry of last-minute preparations. Harry was in his dressing room, a blur of motion as his stylist fussed over his outfit. A floral suit hung on a rack nearby, catching the light like a disco ball.

In her own space, YN was tightening a loose screw on her guitar, her fingers moving with practiced ease. Her nerves were starting to hum, a low undercurrent she couldn’t quite shake. This was her first tour—her first real tour in a set band, a member, belonging—and it felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his presence filling the small room like a gust of wind.

YN froze for half a second before returning to her task.“What do you want?” she asked, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Just checking in,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “You ready for tonight?”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Are you?”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Always.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. Then Harry pushed off the doorframe and straightened, his eyes lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary.

“See you out there,” he mumbled, and then he was gone, leaving the room feeling smaller and heavier than before.

By eight, the doors had opened, and the crowd was pouring in, filling the venue with a rush of energy that seemed to seep into the walls. Backstage, the band was gathered in a tight circle, their instruments tuned, their game faces on.

Harry stood at the center, his suit catching the light, his presence commanding as he gave a short pep talk. YN stood slightly to the side, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her thigh. She barely listened to his words, too focused on the sound of the crowd beyond the curtains, their cheers swelling like a tidal wave.

When the house lights dimmed, the noise was deafening.

As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the audience hit her like a physical force. The spotlight burned bright, blinding her for a moment as she adjusted to the sheer magnitude of it all.

Harry stepped forward, his silhouette outlined in pinks and gold as he grabbed the mic stand. The crowd went feral, their screams rising to a fever pitch as he flashed that grin, the one that could disarm even the sharpest tongue.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to—the crowd did that for him. 

YN’s fingers hovered over the strings of her guitar, her pulse thrumming in time with the cheers.

And then the music began.

It was loud and raw and electric, the kind of sound that sank its teeth into you and didn’t let go. The stage pulsed with life, the crowd moving like a single, writhing entity, their hands reaching for something intangible.

Harry owned the stage, his presence magnetic, his voice weaving through the room like a spell. YN played like she had something to prove, her fingers dancing over the strings with precision and fire. For all their clashes, for all the sharp words and narrowed eyes, when they played together, it was seamless.

Perfect, even.

And maybe that was the problem.

The stage felt alive. No, not alive. Hungry. Like it had been waiting for this moment, this crowd, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until every single body in the Masonic was consumed by the music.

YN’s sneakers scuffed against the stage floor as she adjusted her stance, fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. The heat of the lights was a constant pressure on her skin, beads of sweat forming at her temples and sliding down the back of her neck. But she didn’t care. Not about the lights, or the heat, or the way her thighs ached from standing so long.

She was falling in love—with the music, with the electricity in the air, with the way the crowd moved like a living organism, surging and crashing like waves in sync with every beat of the drums.

The screams had been deafening from the start, a tsunami of sound that swelled every time Harry leaned into the mic, his voice wrapping around the room and pulling it taut. He worked the crowd like a master, every glance, every laugh, every sway of his hips sending the audience into hysterics.

She wasn’t immune.

She hated to admit it, but she felt it too—that gravitational pull, that magnetic charisma that seemed to pour out of him effortlessly. She caught herself watching him when she shouldn’t, her eyes flicking to the way his shoulders moved under the sharp lines of his sequined suit, the easy way he gripped the mic stand like it was an extension of his body.

And every so often, he’d glance at her.

Not a passing look. A moment.

It would last half a beat longer than it should, his eyes catching hers under the wash of the stage lights. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, challenging her, or something else entirely. But it was enough to make her fingers stumble once, the wrong note ringing out for a split second before she recovered.

If Harry noticed, he didn’t show it.

The setlist was relentless. The kind of music that made you feel like your heart was going to explode, like you couldn’t keep up and didn’t want to. The kind of music that made YN forget she was supposed to hate the guy running the show.

“Alright,” Harry said into the mic, his voice lower now, intimate, like he was sharing a secret with each and every person in the crowd. “I want to slow it down for a bit. Let’s make this next one special, yeah?”

The audience erupted, their cheers shaking the walls.

She let herself glance up, just once, and there he was.

Harry stood center stage, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like he could memorize every face. And then his gaze found hers. It pinned her, held her still even as her hands moved over the strings with practiced ease. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t smirk or tease. His expression was soft, unreadable, like he was trying to figure her out and didn’t quite know how.

YN looked away first, focusing on her guitar, on the warmth of the strings under her fingers. But she felt his eyes linger, even as he turned back to the crowd, his voice slipping into the melody.

The audience swayed, their voices blending with his, turning the room into one collective heartbeat. She could feel it under her skin, in her chest, this pulsing connection between the stage and the people who filled the seats. She couldn’t explain it, but it made her chest ache, a hollow kind of ache that was somehow beautiful.

She wasn’t just falling in love with the crowd—she was falling in love with the way they loved him. The way their energy fed into his, creating this endless loop of give and take. It was magnetic, intoxicating, and she hated how much she wanted to be part of it.

As the show reached its climax, the band hit the frenetic rhythm of kiwi. The crowd lost their minds, screaming and jumping in unison as the pounding bassline and frantic guitars drove the song forward like a freight train.

Harry was in his element now, prowling the stage like a lion in a cage, his energy sharp and electric. He threw himself into the song with reckless abandon, his voice raw, his body moving like it was possessed by the music.

She felt it too, her fingers sliding over the strings with an intensity she didn’t know she was capable of. She played like she wanted to leave a mark, like she wanted the crowd to feel every note down to their bones.

Harry spun toward her at one point, his eyes catching hers as he sang.

All over me it’s like I paid for it, like I paid for it—I’m gonna pay for this

The line wasn’t even hers, maybe thrown toward her, sure, but the way he locked eyes with her as he belted it made her throat tighten. There was something feral about the way he looked at her, something that sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to her chest.

She didn’t look away this time.

By the time the last note of the encore faded into the ether, the crowd was still screaming, still begging for more. Harry stood at the edge of the stage, his hands pressed together in a gesture of thanks, his smile wide and genuine.

YN hung back, her guitar still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving from the exertion of the last few songs. She watched him bask in the adoration of the crowd, the way they screamed his name like a prayer.

And for the first time, she felt it too.

That pull. That strange, inexplicable magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

The final notes of the encore still buzzed in her ears as she followed the band offstage, the roar of the crowd trailing behind them like an echo that refused to fade. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—her fingers stiff from hours of playing, her calves burning from the constant movement—but the adrenaline still surged, making her feel weightless and untouchable.

She had done it. They had done it.

The opening night had gone off like a firework, every moment exploding brighter and louder than the last. From the first chord to the final bow, it had been electric. And for once, she didn’t feel like just another cog in the machine. On that stage, with the lights scorching her skin and the crowd’s energy feeding her soul, she felt like a part of something massive. Something alive.

And Harry—despite everything—had been a part of that.

They’d had moments up there, brief but undeniable, where their music seemed to sync in ways their personalities couldn’t. He’d looked at her like she was the only other person in the room, and she’d felt it, that spark. That rare kind of connection that made everything else fade into static.

She thought maybe he’d felt it too.

Backstage was a flurry of chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that came with relief. Crew members slapped high-fives, a few whooped into the cavernous space, and Mitch grinned at her as they stowed their gear.

“That was something, huh?” he said, leaning back against the wall, his guitar case resting at his feet.

“Yeah,” she said, breathless. “It really was.”

Her eyes darted toward Harry, who was standing in the middle of it all, his floral suit catching the dim light of the hallway. He was talking to a few crew members, his laugh echoing down the corridor, easy and loud.

YN lingered on the edge of the group, still cradling her guitar, waiting for him to glance her way. Say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he clapped Mitch on the shoulder as he passed by, murmured something low and warm to the bassist, then disappeared down the hallway, flanked by his manager and stylist.

Her stomach sank.

Seriously?

The after-party was just as loud as the show, a whirlwind of congratulatory cheers and glasses clinking in a private room at some sleek hotel downtown. The crew was there, the band, a few industry types YN didn’t recognize but figured she should. She was used to this kind of thing—small, exclusive, the kind of celebration that was more about appearances than fun—but tonight it felt different.

She stuck close to Mitch for most of it, nursing a vodka sour and letting the buzz of conversation wash over her.

“Relax,” Mitch said at one point, leaning against the bar beside her. “You look like you’re still waiting for the second set to start.”

“I’m good.” She mumbled a little too quickly.

His brow arched, but he didn’t press.

Across the room, Harry was the center of attention, as always. He moved through the crowd like he belonged there, laughing and chatting like he hadn’t just poured himself out on stage for hours. She couldn’t help but watch him, the way people gravitated toward him, how he seemed to light up every corner of the room he stepped into.

But he didn’t look at her. Not once.

She tried not to let it bother her, but it did.

After everything on stage, after every glance, every unspoken connection, it felt like he was intentionally keeping his distance. Like he’d flipped some invisible switch, cutting her off before she could even figure out what had changed.

By the time the party wound down, YN had had enough. She slipped out quietly, her guitar case slung over her shoulder, and headed for the lobby. The cool night air hit her like a slap when she stepped outside, the noise of the party muffled behind the heavy glass doors.

She stood there for a moment, letting the city’s chaos replace the strange hollowness that had settled in her chest.

She didn’t know why she’d expected something different from him. He was Harry Styles, after all—the man who could command a room with a smirk, who probably had a million other things on his mind besides her.

But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight.

Maybe it was the crowd, or the way the music had felt like it was tying them together in ways they didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, like she was part of it, part of him.

Or maybe she was imagining it all.

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the guitar case as she started down the empty street toward her hotel.

Behind her, the sound of the door opening and closing made her stop.

But when she turned, it wasn’t him.

It was just some random guest stepping out for a smoke, their lighter flaring briefly in the dark.

She shook her head and kept walking.

The morning after opening night started with a headache.

The alarm went off at five, its shrill tone slicing through the still-dark San Francisco hotel room. YN groaned as she rolled over and slapped it off, her limbs heavy with the weight of too little sleep and too much tension. Her body ached from the show—her fingers stiff, her shoulders sore—but the adrenaline still hadn’t completely worn off.

She dressed in silence, pulling on denim shorts and an oversized hoodie, her hair shoved under a worn baseball cap. By the time she dragged her case and bookbag downstairs, the lobby was already filled with half-awake crew members milling around with to-go coffees and luggage carts. The band gathered near the hotel entrance, everyone moving slow, bleary-eyed.

Everyone but Harry.

He stood near the glass doors, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was still too early for sunlight. His outfit—effortlessly tailored black slacks and black tee, paired with boots that clacked against the marble floor—looked like it belonged in a photoshoot, not a cramped tour bus ride down the coast. His hair was artfully disheveled, like it had been tousled by the same wind that carried his confidence.

YN hated that he didn’t look tired. He looked perfect, unbothered, untouchable.

And, true to form, he didn’t acknowledge her.

Not directly, anyway.

“Morning, Mitch,” Harry nodded, his voice smooth and low as he greeted the guitarist with a clap on the shoulder. He grinned at Sarah and made some easy joke that had her laughing quietly, her coffee held close to her chest.

She stood off to the side, shifting her weight between her feet, watching the scene unfold like an outsider looking through a frosted window.

She thought about last night. About how he’d looked at her on stage like the world had narrowed to just the two of them. About how he hadn’t spoken a single word to her after.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand him.

“Let’s get moving,” their tour manager barked, clapping his hands. “Bus leaves in five.”

YN grabbed her things and followed the group outside, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks as they made their way toward the waiting bus.

The ride to Los Angeles was tense in the worst kind of way.

She had claimed a window seat near the middle of the bus, her headphones cranked up to drown out the low hum of conversation around her. She stared out at the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching endlessly to the right, the cliffs jagged and wild to the left. It should’ve been peaceful, beautiful even, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing irritation in her chest.

Harry was sitting three rows ahead, leaned back in his seat with one arm slung lazily over the headrest. He was talking to Sarah again, his voice low enough that YN couldn’t hear the words, but the sound of it still grated on her nerves.

She wasn’t sure why she cared so much. She didn’t want to care.

If he wanted to ignore her, fine. She could ignore him right back.

By the time they reached LA, the tension had evolved into a quiet kind of war.

At the Greek Theater, the crew unloaded equipment, their movements brisk and practiced as they prepared for soundcheck. The sun blazed down on the open-air amphitheater, turning the white seats into a blinding sea of light.

YN was on edge, her patience wearing thinner with every passing hour. He still hadn’t spoken to her, not even in passing. He was polite, distant, the way he’d been before opening night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t spent the night before throwing glances her way that felt like they could peel her apart.

When he handed out notes during rehearsal, she barely looked at him, keeping her responses clipped and indifferent.

“Got it,” she muttered after one of his suggestions, her tone flat as she adjusted her guitar strap.

Harry blinked at her, his lips twitching into something that might have been surprise. “Good,” he said after a beat, turning his attention to Mitch without another word.

By the time the soundcheck wrapped, She was biting the inside of her cheek so hard it felt raw.

Later, while the rest of the band lingered backstage before the show, YN found herself leaning against the rail of the amphitheater, staring out at the empty seats. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, and she turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Yeah.” She breathed, her voice guarded. She didn’t move closer.

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them stretched, heavy and awkward.

“Something you need?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his sunglasses reflecting the fading light.

“Just checking in.”

It felt like a lie.

“I’m good, Harry” She mumbled, turning back toward the stage.

He didn’t respond, and when she glanced over her shoulder a few moments later, he was already walking away.

Her fingers tightened around the rail, her chest heavy with frustration she couldn’t quite name.

She hated this.

Hated the way he could make her feel so small, so seen, then turn around and act like she didn’t exist.

It was like trying to hold onto water. The harder she gripped, the faster it slipped through her fingers.

-

Harry stood at the edge of the stage, soaking it all in. He bowed low, his sequined shirt catching the light, a grin breaking across his face. To the crowd, he was untouchable—a god in Gucci.

She followed Mitch and Sarah offstage, her steps quick and mechanical. She could feel Harry trailing behind them, his presence heavy even when she couldn’t see him.

Backstage was chaos, as it always was after a show, but it didn’t faze YN. She moved through the crowd of crew members and assistants like a ghost, ignoring the chatter, the congratulatory smiles.

Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the performance twisting into something darker, something restless.

“You good?”

Mitch’s voice cut through the haze. He was leaning against the wall, his guitar case already packed, his expression calm but curious.

“Yeah.” 

Lie.

Harry entered the dressing room a few minutes later, his presence shifting the energy in the space instantly.

He was laughing at something Sarah had said, his voice loud and warm, but the sound grated against YN’s nerves. She kept her back to him, pretending to be busy adjusting a loose string on her guitar.

She felt him glance her way—she could feel it—but she didn’t turn around.

Two could play this game.

The bus ride back to the hotel was unbearable.

YN had claimed a seat near the back, her headphones on, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights outside the window. She could see Harry a few rows ahead, his arm draped casually over the back of his seat as he chatted with the others.

He hadn’t spoken to her all night, and now, sitting there in his own bubble of easy conversation and laughter, it was like she didn’t exist.

Her frustration simmered, bubbling just below the surface.

She replayed the show in her head, each pointed glance, each lyric he’d aimed at her like an arrow. It felt like he was trying to send a message, but she couldn’t decipher it.

Was he angry with her? Was this some kind of punishment? Or was he just playing a game she didn’t know the rules to?

She clenched her jaw and turned up the volume on her music, drowning out the sound of his voice.

By the time they reached the hotel, her nerves were shot.

She practically stormed off the bus, her guitar case banging against her thigh as she made her way to the elevators.

The band and crew trailed behind her, their voices a low hum of exhaustion and contentment. Harry was in the middle of the group, laughing softly at something Mitch had said.

YN pressed the elevator button harder than she needed to, willing it to come faster. She didn’t know if she was more angry or confused. Maybe both.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes as the others piled in.

She felt him before she saw him.

Harry stepped in last, taking a spot in the corner opposite her. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his presence filled the small space like smoke, curling around her, suffocating.

The silence stretched as the elevator ascended, the soft ding of each passing floor the only sound.

When the doors opened on her floor, YN didn’t wait for anyone to move. She pushed past them, her guitar case bumping against Harry’s shin as she stepped out.

“Careful.” He muttered under his breath, the word low but deliberate.

YN froze, her grip tightening on the case. She turned back, her jaw tight, her voice barely above a whisper “You were in the way.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

But then he smiled. That infuriating, lopsided grin that always seemed to carry a thousand meanings “Goodnight, YN.” he breathed, his tone maddeningly calm.

And just like that, the elevator doors closed, taking him with it.

She stood there in the empty hallway, her chest heaving, her hands trembling against the strap of her guitar case.

She hated him.

And she hated that she didn’t.

Nashville hit like a fever dream.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and turned the air thick, every breath tasting like concrete and sweat. YN stepped off the plane and into the chaos of arrivals, her carry-on slung over one shoulder and her nerves buzzing like a live wire. The overhead announcements droned on, blending with the chatter of passengers and the whir of suitcase wheels.

Behind her, the band followed, each of them bleary-eyed but quiet, the exhaustion of constant travel settling into their bones. They’d left Los Angeles behind with barely enough time to breathe, and now they were here. Another city. Another show.

Harry was in the middle of it all, of course.

He strode through the airport like he owned it, dressed in a casual white t-shirt and plaid trousers, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. His carry-on was slung lazily over his shoulder, the strap resting on a ringed hand, and he moved with the kind of effortless ease that YN had learned to despise.

She hated how calm he looked. How composed. Like he hadn’t spent the last two days pulling the same infuriating routine—ignoring her during rehearsals, barely acknowledging her existence outside of the necessary, and throwing her those strange, pointed glances on stage.

She adjusted the strap of her own bag and turned away from him, focusing on the bustling terminal as they followed the signs toward baggage claim.

By the time they made it outside, the air was heavy with humidity, the sun dipping low on the horizon and casting long shadows across the tarmac. Their bus waited near the curb, sleek and black, the driver already loading their checked equipment and luggage into the belly of the vehicle.

YN stepped aside to let Mitch and Sarah board first, leaning against the side of the bus and tugging her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She was tired. Bone-tired. And the thought of spending another night in close quarters with Harry’s infuriating silence made her chest feel tight.

“YN.”

His voice came from behind her, low and steady, and it made her stomach flip in a way she refused to acknowledge.

She turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now, and his green eyes caught the soft light of evening, sharp and clear.

“Yeah?” she sighed, her tone flat.

Harry blinked at her, like he hadn’t expected her to answer. “I, uh…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “You left this.”

He held out a small notebook, the worn leather cover instantly recognizable. YN’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even realize she’d forgotten it.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, reaching for it. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent a shiver down her spine. She snatched the notebook quickly, shoving it into her bag.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Harry shifted his weight, his gaze flicking past her to the bus, like he was trying to find an escape route.

“Long flight,” he said finally, the words almost awkward.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re making small talk now?”

His mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a grimace. “Just trying t’be polite.” His voice was low, almost teasing.

She didn’t know why that annoyed her so much. “Well, don’t strain yourself,” she shot back, her words sharper than she intended.

Harry’s expression shifted, the teasing edge dropping away. For a moment, he looked at her like he wanted to say something, something important, but then he just shook his head.

“Right.” he said softly. “Good t’know where we stand.”

Before she could respond, he turned and climbed onto the bus, leaving her standing there in the heavy Nashville air, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She clenched her jaw, gripping the strap of her bag so tight it hurt.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

With a frustrated sigh, she followed him onto the bus, determined to avoid him for the rest of the night.

The hotel lobby was as tired as YN felt—dimly lit, decorated in muted earth tones that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 90s. A long line of leather couches stretched across one side, mostly empty now that the band and crew had already checked in and trudged upstairs to collapse into their rooms.

She stood at the reception desk, trying to ignore the looming presence of Harry a few feet behind her as she slid her ID across the polished counter.

She croaked out her first and last name, her voice tight with exhaustion. “Should be a reservation under that.”

The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a forced smile, tapped at her keyboard. For a moment, YN let herself hope this would go smoothly.

“Ah…” the woman began, her smile faltering as she looked up at her apologetically. “It seems there’s been an error in the system.”

Her stomach sank. “What kind of error?”

“It looks like…” The receptionist squinted at her screen, then back at YN. “Your booking and Mr. Styles’ booking were combined. There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

She blinked, certain she must have misheard. “What?”

“One room,” the woman repeated, her voice overly kind, like she was delivering bad news to a child.

A low sound from behind her drew YN’s attention, and she turned to see Harry standing there, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

YN turned back to the receptionist, her pulse spiking with frustration. “Okay, well, can you fix it? Book me another room?”

The woman winced. “I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked out. Between your show and a large business conference in town, there’s nothing available.”

“Nothing?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Nothing.”

YN stared at her for a long moment, hoping that if she stood there long enough, a solution would magically present itself. When it didn’t, she let out a slow breath, trying to keep her voice calm. “Okay, then I’ll sleep on the tour bus,” she said finally, her tone clipped.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the receptionist replied, her voice filled with polite concern. “It’s not very safe overnight, and the temperatures are supposed to drop quite a bit.”

YN’s jaw clenched. She didn’t care about the temperature. She cared about not being stuck in a hotel room with Harry Styles for an entire night.

“You can take the bed,” Harry said suddenly, his voice low and casual.

She whipped around to look at him, her exhaustion briefly replaced by irritation. “Excuse me?”

“You can take the bed,” he repeated, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He didn’t look tired like she did; if anything, he looked almost amused. “I’ll take the couch. Problem solved.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t continue the way she half-expected him to. He acknowledged her silence with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

YN turned back to the receptionist, her last shred of hope dying as the woman gave her a small, helpless smile.

“I really am sorry,” the receptionist said.

“Yeah,” She muttered, grabbing her room key off the counter. “Me too.”

The elevator ride to their shared room was suffocating.

She stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, her eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. He stood on the opposite side, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She could feel the tension between them, thick and heavy, like it had been building all day.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, she practically bolted into the hallway, her shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor as she found their room and slid the keycard into the lock.

The room was small but clean, decorated in the same neutral tones as the lobby. There was one queen-sized bed, a narrow couch by the window, and a small desk tucked into the corner.

YN set her bag down near the door, letting out a long breath. This was going to be a long night.

Harry stepped in behind her, the door clicking shut softly as he took in the room. “Well,” he said after a beat, his voice laced with dry humor. “Cozy.”

YN shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied, raising his hands in mock innocence.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her carry-on and unzipping it with more force than necessary. She pulled out her pajamas and stalked toward the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

“You’re welcome to take the bed!” Harry called after her.

She didn’t reply, only slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Inside, she leaned against the sink, gripping the edge tightly as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess under her hat, her face flushed with irritation and exhaustion.

This was the last thing she needed.

She splashed cold water on her face, changed into her pajamas, and forced herself to take a deep breath before stepping back out into the room.

Harry was already sprawled out on the couch, his long legs dangling off one end, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. He looked too comfortable, like he wasn’t even remotely fazed by the situation.

“Goodnight, YN.” he smiled, his voice soft and teasing, muffled by his arm.

She didn’t bother replying, instead climbing into the bed and yanking the blanket up to her chin. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, her back to him.

But even as she lay there in the dark, her body exhausted and her mind racing, she couldn’t ignore the steady sound of his breathing filling the room.

And somehow, that made sleep feel even further away.

The night dragged on like a bad song on repeat.

YN tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs no matter how many times she tried to straighten them. The bed itself wasn’t the problem—it was soft enough, even if the pillows were too firm. The issue was the room. Or rather, the person in the room.

Harry’s breathing was steady and slow, almost annoyingly calm, like he had drifted off with zero trouble. The faint rustle of the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch only made it worse. She hated knowing he was just a few feet away, as oblivious and infuriating in sleep as he was awake.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of him in the room, like his presence was something tangible pressing against her skin. She could picture him sprawled out on the narrow couch, too long for it, his hair a wild mess against the pillow. He had to be uncomfortable, but of course, he made even that look effortless.

She clenched her teeth and turned over again, dragging the blanket over her head.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing she knew, pale sunlight was streaming through the thin hotel curtains, casting faint patterns on the wall. The sound of movement drew her attention, and she rolled onto her back, blinking against the light.

Harry was already up.

He stood near the desk, pulling a fresh shirt over his head, the muscles in his back shifting under smooth skin. His hair stuck up in every direction, and there was a faint red line on his cheek, probably from the couch pillow.

YN groaned softly, her voice gravelly from sleep, and sat up.

He turned at the sound, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he gave her a lopsided smile. “Morning,” he rasped, voice low and rough.

She ignored the strange flutter in her chest and instead rubbed at her face, her palms digging into her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven,” Harry replied, glancing at his watch.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Couldn’t stay on that couch any longer,” he said with a shrug, running a hand through his hair. “Figured I’d let you sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow, more suspicious than grateful. “How thoughtful of you.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the desk. “I’m full of surprises.”

YN swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor against her bare feet waking her up a little more. She glanced at the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap at one end, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt. He might be irritating, but even she had to admit that couch looked like hell.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Enough,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug. “You?”

She hesitated. She wanted to lie, to tell him she’d slept like a rock just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But she was too tired to keep up the pretense. “Barely,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his smirk softened into something else, something almost understanding. “We’ve got a couple hours before soundcheck,” he said after a beat, pushing off the desk. “I’ll grab coffee if y’want.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer.

“You’re being weirdly nice this morning,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes.

Harry grinned, all teeth. “Don’t get used to it.”

Before she could respond, he slipped out the door, leaving her sitting there in the quiet room, her heart beating just a little faster than it should have been.

When Harry returned twenty minutes later, carrying two steaming cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from the shop across the street, YN couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed.

But she didn’t thank him either.

She wasn’t sure why, but the tension between them felt different in the light of day. Lighter. Less suffocating. Still there, sure, but not as sharp.

She sipped her coffee in silence, watching as Harry lounged on the edge of the bed, scrolling lazily through his phone.

By ten that morning, they were at the Ryman.

The iconic auditorium was a cathedral of music, its wooden pews and high ceilings steeped in history. YN had played a lot of venues over the years, but this one felt different. Sacred, almost.

The crew was already bustling around the stage, running cables and testing equipment as the band took their places for a quick run-through. She strapped on her guitar and adjusted the amp settings, the familiarity of the process grounding her.

“Alright,” the stage manager called, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Let’s run it from Carolina. Just a quick one, then you’re free for the day.”

Harry stepped up to the mic, giving a thumbs-up to the techs at the soundboard. His voice rang out clear and confident, slipping into the song like it was second nature.

YN played her part without thinking, her fingers moving easily over the strings. But she couldn’t help noticing the way Harry was watching her again.

It wasn’t as obvious as before—just the occasional glance, fleeting but deliberate, like he was checking her reaction to something she couldn’t quite place.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know if it was frustration or something else entirely.

They wrapped up soundcheck in record time, the stage manager dismissing them with a wave of his clipboard.

“Alright, folks. Enjoy your free day. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

The band dispersed quickly, everyone eager to make the most of the rare downtime. Sarah and Mitch mentioned something about finding a good barbecue spot, and within minutes, YN found herself standing outside the Ryman, squinting in the bright Tennessee sun.

She was about to head back toward the hotel when Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey, Hendrix.”

She turned to see him leaning against the tour bus, his sunglasses perched on his nose. She hummed in response, holding her hand above her eyes to shield the sun.

He grinned, his voice light and teasing. “You’re not gonna spend the whole day in the room, are you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the bus. “Just thought you might want to come along.”

“Come along where?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head in that infuriatingly casual way he had. “I was thinking about exploring. But if you’d rather sulk in the hotel…”

She glared at him, her irritation mixing with reluctant curiosity. “I’m not sulking,” she muttered.

“Prove it.” His grin widened.

She sighed, weighing her options. She could spend the rest of the day alone, aimlessly wandering the city, or… she could let Harry drag her into whatever chaos he had planned.

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer.

“Fine.”she grumbled. “But if you annoy me, I’m leaving.”

Harry laughed, a warm sound that somehow made her chest feel lighter. “Deal.”

As they made their way through the streets of Nashville, YN couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to fall into step with him.

They wandered through the heart of downtown, the air thick with the sound of live music spilling out of honky-tonk bars and the faint smell of fried food. He seemed relaxed, his usual sharp edges dulled by the easy rhythm of the day.

They ducked into a record store, where Harry spent an obscene amount of time flipping through vinyls, offering commentary on the cover art of each one.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. He grinned at her, and for once, it felt less like a challenge and more like… something else.

YN raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the album he held up, the iconic cover staring back at her. “What about it?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the edge of the nearest display.

Harry’s grin shifted, softer now, almost boyish. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t tell me you’ve never given it a proper listen.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. “Of course I’ve listened to it. Who hasn’t? Don’t go acting like you’ve discovered fire.”

“Ah, but have you really listened to it?” He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied her expression like it might hold the answer. “Like, lying on the floor, headphones on, letting it ruin your entire mood?”

“That sounds unnecessarily dramatic,” she said, but there was no real bite in her voice.

“Dramatic? YN, this album is a rite of passage. The Chain? That bassline alone deserves its own religion.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, a quick, genuine sound that caught her off guard as much as it did him. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, shaking her head.

He looked pleased with himself, his grin stretching wider. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Take it however you want,” she shot back, moving past him to inspect a crate of blues records. Her fingers skimmed over the edges of the albums, her pulse oddly steady in the low hum of his company.

Harry hovered near, occasionally picking up a record and commenting on it. “You’re quiet,” he noted after a few minutes, his tone lighter than she’d expected.

“Just... looking,” she replied, hoping the words sounded casual enough.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” The lie came easily.

He didn’t press, and for once, she appreciated his silence. It gave her room to breathe, to figure out why the usual tension between them felt... different today. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I like this, you know.”

She glanced up, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in his tone. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestured between them, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Hanging out. You’re tolerable when y’not glaring at me.”

She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. “That’s your idea of a compliment?”

“Take it or leave it,” he said, his smirk returning but not fully masking the warmth behind it.

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t look away, and for a brief moment, the air between them shifted. The faint tension that always seemed to linger was still there, but it wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was something else entirely.

As the afternoon wore on, the tension that had been brewing between them seemed to fade, replaced by something quieter.

They grabbed lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner Harry insisted on, where they shared a plate of fries and argued over whether ketchup or mayo was the superior dipping sauce.

“Ketchup,” YN said, dipping another fry.

Harry shook his head, mock disappointment written all over his face. “I expected better from you.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her.

By the time they made their way back to the hotel, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She felt lighter, like the weight of the past few days had lifted, if only for a little while.

As they reached the elevator, Harry glanced at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“Thanks for coming along,” his voice was quiet but sincere.

She hesitated, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his tone. “Yeah, well… it was better than sulking.”

He smiled, and for a moment, the tension between them didn’t feel so heavy.

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled into your bones and made you feel the weight of the day. After their spontaneous exploration of Nashville, she had parted ways with Harry in the hallway. He mentioned something about meeting up with Mitch, tossing her a casual, “See you later,” before disappearing down the corridor.

YN had nodded but hadn’t said much else. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed that he was leaving for the night.

After a long shower, she tugged on an oversized band tee—some faded thing she’d thrifted years ago—and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders as she padded barefoot around the room, her phone in one hand as she scrolled through texts from her family.

Dad: Don’t forget to drink water. You sound so busy. Call us when you have time.

Younger sibling: lol saw a vid of harry styles crowd at your show. how’s that going???

She smiled faintly at the last one, shaking her head as she typed a quick response.

It wasn’t until she’d tossed her phone onto the bedside table that she remembered the little stash she’d hidden away.

She opened her suitcase, digging past neatly folded shirts and random cables until her fingers brushed against an emptied bag-balm tin, where she hid a pre-roll. She grinned to herself, pulling it out along with the battered cherry red lighter she always kept with it.

YN grabbed her guitar and wandered to the deep window sill, settling into it like a cat in the sun. She pushed the window all the way up, the night air warm against her skin as it rushed into the room. Nashville stretched out before her, the faint glow of the city lights mixing with the distant hum of passing cars.

She tucked the joint between her lips, the flame of the lighter flickering as she lit the tip. She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl through her lungs and settle into her chest before she exhaled out into the open air.

The buzz hit quickly, a soft warmth unfurling in her limbs. She leaned back against the window frame, her guitar resting comfortably on her lap as she started to strum.

The notes came easily, her fingers gliding over the strings as she played whatever came to mind. A soft, haunting melody took shape. She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, the lyrics spilling from her lips like they were meant for the quiet night.

Spent my days with a woman unkind, smoked my stuff and drank all my wine

The joint hung from her lips as she sang, her voice airy and unpolished, but easy.

Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart 

She was so lost in the song, the feel of the strings beneath her fingers, that she didn’t hear the door open.

Harry stepped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. He paused, his eyes catching on the scene in front of him—the open window, YN perched on the sill with her guitar, the smoke from the joint curling lazily in the dim light.

She didn’t notice him at first, too wrapped up in the song. Her voice was soft and raw, carrying just enough emotion to make the lyrics hit harder than they should have.

Harry stayed where he was, leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed as he listened. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t announce himself right away. Maybe it was the way she seemed so unguarded, so lost in her own little world. It felt wrong to interrupt.

Her fingers lingered on the last note of the song, letting it fade softly into the warm night air. She leaned her head back against the window frame, the faint hum of the guitar strings still vibrating against her skin.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the distant buzz of traffic outside. She thought she was alone—until a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Her head snapped up to see Harry stepping closer, his strides slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or crack one of his usual jokes. He just moved, quiet and assured, until he stopped by the desk next to the window.

He sank into the chair with a soft creak, still close enough that YN could feel the heat of his presence.

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t acknowledge him outright. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced at him briefly, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second before returning to the guitar in her lap. Her fingers idly plucked at the strings, pulling out a soft, wandering melody—not another song, just sound to fill the silence.

Harry stayed quiet, leaning back in the chair as his gaze followed the slow, practiced movements of her hands.

When she paused, fingers hovering over the frets, the faint smell of smoke still curling in the air, Harry’s attention shifted.

Without a word, he reached for the joint resting between her fingers near the neck of the guitar. His movements were smooth, casual, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

YN didn’t stop him, but her lips parted slightly in surprise, her pulse quickening as his hand brushed against hers.

He brought it to his lips, the faint ember at the tip flaring as he inhaled. The smoke curled lazily between them, filling the small space with a warmth that felt heavier than the summer air outside.

She watched him, her fingers still resting lightly on the strings, the unfinished melody hanging between them.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking back to hers as the smoke dissipated into the room. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something else. Something charged, like the tension from the last few days had found a new way to manifest itself.

YN finally broke the silence, her voice low and rough. “Didn’t realize you smoked.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t give anything away. “Didn’t realize you played Zeppelin.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching as she fought the urge to smile back.

“Don’t stop playing,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head toward the window.

YN hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on him before she shifted the guitar back into place.

She didn’t play for him. Not really. But as the quiet notes filled the room again, she couldn’t help but notice how close he was, how the faint smell of smoke and something distinctly Harry seemed to blur the edges of everything else.

The melody was unmistakable, a classic she knew by heart. Slow, deliberate, and wordless, the tune drifted into the still night air. She tilted slightly, fingers brushing over the strings with a lightness that made it feel effortless.

Harry stayed in the chair by the desk, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence but far enough that he seemed content to linger in the space between them.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt.

His eyes flickered between her and the view outside, where the skyline blinked faintly in the distance. He seemed lost in thought, the faint haze of smoke from the joint twisting lazily around him.

The rhythm of her playing was slow, hypnotic, like it had seeped straight from her fingertips into the quiet air. She didn’t look at him directly, but she could feel his attention, even when it wasn’t on her.

When the joint burned low between his fingers, Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he turned toward her. He lifted it to her lips, careful not to disrupt her playing, his movements casual but precise.

YN paused for just a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the gesture, but she let it happen. Her lips closed around it, inhaling deeply as her fingers continued their soft rhythm across the strings.

He stayed there for a moment, watching her before leaning back in the chair and taking the joint back between his own lips.

The smoke lingered between them, faint and warm, curling like an unspoken connection.

The song continued—soft, wistful, and unhurried. Her focus shifted to the melody, letting it guide her as Harry flicked his gaze between her hands, her face, and the view beyond the window.

Every so often, he’d lean forward again, passing the joint to her silently, his movements slow and unhurried. It felt strangely intimate, the quiet exchange, the way their hands brushed in the dim light.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not with tension. It felt… deliberate.

When YN finally let the last note of the song fade into the air, her hands stilled on the guitar.

He didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back in the chair, the joint burning low between his fingers as his gaze lingered on her for just a moment too long.

“You should do that more often,” he said softly, his voice rough around the edges.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Play Floyd?”

“Play anything,” he replied, taking one last drag before stubbing the joint out on the edge of the ashtray she’d left by the window. “Or keep me guessing.”

YN shifted the guitar off her lap, leaning it gently against the window sill. She crossed her arms, the soft night air brushing against her bare legs as she glanced at Harry. “It’s my job to play for you, Harry.”

His head tipped slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he considered her. “That why y’were playing now?”

She scoffed, leaning her shoulder against the window frame. “No. But it’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To play what you want to hear. To make your shows sound good.”

Harry didn’t react immediately. He stayed leaned back in the chair, the now-extinguished joint resting in the ashtray beside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost lazy.

“You think that’s all you’re here for?”

“That’s what it feels like sometimes,” she muttered, her words laced with the kind of honesty she didn’t usually let herself share. “You’ve got everything planned, Harry. The look, the sound, the crowd. You don’t need me.”

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “If I didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here.”

YN frowned, tilting her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Like I’m just another piece of the machine?”

Harry leaned forward then, his elbows resting on his knees as he met her gaze. The air between them felt heavier now, his next words slow and pointed. “You’re not just a piece. And you know it.”

For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She hated the way her pulse quickened under his stare, the way his voice—low and rough—seemed to wrap around her like smoke.

She turned her head slightly, looking out at the view instead of him. “You don’t act like it,” she mumbled.

He let out a low laugh, though there was no humor in it. “And how do I act, YN? Enlighten me.”

She hesitated, then turned back to face him, her arms still crossed over her chest. “You act like I’m just… there. Like you can turn me on and off when it suits you. Like I don’t matter unless I’m standing on stage next to you.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering from hers. “That’s not true.”

It was.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence that followed felt like it stretched forever. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the chair as Harry shifted his weight.

“You think I don’t notice you?” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Harry stood then, closing the distance between them in just a stride. He stopped just shy of the window, leaning one hand against the frame as he looked at her.

“You think I don’t notice you,” he repeated, his voice steady, almost accusing. “Every time you play, every time you step on that stage. Every time you look at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m about to push you away again.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You don’t notice anything,” she said, though the words came out weaker than she intended.

His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes. “I notice everything,” he countered softly.

Her breath hitched, and she hated the way it made her feel like she was on uneven ground. “Then why do you act like this? Why do you make it so hard?”

“Because y’make it hard,” he shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You shut me out before I even get the chance to try.”

YN laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound. “You’ve never tried, Harry.”

“And you’ve never let me.” he said, the words falling between them like a challenge.

The weight of his stare was suffocating, and for a moment, YN didn’t know what to say. She could feel the tension crackling between them, thicker now, more volatile.

“Bullshit.” She turned back to the window, her voice softer when she spoke again. “This is pointless.”

Harry didn’t move, his hand still resting on the window frame as his eyes lingered on her.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words hang in the air as the night wrapped around them. Neither of them said anything else, but the silence spoke louder than anything they could’ve said.

The morning came earlier than YN wanted it to. She’d barely slept, the weight of the night before hanging over her like a low fog.

The room was quiet when she woke, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the stillness. Harry’s side of the room was empty, the crumpled blanket on the sofa the only sign he’d stayed at all.

YN sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes as the memory of their conversation came rushing back. She didn’t know if she regretted it—what they’d said, what they hadn’t said—but she knew it had left her chest feeling heavier than it had in weeks.

She glanced at the clock. They had a longer rehearsal today, prepping for the Ryman show tomorrow. If she didn’t hurry, she’d risk being late.

With a groan, she threw off the covers and got ready, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing her guitar into its case and heading out the door.

The venue was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. The crew was setting up the stage, the hum of amps and feedback filling the auditorium as the band trickled in one by one. Mitch and Sarah were already there, chatting quietly by the drum kit, while Harry stood near the mic stand, flipping through a setlist with their tour manager.

YN felt his presence before she saw him, the memory of his words from the night before still fresh in her mind.

Maybe. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to push the thought aside as she made her way to her usual spot on the stage.

“Morning,” Mitch gave her a small smile.

“Morning,” she replied, setting her guitar case down and pulling out the instrument.

Harry didn’t say anything as she arrived, but she could feel his gaze flicker toward her for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to the stage manager.

Rehearsal started slow.

The band worked their way through the setlist, adjusting transitions, tightening harmonies, and fine-tuning every detail until the songs sounded like they could fill the Ryman’s historic walls without effort.

YN tried to focus, but it was harder than usual. Harry’s voice was everywhere—smooth and commanding, sharp and playful, depending on the song. His presence filled the room, making it impossible to ignore him no matter how much she tried.

But he didn’t speak to her directly. Not once.

It was infuriating, the way he could act like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t spent the night before saying things that neither of them had the courage to finish.

The longer the rehearsal went, the more it started to gnaw at her. By the time they reached Ever Since New York, her patience was wearing thin.

“Hold on,” Harry said, waving a hand as the band finished the first chorus. He turned to Mitch. “That transition’s still too rushed. Can we stretch it out a little more?”

Mitch nodded, already adjusting his guitar.

She sighed quietly, her fingers hovering over the frets as she tried not to let her irritation show.

“Something wrong?” He asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade.

Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing at him. “No.”

“Sure about that?” he asked, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

She stared at him for a moment, her chest tightening with frustration. “Just play the song, Harry.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. Again.”

By the time rehearsal wrapped, YN was drained. Her fingers ached from hours of playing, and her chest felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

As the crew began packing up, she slung her guitar over her shoulder and made her way toward the back of the stage, desperate for a moment alone.

But before she could disappear, Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey! YN.”

Her grip on her guitar strap tightened as she turned to face him, the tension between them sharp enough to cut. He was standing near the edge of the stage, his expression carefully unreadable, though his shoulders were tense. “What?” she asked, her voice curt, already bracing herself.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over her like he was trying to figure out how to start. “About last night.”

Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t wanted to think about last night—how raw it had felt, how vulnerable she’d let herself be for even a second. She’d been trying to shove it to the back of her mind all day. “What about it?” she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for softness.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but it still held an edge. “You meant what y’said, didn’t you?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t notice you,” he mumbled, his words more a statement than a question.

Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep her expression steady. “I don’t know why you care.”

“Because I do,” he shot back, his voice sharpening, though he still kept it low enough that no one else could hear. “And don’t act like you don’t, either.”

Her chest tightened at the accusation, but she refused to let it show. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she said coldly, crossing her arms.

His jaw ticked, and he took a small step closer. “You think this is easy? Working with you? Being around you?”

She scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. “Right. Because you’re so perfect to deal with, Harry.”

His eyes narrowed, the frustration clear now. “You act like I don’t care, but you’re the one who’s been pushing me out since the start.”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else flaring in her chest. “Because you make it impossible,” she snapped, a whisper. “You walk around like the world revolves around you, and you expect everyone to just fall in line.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, YN,” he said, his voice sharp, almost defensive. “Except maybe to stop pretending like none of this matters to you.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Harry paused, his voice quieter now but no less intense, “you’ve made it pretty damn clear you’d rather be anywhere else than here—with me, with this band. So don’t act like I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit.”

YN stared at him, her chest heaving, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to throw something at him, wanted to shout, but the anger in her throat felt too tangled with something else—something raw and uncertain.

Before she could think of a response, Harry shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “Forget it,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

He stalked off the stage without looking back, his steps echoing in the empty auditorium.

YN stayed frozen where she was, her pulse pounding in her ears as his words replayed over and over again in her mind.

You’ve made it pretty damn clear you’d rather be anywhere else than here.

She hated that he was wrong.

And she hated even more that he wasn’t entirely right.

The 25th came fast, bringing with it the weight of a sold-out show at the Ryman Auditorium. YN felt it the moment she woke up—the low hum of tension in her chest, the kind that came from knowing she was about to step onto one of the most iconic stages in music history.

She moved through the day on autopilot, her interactions with the crew and band kept short and polite. She didn’t have it in her to do more, not after yesterday’s rehearsal, not after the argument with Harry that still lingered like a bruise.

By the time the sun dipped low over Nashville, casting long shadows across the city, the energy backstage was crackling with anticipation.

The band gathered in the wings as the crew finished final checks. She adjusted the strap of her guitar, her fingers tightening and loosening around the neck in a rhythm she didn’t realize she was keeping.

Harry stood a few feet away, his presence as inescapable as ever. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit with just enough sparkle to catch the light, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was tousled in that perfectly imperfect way that she hated to admit suited him.

He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. Not directly. And she hadn’t gone out of her way to fix that.

“Alright, everyone ready?” the stage manager called, clipboard in hand.

The band nodded, one by one. Harry turned to them, his usual grin firmly in place, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes when his gaze landed on YN.

“All good?” he asked, his tone light but pointed, like he was challenging her.

She held his stare, refusing to let him see the nerves twisting in her chest. “Good.”

Harry’s smirk softened, but he didn’t push it. “Let’s do this, then,” he said, turning back toward the stage as the house lights dimmed.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that hit YN square in the chest as they stepped onto the stage.

The show opened strong, the band locking into the rhythm like clockwork. The crowd was electric, their cheers and screams filling every corner of the Ryman as Harry worked the stage, his voice weaving effortlessly through the music.

She focused on her playing, her fingers moving over the strings with practiced precision. She kept her eyes on the crowd, on Mitch, on the neck of her guitar—anywhere but Harry.

But it didn’t matter. She could feel him, his presence pulling at her like a tide no matter how hard she tried to resist.

It was during Woman that the tension finally cracked.

The song had always been a crowd favorite, its sultry rhythm and teasing lyrics sending the audience into a frenzy. Tonight was no different.

Harry prowled the stage, the mic in one hand, his free hand gesturing to the crowd as they screamed the words back to him.

And then, without warning, his gaze found hers.

YN’s fingers faltered for the briefest moment, the wrong note slipping out before she corrected herself.

He smirked, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He sang the chorus, his voice low and taunting as he turned to her fully, his body angled toward her now.

The crowd screamed, but they didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp and unrelenting.

Her chest tightened, but she refused to look away. Instead, she matched his intensity with her playing, her fingers flying over the strings like she could drown him out with sheer force.

The song ended in a crescendo, the applause erupting like thunder. Harry grinned at the crowd, blowing kisses into the sea of adoring faces, but when he turned back to the band, his smirk softened into something more subtle.

YN ignored him, focusing instead on retuning her guitar for the next song. But her hands were trembling slightly, and she hated herself for it.

The rest of the show passed in a blur of music and adrenaline.

By the time they reached the encore, she felt both exhausted and wired, her body caught in that strange limbo that came after hours on stage.

She risked a glance at Harry, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in his expression that mirrored her own—a kind of quiet exhaustion, tinged with something unspoken.

But then he turned back to the crowd, his charm cranked up to full volume as he thanked them, his voice ringing out like a promise. “Goodnight, Nashville,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. “You’ve been incredible.”

The applause was deafening, the crowd chanting his name as the band took their final bow.

Backstage crew members moved in every direction, packing up equipment and shouting over the noise. The band had scattered, Mitch and Sarah disappearing into their dressing rooms while Harry lingered by the door, chatting with a few industry types who’d come to the show.

YN slipped past the commotion, her guitar case slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the dressing room she was sharing with Mitch.

But before she could reach the door, Harry’s voice stopped her.

She froze, her grip tightening on the strap of her guitar. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral.

Harry was leaning against the wall, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He looked tired but satisfied, his usual post-show glow dimmed by something quieter.

“Good show tonight,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than his words.

YN raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk returning. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning back toward her dressing room. “Look in the mirror, Harry.” She didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back as she pushed open the door and let it close behind her.

September 26th, Chicago Theatre

Chicago was cold, a brisk wind biting at the edges of everything, but the theater itself felt electric. The second show on this leg of the tour, and the crowd roared louder than even the Nashville audience had. YN had expected it—Chicago fans had a reputation—but it still sent a jolt through her chest every time the applause hit.

She’d kept her head down all day, avoiding Harry as much as possible after the tension-filled Ryman show. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk to her either, which suited her just fine. The dynamic between them was still strained, but now it felt heavier, sharper, like a spring wound too tight.

On stage that night, they were professional, seamless even. The music flowed like second nature, and the crowd ate up every word Harry sang, every note the band played.

But Harry’s energy was different.

He stalked the stage like he had something to prove, his voice sharper, his movements purposeful. Every so often, his gaze would flicker toward her, his eyes dark under the stage lights, and her fingers would stumble, just for a second.

She hated that he could still affect her like that. Hated that her pulse quickened every time he looked at her like he was daring her to break.

When the show ended, she slipped out of the backstage chaos as quickly as she could, retreating to her dressing room before Harry could find her.

But she couldn’t escape the feeling that their fight wasn’t just simmering—it was boiling over, and it was only a matter of time before it all spilled out.

September 27th, New York City Music Hall

New York felt different, brighter somehow. The Music Hall was massive, its gold interiors glinting under the lights, the kind of place that made you feel like you were a part of something monumental just by standing inside it.

YN was buzzing, but not because of the show. Tonight, she’d finally made good on her promise to get her best friend in with VIP tickets.

Jude had shown up grinning from ear to ear, dragging along another friend, Sage, a boy she knew from a few mutual connections but hadn’t spent much time with. She didn’t mind—Sage was friendly, good-looking in that casual, effortless way, and Jude seemed thrilled to be there.

The show was flawless, a whirlwind of sound and energy that left the crowd screaming for more by the end of the encore. YN felt good, better than she had in days. Maybe it was Jude’s energy, or the thrill of being home in New York, or the fact that she’d managed to avoid Harry’s smirking glances on stage.

The energy backstage was lighter than usual, the post-show adrenaline mingling with the warmth of a half-empty box of beers someone had dragged in from a gas station. YN sat on a crate near the corner of the room, Jude and Sage perched close by, the three of them surrounded by the casual hum of conversation. Mitch was strumming idly on an unplugged guitar, Sarah was laughing with one of the techs, and the crew milled around, taking turns grabbing beers and tossing them to each other.

Harry sprawled in the cheap folding chair like it was a throne. His legs stretched out, boots crossed, beer bottle swaying loose between his fingers. He wore the smug indifference of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, from the sweat-mussed hair to the open collar of his shirt. A rock god slumming it in a room full of mortals.

Jude, of course, was eating it up, no matter how hard she tried not to. Her eyes kept drifting back, quick flickers like a moth circling a flame. YN could see the effort it took for her friend to focus on Sage, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, leaning just a bit too close. But the second Harry glanced their way, Jude’s attention snapped to him like a compass needle finding north.

“This is VIP treatment?” Sage asked, flashing one of his trademark grins. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his bottle raised like a toast.

Jude latched onto the question, grateful for the distraction. “Welcome to the glamorous life of rock and roll,” she quipped, sweeping a hand around the dingy green room. Half-eaten takeout boxes, a broken amp shoved in the corner, and a stack of mismatched chairs that looked like they’d collapse if you breathed wrong.

“I’m not complaining,” Sage said, his smile lingering, his tone dipping lower. “Not if it means I get to see you.”

The words hung in the air just a second too long.

YN felt the heat crawl up her neck before she even realized it. She took a long sip of her beer, keeping her face neutral, trying to ignore the heavy stare boring into the side of her head. She didn’t have to look to know Harry was watching. She could feel it.

“Careful,” Harry drawled, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, lazy, but there was an edge to it. “Say something like that, and you might get her hopes up.”

Sage blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh, brushing it off. “I think she can handle it.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said, leaning back further in his chair. He swirled the beer bottle idly, staring into the amber liquid like it held secrets. “Just don’t trip over yourself trying too hard. You’d hate to embarrass yourself in front of the talent.”

Jude stiffened beside YN. Sage’s easy smile faltered, but he recovered fast, glancing at YN with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Speaking of talent, you were incredible out there,” he said, his voice softer, directed at her now. “That solo in Woman? Gave me chills.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it.

“Yeah, chills,” he echoed, not looking up from his bottle. “Or was it the AC in the venue finally kicking in? Hard to tell.”

Sage chuckled, but it was tight. Forced. “I meant it,” he said, still talking to YN. “You’ve got something special. You know that, right?”

Harry made a sound low in his throat, almost a laugh. Not quite. “Special,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it bitter. “Special enough t’get you a free beer and a backstage pass. Quite the honor.”

Sage turned to him now, his posture shifting, more squared. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry’s eyes finally lifted, locking onto Sage with a lazy sort of intensity. “No?”

The word hung there, sharp and cold, daring Sage to keep going.

YN set her bottle down harder than she meant to, the dull thunk slicing through the thick air. “Harry.”

“What?” he said, the picture of innocence, except for the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Her jaw tightened. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, playing dumb. “Outside?”

“Mm-hm.”She hummed sharply, pushing herself to her feet. “Now.”

He took his time standing, unfolding himself from the chair with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that made every second stretch out like taffy. His boots scraped against the floor as he stood, towering over her but pretending not to notice. “You sure y’don’t want to hash this out here? We’ve got an audience and everything. Could be fun.”

“Outside,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

Harry chuckled, low and infuriating. “Alright,” he said, gesturing toward the door like he was humoring her. “Lead the way.”

As she brushed past him, she caught a glimpse of Jude, wide-eyed and silent, clutching her bottle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Sage sat back, his jaw tight, his smile long gone.

Behind her, Harry followed, his footsteps slow and heavy, like he wanted her to know he wasn’t in any hurry. And as they stepped out into the cold, stale air of the hallway, she could still hear his laugh echoing softly, more to himself than anyone else.

That laugh made her want to scream.

The alley behind the Music Hall was quiet, the distant hum of city traffic echoing off the brick walls. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the backstage room. “What the hell was that?” she asked, spinning around to face him.

He took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes steady on hers. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, her arms crossing over her chest. “All the comments. The interruptions. What’s your problem?”

Harry leaned against the wall, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. “No problem,” he said lightly. “Just thought I’d keep the conversation interesting.”

“Interesting?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You were being a dick, Harry.”

His smile faded slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Maybe I don’t like watching some guy who barely knows you act like he’s been waiting his whole life to kiss your ass.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his words. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

She stared at him, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and something she didn’t want to name. “Why do you even care?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of space between them. His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. “I dunno.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “That’s not an answer.”

“S’the only one you’re getting.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them thick and crackling like static electricity.

She finally broke the silence, her voice quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry. Not after everything.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then he took a step back, his smile returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Noted,” he said simply, turning toward the door.

She watched him go, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with anger—and something else she didn’t want to name.

She stayed in the alley long after Harry disappeared back inside. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven as she tried to process the exchange.

The words echoed in her mind, a sharp contrast to the smirk he’d worn when he walked away. She hated how he could get under her skin so easily, how his presence seemed to shift the air around her, how her anger at him never felt simple.

She leaned back against the cool brick wall, tilting her head up toward the night sky. The distant hum of traffic was a low comfort, a reminder of how big the world was outside of the theater, outside of him.

You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry.

But he had, and he would again. That much she was sure of.

Harry didn’t stay backstage for long. When he stepped back into the room, the energy was lighter without her there. Jude and Sage had moved on to laughing about something Mitch was saying, their voices rising over the clinking of bottles. Harry slipped past them with a nod, setting his empty beer bottle on the edge of a table.

“I’m heading out,” he said, his voice easy, casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Mitch looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

No one questioned him further. Harry had a way of ending conversations before they started, and tonight was no different.

YN finally pushed herself off the wall, shaking off the lingering tension as best she could. The night air had cooled her temper slightly, though the weight of her frustration still hung in her chest.

When she stepped back inside, the room felt just as loud as before, though the dynamic had shifted.

Jude waved her over immediately, her grin as bright as ever. “Hey! You okay?”

“Fine.”YN said, her voice clipped. She didn’t want to talk about what happened. Not now, not ever. “Where’s Harry?”

“Left a few minutes ago,” Mitch shrugged, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar he’d picked back up. “Said he was tired.”

YN’s stomach twisted, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“Good,” she muttered, grabbing a fresh beer from the nearly empty box. She twisted off the cap and took a long sip, letting the bitter taste settle her nerves.

Sage caught her eye, his grin still intact. “You alright?” he asked, leaning closer.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply, the edge in her voice enough to make him hold up his hands in surrender.

Jude gave her a look—something between concern and curiosity—but didn’t press further.

She leaned against the table, tuning out the chatter as the night dragged on. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, the memory of Harry’s words—and the look in his eyes when he said them—refused to leave her alone.

The night dissolved into a blur of laughter, music, and the bitter taste of cheap beer. YN had let herself go too far, her usual restraint eroded by the buzz in her veins and the way Sage kept leaning closer, his voice soft and insistent in her ear. She didn’t even remember how the drinks had piled up so quickly, only that by the time Mitch and Sarah coaxed her into leaving, the room was spinning, and her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

Her friends had already left, a whirlwind of hugs and goodbyes as they promised to text when they made it back to campus. She barely remembered waving them off. Her focus had narrowed to just putting one foot in front of the other, the alcohol turning everything fuzzy around the edges.

Mitch had one of her arms draped over his shoulder, Sarah steadying her other side as they guided her into the hotel.

“You’ve got to start drinking water at some point,” Mitch said, his tone amused but laced with concern.

“Water’s overrated,” YN mumbled, her voice slurred but determined.

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to your liver.”

They maneuvered her into the elevator, Sarah punching the button for their floor. The quiet hum of the ride did little to settle the nausea building in YN’s stomach.

“Alright, this is us,” Mitch said when the doors opened on their floor. He adjusted his grip on her arm, but she shook her head, pulling away clumsily.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she insisted, stumbling forward and catching herself on the elevator wall.

“You sure?” Sarah asked, eyebrows raised.

“Totally,” YN smiled, swaying slightly as she gave them a thumbs-up.

Mitch exchanged a look with Sarah, then sighed. “Okay, but if you fall over in the hallway, we’re not coming back down.”

“Love you guys,” She gave lopsided grin, blowing a haphazard kiss in their direction.

The walk to her room felt impossibly long. Her footsteps were uneven, and she clutched the wall for balance, the plush carpet doing little to steady her spinning head.

When she finally reached her door, she fumbled with the keycard, her hands clumsy and uncooperative. After several failed attempts, she groaned, leaning her forehead against the door in frustration.

But then her gaze shifted, and she realized something.

This wasn’t her room.

The gold numbers on the door were too low—she was on the wrong floor.

Harry’s room.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, like she was trying to wade through molasses, but one thing became clear—she didn’t want to go back and figure it out. Not tonight.

Her fist hovered over the door for a moment, hesitation flickering in the back of her mind. She could just go back to the elevator, figure out her room, and collapse in her own bed.

But the alcohol dulled her better judgment, and she knocked before she could stop herself.

The door opened after a beat, and there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, barefoot, loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy, like he’d been lying down, and his eyes flicked over her with a mix of confusion and concern.

“YN?” His voice was low and rough with sleep.

“Hi.” She smiled, the word slurred and uneven.

He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. “You’re drunk.”

She hummed, nodding her head and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Dunno,” she pouted, blinking up at him. “I was trying to find my room, but…” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.

He sighed, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Come in before someone calls security.”

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. She stumbled inside, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto the armchair by the window.

Harry shut the door, leaning against it for a moment as he watched her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” she mumbled, closing her eyes as the room spun around her.

“You do this often?” he asked dryly. “Stumbling drunk into the wrong room?”

“Not wrong,” she muttered, wagging a finger at him as she half-heartedly reached for the bottle of water on the table next to her. “I knew where I was going.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you did.”

She squinted at him, her lips twitching like she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re awfully judgy for a guy wearing sweatpants with wine stains on them.”

Harry glanced down, frowning faintly at the faint red blotch near his knee. “It’s not wine,” he muttered.

“Oh, I see,” She smirking as she leaned back in the chair. “Fancy rock star can’t even handle his grape juice.”

“That’s rich,” he shot back, his tone calm but pointed. “Coming from someone who can’t even find her own room.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her expression softened into something quieter as the room fell silent. The edges of her bravado dulled under the weight of the alcohol and exhaustion, and she ran a hand through her hair as her voice dropped.

“Why were you so mean to me?”

Harry stilled, the teasing edge slipping from his face.

“When?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“From the start,” she frowned, her words slurred but steady enough to cut. “You act like you don’t give a shit about me one minute, and then you—” She broke off, gesturing vaguely. “And then you pull this ‘I notice everything’ bullshit.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and moved toward her slowly, his footsteps soft against the carpet.

“You should drink that,” he breathed, gesturing to the water bottle still sitting untouched on the table.

YN blinked at him, her frustration flaring again. “Don’t change the subject, Harry.”

“I’m not,” he said evenly, crouching down in front of her. His eyes met hers, steady but guarded, and he grabbed the water bottle, holding it out. “Drink.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her chest tight. “You’re annoying,” she muttered, taking the bottle from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with the faintest hint of amusement.

She took a few sips, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her empty stomach. Her head swam, the alcohol making her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

Harry stood, watching her carefully. “Come on.” He whispered after a moment, holding out his hand.

She frowned, looking at it suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you into bed,” he said simply, his voice calm as he wriggled his fingers.

“I’m fine here,” she mumbled, slouching further into the chair.

“You’re not sleeping in a chair, YN.” He sighed, his tone firmer now. “Come on.”

With a groan, she let him pull her to her feet, though her legs buckled almost immediately.

He caught her around the waist, shaking his head. “I’m fine.” He mocked breathily, a faint smile tugging on his lips, but he stifled it.

He guided her to the bed, steadying her as she sat down heavily on the edge. She looked up at him, her expression softer now, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of her frustration.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry leaned down ever so slightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, thumbing away some of the mascara that smudged her cheeks. “Get some sleep, YN.”

“You’re deflecting,” she pouted, though her voice was fading, her head already sinking toward the pillow.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket over her as she curled onto her side.

“Goodnight.” he said, his voice low and unreadable. Silence. He frowned, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, although he knew she didn’t hear him. 

-

The tour bus hummed steadily as it sped toward Boston, the headlights slicing through the dark. It was well past midnight, and the world outside the window was nothing but a blur of shadows and the occasional glimmer of a passing car.

Everyone else was tucked away in their bunks, lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the bus. The only sounds were the low murmur of the engine and the soft, absentminded strumming of an acoustic guitar.

YN sat curled up in the corner by the window, Mitch’s guitar resting on her lap. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, coaxing out a quiet, meandering tune—nothing specific, just something to keep her hands busy. She stared out at the dark highway, the faint glow of her reflection in the glass blending with the streaks of passing lights.

Across the room, Harry sat at the small table, his laptop open in front of him. His shorts were bright pink, shirt faded and worn, hair messy and falling into his eyes. His fingers tapped softly on the keys, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his rings.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt like it had been stretched thin, like something fragile that might break if either of them pressed too hard.

She plucked a few more strings, then let the sound fade, her gaze flicking briefly toward Harry. “You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, her voice soft but not without its usual bite.

He didn’t look up, his fingers still moving across the keyboard. “Not much.” he replied evenly.

“What are you even working on?” she murmured, shifting slightly in her seat to get a better view.

“Emails,” he breathed, glancing at her briefly before turning back to the screen. “Tour stuff.”

YN smiled faintly, her fingers returning to the guitar. “Rock star by day, admin assistant by night?”

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She let out a low hum, her fingers drifting into a soft riff, the notes barely audible over the hum of the bus.

“Is that Mitch’s?” Harry asked after a moment, nodding toward the guitar.

“Yeah.” She brushed her thumb lightly over the strings. “He left it out earlier. Figured he wouldn’t mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, pushing the laptop back slightly. “He doesn’t. Just doesn’t usually let anyone play it.”

YN raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You saying I’m special?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, finally meeting her gaze. “Hardly.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small, reluctant smile. “You’re such an ass.”

“Look in a mirror.” He smiled, echoing her words from days before, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

For a while, the silence returned, but it felt slightly less brittle this time. YN continued strumming, the quiet notes blending with the steady rhythm of the bus.

“You’re good.” Harry said eventually, his voice softer now. 

YN looked at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, leaning back again. “Just noticing, petal.”

Her chest tightened at the word, but she quickly shoved the feeling aside, focusing on the guitar.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” She shrugged, her tone casual but laced with a challenge.

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a brief moment, the tension between them eased.

But then her fingers stilled on the strings, her gaze drifting back to the window. The reflection of the two of them in the glass felt surreal, like something out of a dream she wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from.

“Why were you up last night?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Harry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something more guarded. “Didn’t feel like sleeping,”

“That’s not what I meant,” she countered, turning to face him fully. “You didn’t have to let me in. Could’ve just shut the door and gone back to bed.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered to her hands, still resting lightly on the guitar, before meeting her eyes again. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.”

YN’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers brushing over the strings again. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know.” he said simply.

The quiet between them stretched, heavy and filled with things neither of them seemed willing to say.

YN strummed a few more notes, her movements slower now, more deliberate. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting.

“Go to bed, Harry,” she sighed eventually, her voice soft but firm.

“Not tired, YN.” There was no edge to the words.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the window as her fingers stilled on the guitar. “You will be tomorrow.”

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

She glanced at him, her chest tightening at the faint smile playing on his lips. She wanted to say something, wanted to break the strange tension hanging between them, but the words caught in her throat.

So she said nothing, letting the silence settle again as the bus rumbled on through the night.

September 30th, Boston

The air backstage at the Wang Theatre was thick with anticipation. YN sat in the corner of the green room, tuning her guitar for the third time in as many minutes. The hum of the crew preparing for the night buzzed through the walls, but her focus was pinned to the task in her hands. She needed something to do, anything to keep her from replaying the last few nights over and over in her head.

She tightened a string a little too hard, the sharp twang making her wince.

“You alright over there?” Mitch asked, glancing up from where he was adjusting his pedalboard.

“Fine,” she muttered, not looking up.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry glance her way, his expression unreadable. She forced herself to keep her focus on the guitar.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into cheers, YN was itching to get the show over with. The theatre was packed, the historic venue alive with energy, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.

The first few songs went smoothly enough, the band locking into their usual rhythm. Harry prowled the stage like he owned it—because he did—and the crowd hung on his every move.

But by the time they hit Woman, things began to unravel.

It started small. A glance. A smirk.

Harry turned toward her as he sang, his voice dipping into the lyric like he was saying it directly to her.

The crowd screamed, oblivious to the sharp edge in his gaze. YN’s fingers faltered on the strings for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.

Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his smirk deepened, daring her to react.

She refused to give him the satisfaction, pouring her frustration into her playing as the song built to its climax.

After the final note, the applause was deafening, the crowd on their feet as Harry grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned to the audience, shouting his thanks into the mic, but YN didn’t hear a word.

She slipped offstage the second the lights dimmed, her guitar slung over her shoulder as she headed toward the green room. Her chest was tight, her pulse racing, and she needed a minute to cool down before she said something she’d regret.

But she didn’t get far.

“YN!”

Harry’s voice cut through the noise backstage, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her hands tightening on her guitar strap.

She turned slowly, her jaw clenched as she met his gaze. “What?”

Harry jogged the last few steps to catch up with her, his sequined jacket glittering under the faint overhead lights. “What the hell was that?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“On stage,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “You were off.”

“I wasn’t off,” she shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You missed a note in Woman,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I heard it.”

YN’s jaw tightened, and she took a step closer, her voice dropping to match his. “Maybe if you stopped staring me down like a lunatic during every damn song, I wouldn’t miss anything.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. “You think that’s why?”

“Don’t start with me, Harry,” she warned, her hands gripping the strap of her guitar so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one starting something, YN. You’ve been looking for a fight all night.”

“Oh, I’m looking for a fight?” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “That’s rich coming from the guy who can’t seem to decide whether he wants to piss me off or…”

She stopped herself just in time, the words catching in her throat.

Harry tilted his head, his gaze flicking over her face as a faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Or what?”

YN glared at him, her chest heaving as she struggled to keep her composure. “Forget it.” She spat, turning on her heel and heading for the green room.

Harry didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her back, heavy and unrelenting, as she disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the green room, she slumped into a chair, her guitar resting against the wall beside her. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as the adrenaline from the stage finally began to fade.

She didn’t know what pissed her off more—Harry’s constant needling, or the fact that he was right.

She’d been off tonight.

But only because of him.

-

The tour bus rumbled down the highway, the lights of Boston fading far behind them as the road stretched dark and endless ahead. The show at the Wang  was barely two hours in the past, but it already felt like a weight YN couldn’t shake.

She sat in her bunk with the curtain pulled tightly shut, her knees tucked up to her chest and her notebook balanced precariously against them. Her pen hovered over the blank page, unmoving. She had opened it in an attempt to write something—anything—to push the tension out of her head, but her mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, it replayed the night in an endless loop: Harry’s sharp words backstage, the way his smirk twisted into something darker, the challenge in his eyes daring her to finish what she hadn’t meant to say.

Her chest tightened at the memory. She’d spent the rest of the night avoiding him—on stage, backstage, and now on the bus.

The thin curtain separating her from the rest of the bus didn’t do much to block out the low hum of conversation from the main area. Harry’s voice rose and fell in rhythm with Sarah’s and Mitch’s, casual and unbothered. He laughed at something Mitch said, the sound low and easy, and it made YN’s stomach twist.

How is he so unaffected?

Hours later, the bus quieted as everyone began retreating to their bunks. The lights dimmed, and the gentle sway of the vehicle as it sped down the highway turned the space into a cradle of silence.

Everyone except YN and Harry seemed to have no trouble falling asleep.

She could feel his presence even though they weren’t in the same part of the bus. He was out there, probably stretched out in one of the seats, scrolling on his phone or reading something. She hated that she knew his habits, hated that she’d memorized the way he fidgeted when he was restless, or the sound of his quiet sigh when he gave up on trying to distract himself.

She hated, most of all, that she cared.

She finally slid out of her bunk, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet as she padded toward the kitchenette. The small fridge buzzed faintly as she pulled it open, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter.

She tried to focus on the cold press of the bottle against her palm, the faint vibration of the road beneath her feet—anything but the sound of movement behind her.

Harry stepped into the kitchenette without looking at her. He opened one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of tea bags and tossing one onto the counter before reaching for the electric kettle.

YN didn’t say a word. She twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, staring at the far wall as if it held the answer to whatever storm was brewing in her chest.

Harry didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled the kettle, set it on the counter, and leaned back against the opposite side of the small space, his arms crossing over his chest.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

YN turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She froze, her back still to him.

“Not a bad thing,” he added casually. “Just different.”

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, her jaw clenching as she turned her head slightly. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Harry let out a soft hum, not quite a laugh. “How long will that last?”

Her chest tightened as she walked away, slipping back into her bunk and yanking the curtain shut behind her. She sat in the dark, the sound of the kettle clicking off faint in the distance.

She hadn’t seen his face, but she knew he’d been smirking. She could feel it in the way his words lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

And despite herself, she hated that it still mattered.

October 1st, Washington, D.C.

DAR Hall was completely sold out, shoulder to shoulder, elbow into ribs. 

Clips from the show in Boston, among other shows, started to surface online with whispers and reposts. It was only a matter of time, the crowd wasn’t stupid—the tension between the two was obvious, it was just a matter of deciphering if it was real or not. 

The consensus seemed to be split down the middle—they hated each other’s guts, or they were fucking behind closed doors. 

YN wasn’t sure if Harry saw it, but she sure did. Her younger brother had texted her about it first, a series of spam texts at three in the morning asking for every detail.

She left him on read. 

And now, here they stood in DC, before a sea of fans that seemed like they saw right through them, when YN herself didn’t even know what there was to see. 

Luckily, and unfortunately, there were only a few signs that seemed to be about YN and Harry, no one on stage acknowledged them. 

It was a sort of silent agreement that YN would stick to her one guitar during the entirety of the tour. But, when Mitch went to switch out for the acoustic, Harry had stopped him. 

He pulled his ear piece out slightly, whispering something to the guitarist before stalking towards YN on the wings of the stage. With the ear piece out, he could hear how insanely loud the crowd was—he couldn’t help but send shocked smiles in their direction. 

YN furrowed her eyebrows, her palm lying flat over the strings of the guitar as she pulled on her own ear piece. “What’s going on?” 

He stood near her, his breath peppermint and flat sprite. “Switch out, you’re doing track seven.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning her head in further. 

Track seven on the setlist, meet me in the hallway. “What do you mean? You or Mitch play that.”

He smiled, bunny teeth and dimples. “Now you are.” He nodded toward her, shoving the ear piece back in and ambling back toward the mic that stood center stage. 

She wasn’t nervous, more caught off guard. She knew how to play it, it was just being asked to play it. She pulled the strap from over her shoulders, walking back toward the rest of the band and setting the instrument  in its place. 

Mitch would approach with an easy smile, settling the acoustic strap over her frame while Harry continued to talk to the crowd. He adjusted it to her body, looking over the frets to make sure they were tuned for the song—they were. “You know it?” 

She rested her fingers on the neck, nodding with a distant smile. “Back of my hand.” She breathed, earning a small nod from the other guitarist. 

Her eyes squinted in the bright lights as she moved toward Harry, his smile still bright—as if nothing had been happening between them at all. He said something into the mic, nothing that resisted to YN—all that made sense was the second glance he sent her, the look to start. 

The fans simmered down, but not silent. She let out a breath, eyes scanning over the crowd then back to Harry. Her pick moved over the chords seamlessly, as if she played it this way for years. 

His hands gripped the mic stand as he echoed out the first lines, his rings glinting in the golden light. His eyebrows would furrow, his lips would widen—he was just music. 

He was an asshole to her, he knew it. He hated it, and she hated how he was completely under her skin, threaded into her veins. 

As they approached the chorus, they looked toward each other, a fleeting sideways glance. He nodded his head down, shifting slightly to the side to make room for her. 

His voice boomed over hers, deeper and more emotional, but they mixed in harmony. Her voice was soft underneath his, lighter, only a backing vocal for the chorus.

The crowd erupted, and some sense settled over YN’s shoulders, the lyrics eerily familiar to them, to their situation. 

Her tummy twisted, yet she played the cords harder, falling into the melody, his words, the reverberation of the crowd. 

Cause once you go without it, nothing else will do. 

nothing else will do.

[fruitsboots]

I'm a nail technician and here's a big list of headcanons about the kinds of clients the TOS Enterprise crew would be!

Kirk:

-shows up on time for appointment but sometimes has to cancel super last minute.

-doesn't bite his nails but picks at them and his cuticles. not enough to bleed or anything but enough that most of his appointment is cuticle work.

- "Cut them short" my guy there's no free edge.

- holds still, uses arm rest appropriately, doesn't stiffen his hands. no polish, just buffed smooth. jokes every time that next time maybe he'll go with a hot pink.

-asks a lot of questions and chats at the beginning of the appointment but ends up getting a little bored by the end.

-always tips very well but doesn't rebook, he'll call you.

Spock:

-doesn't make appointments, just shows up sometimes on slow days and asks to use certain supplies.

-does his own nails and keeps them very nice and neat. nail beds to die for. Nails grow very fast.

-On occasion has been talked into a dark polish and will let someone else do that for him (he's not very good at the application).

-sits a little too stiffly like he's concentrating. speaks when spoken to. doesn't linger long, the smell gives him a headache.

-doesn't tip but you’re not sure if he knows he’s supposed to.

McCoy:

-calls and asks if there’s time for a walk in then shows up later than he tells you but usually has a good excuse.

-Hands are dry as hell from washing them a lot. Worst, driest cuticles. Always gets a split on the edge of his pointer finger.

-Sits too far away from the table, at an angle, hunched, wrists on the armrest and elbows locked. Has to be asked to scoot arms forward a million times.

-Is annoying to work on technically, but fun to chat with. Always turns into a complaint session but in the best way. Wants to know the drama in your life and gives opinions.

- Closes eyes and tries not to doze off during the hand massage. Wipes off all the lotion that he desperately needs.

-Tips alright and always says he’ll come back soon but you know it’ll be another 4 months.

Uhura:

-has a standing appointment every 3 weeks and is never late, sometimes she’ll bring you a drink and apologizes when she doesn’t.

-Did her own nails for a long time and keeps them well manicured between appointments.

-Will (properly!) remove her own gel polish before appointments to save you the trouble.

- Tends to go for lighter, pearlescent shades. Always asks what you have that’s new but then picks one of her go-tos.

- Loves to look at nail art but doesn’t usually get it.

-Super bubbly during appointments, very patient, sits perfectly. Always enthusiastic about the result and gives lots of praise.

-Tips well and takes business cards to give to people.

Chapel:

-Not really supposed to get her nails done but does anyways. Doesn’t have super regular appointments but usually books with Uhura when she does.

-Usually shows up with chipped polish from last time that desperately needed removed 3 weeks ago.

-Gets light/sheer colors.

-Sometimes will book for a gel manicure and then tell you she doesn’t actually want polish this time even tho she needs it. Nice nails beds but they are thin and peel a bit without anything on them.

-Apologizes for no reason multiple times. Thanks you as if it were an inconvenience to do her nails? 

-After a few appointments, she loosens up a bit. Tips decent.

Sulu:

-has gotten his nails done like five times just for fun.

-Keeps them short, not much cuticle work. Why are you here??

- Will get a couple “masculine” designs and isn’t picky about them. “You just do whatever you think will look best :) “

-genuinely fun to have as a client but needs some direction on how to sit etc. can talk about anything.

-Didn’t tip the first time bc he didn’t know and felt bad so he always does, but it’s not much.

Scotty:

-how can one man have so much grease under his nails?

-Has a standing appointment once a month for just a nail trim but should be more like every two weeks.

-Asks questions about nail equipment (UV lamp, e-file, etc).

-Talks a bit during the appointment and then stands around after chatting. Always tips like 2$ but sometimes brings baked goods, etc.

Chekov:

-wanders in with a bruised nail and is like “what can you do for this” nothing dude.

-Leaves and comes back later to buy a gift certificate to give to a girl.

[bunnyinvanilla]

sugar daddy bar!owner john price series | warnings: +18, age gap (reader is 21 and price is in his 40s), fem!reader, sugar daddy/baby relationship mentioned, not smut but suggestive.

price thought a doll like you deserved a grown, strong old man like him to treat you like a princess — spoil you rotten, wrap you up in bubble wrap and take care of you. You didn’t need to work, get your pretty hands sore and tired from pouring drinks all the time. he’d give you all the money you needed to pay off your college and to get all the pink, girly things you liked so much, ribbons and all. You just needed to sit cutely on his lap, to be his, and he’d give you the whole world. He was in his 40’s, you had only recently turned 21, a flower on the prime of her blossoming youth, who could give an old, worn out man like him some sugar.

that’s why he offered you to be his sugar baby. that offer, made you flush on the spot — he was so confident and composed, unfazed by his own words. The moment he saw redness spread over you cheeks, he knew he had you. His mustache twitched, his salt and pepper beard stretched as he wore an amused, lazy smile. you were always so obedient and compliant to him, always chirping a “yes sir” to anything he’d ask or tell you to do, a sweet, young, too young lil thing, eager to earn his praise, to feel those goosebumps trail down your skin when he muttered a gruff, deep “good girl”,

but, you’d initially declined his offer, because “I want to earn that money, sir, and I’d feel bad if you just..gave it to me like that”

oh, how honest, naive, innocent and pure you were. He admired that about you, but you could see it in his eyes, the way he cocked his thick, dark brown brow upward, that he didn’t believe you’d cling onto those words for long. He knew you were just too shy to accept, but you wanted to. You wanted to be his pretty, little girl. and he was right, as always. One particular night, you’d found a moment to lean your arms against the wooden counter and just breath. You’d been studying all morning, head buried in your notes, and when you got to the bar, you found dozens of soon to be drunk men ready to order alcohol and ask you to bring them ashtrays.

you wanted nothing more than go back home, snuggle in your pink, soft blankets and read your so loved books — it had just been a draining day, you enjoyed your job, but to be honest with yourself, the thing you liked the most was feeling john’s attention and eyes on you during your whole shift and maybe you could finally have someone provide for you.

so, that’s how you found yourself in front of his office door, hesitating lightly while millions of tiny butterflies flew around in your chest, your cheeks as red and warm as ripe strawberries under the summer sun.

knock, knock.

he’d recognized that knock. A feeble, light thud against wood. That couldn’t possibly have been Simon, whose hand could make the whole door shatter down with a single knock, nor Soap’s — bloody hell, that man never bothered to knock at all, he’d just break in.

so he wasn’t surprised to see you, standing meekly in front of his large, wooden desk, the hem of your skirt hugging your milky, bare thighs, your fingers fidgeting together and your eyes looking down at his sitting stance, shy and timid.

“what is it, doll? need ol’ price?” his voice was so rough, so husky, you wondered how it would sound from between your thighs, or from behind you, while his large palm pulled your hair to make you arch against him.

you blinked once, gathering courage to ask for what you’d secretly been daydreaming about, your boss, old enough to be your father, aging like the finest wine, showing you things you’d never ever experienced.

“about your offer, sir” your cheeks were burning, flaming up, “if I accept, can I still come here and help you around?”

“if you accepted,” he almost didn’t even let you finish, eyes already darkening at the thought, a wave of desire rushing through his weary, battle scattered heart, “you could do whatever you wanted, angel, you’d just have to say please”

[willowed-wisp]

GHOST AS A DAD ( part three ) [ simon riley ]

part one | part two |

- You were surprised when Simon said he wanted to try for another baby when he was hesitant to be a dad before your eldest was born. That was eight year ago…

- he just wants one more, he adores how cute your babies are. And how attracted he gets seeing you pregnant.

- It wasn’t much of a surprise to you when you didn’t feel too great. Exhausted, a bit nauseous but not vomiting and so turned on. Not that Simon was complaining… but he was away, and would be longer than his usual one or two months.

- It would be your little surprise to him- ultrasounds in hand for when he came home.

- Turns out you were about eight weeks gone at the first ultrasound and when the technician started taking a closer look, you started to get unnerved. “Is everything okay with the baby?”

- “The babies are growing nicely…”

- “Did you just say… babies?” Then she faced the screen to you. Two shadows in your belly… “Twins?”

- Too early to tell the genders, but they would be when your Lieutenant returned back.

- You didn’t want to tell anybody before Simon, so you wore baggy clothes- hoping nobody would notice the unusually large belly as you entered your second trimester.

- No birth defects were spotted on your 12 week scan. And you were told a loose guess on what the gender was. But they couldn’t be sure until your 19th week.

- Simon returns back home to his favourite meal. “Where are the kids?” He seemed concerned. You were sat down, no kids in sight and a brown envelope in front of you.

- “They’re over at Tommy and Beth’s, they thought we could do with a night alone,” His face relaxed, though disappointed. He needed his tattoo coloured in again. “I got you something…”

- You took advantage of him opening the envelope to rear your way around the table. In the envelope, was a picture of the ultrasound and the test.

- Let’s just say, he spent a good 20 minutes on his knees hugging your stomach.

- He didn’t care what gender they were just that they were healthy.

- He made sure he was there for the birth. “Mr and Mrs Riley, a boy and a girl…”

- Like what’s been said before… he’s so girl dad coded.

- He had the boys from 141 help decorate the nursery.

- Johnny suggested pink and blue camo wallpaper and Simon nearly hung him from the baby mobile.

- Simon didn’t wish for any of his kids to join the military.

- The amount of medication he takes to get by in the day, he can’t sleep unless he’s at home…

- Simon is perfect for twin duty- holding both on his wings. In his grey fitted T-shirt, a bottle in each hand. Feeding the twins, in that light his eyes were russet undercoated with mauve circles. From the bed, you could feel that heat. The smouldering hearth of fatherly love.

- Simon was born to be a father, he just hadn’t known it.

- Can’t tell them apart and constantly mixes them around when they are younger. Practically identical- peering up to him with his own eyes.

- Simon marvels when the pair just stare at each other. “Are they sizing each other up, or what?” Makes you burst out laughing

- “When I stare at you I’m not planning how to murder you?”

- “Sure about that, love?”

- Simon taught your son to protect his sisters, “you’ve gotta watch our for everyone when I’m here and when I’m not,” and your son definitely listened, because whenever Simon was away- your son would make sure you ate, had put everyone else to bed and would comfort his younger siblings and even your eldest daughter when she started getting bullied and you just knew Simon put him up to it.

- Simon took care of the rest when he was back.

- When your eldest was being bullied and you had to have a parental meeting… Christ on Earth, your husband nearly had the bully’s dad in tears, “Your son ever picks on my li’l girl again… put ‘im in check or I will…”

- You’d never been so attracted to him before. And he gave your daughter a fist bump leaving school grounds, “Get ‘im by the ear next time and drag the bastard to a teacher…”

- Not surprised that the school phoned you the next day.

- You gave Simon an earful, but he wound you down with sweet neck kisses from neck to chest… and ended up riding him on the backseat on the Land Rover waiting for your daughter to finish school.

- That’s how he gets out of most disputes- you’re lucky you aren’t knocked up straight after births

- Your son’s caring and strong attitude stretched into his teenhood- until your son himself started dwelling on joining the SAS. The twins didn’t understand what the SAS were- being 8 at the time your son asked and enquired with his father.

- Simon has never wished for one of your kids to join his career because good men die. He knew that more than anyone.

- But he would train your son to be the best survivor and best trainee he could be

- He turned into a Simon junior, only having a sprinkle of your genetics. Only an inch shorter than his dad but Simon would give him a run for his money

- Simon definitely adapts to different ages very well, he goes all cutesy when they’re kiddos but when they start growing up- he’s more protective and nurtures them.

- He teaches them to look out for each other- like he had with his brother and mum.

- Tells them that if he didn’t come home, to take care of their mumma… but luckily he always comes back.

- He had to, he wanted to see the twins look miles apart from each other growing up.

- Tomboy girl and computer nerd boy.

- Simon loved his family, even when being used as a makeup mannequin and a nail polish model from your youngest daughter when playing dress up with the eldest

- It was different to the war paint he used around his eyes.

- He’d even let her put a bow in his hair.

- BRIGHT PINK BOWs, you’ve never laughed so hard and your military-bound son shakes his head.

- Every birthday that goes around he always whispers to you, “This is what I come home for…”

————

masterlist

taglist:

@thychuvaluswife @foxygirl-4287 @1-800-g00ber

[theemporium]

Work Christmas party with Nico Hischier?? Please and thank you 🫶🏻

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“Are you sure this looks okay?” 

“Baby—”

“Because I can change into the other shirt.” 

You pressed your lips together in an attempt to hold back your laughter, watching as the boy continued to fuss over himself in the mirror. The back and forth had been going on for the last twenty minutes or so, which would be annoying if it weren’t so endearing. 

For as long as you knew him, Nico Hischier had always been the walking personification of ‘cool, calm and collected’. Whether it was on or off the ice, it was rare to see him erratic or frazzled. He was always the one to stay composed, to be the voice of logic, to keep everything in order. 

So to see your boyfriend distressed over something as simple as your work Christmas party was honestly quite amusing.

“Nico, you look fine.” 

“Fine?” He repeated, whirling around with wide eyes. “I need to look a bit better than fine.”

You snorted, unable to hold back as you pushed yourself off where you were sitting on the edge of the bed. You made your way towards him, your cheek pressed against his arm as you looked at his hopeless expression in the mirror. 

“Baby, it’s just a small Christmas party,” you murmured, a soft smile on your lips. “There’s no need to get all worked up over it.” 

“Yeah but,” he let out a small sigh, leaning into your touch and the warmth your body provided against his side. “This is the first time I’m actually in Jersey for it. I want to make a good impression for you.”

You raised your brows. “For me?” 

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he said, his brows furrowing when you snorted once again.

“Baby, how the fuck would you embarass me?” You asked, tilting your head back to look up at him fondly. “You literally charm everyone you meet, my coworkers will be no different. If anything, they will probably be all over you, Captain.”

His cheeks started to tint a light pink.

“Pretty sure Janet’s daughter is a Devils superfan,” you continued, watching fondly as his expression brightened a little. “She might hog you for the night.” 

“Jealous?” He teased, seeming a little more relaxed now. 

“Might have to drag you away from the party,” you retorted, squeezing his bicep a little. “The cupboards all have locks from the inside.” 

Nico’s eyes darkened. “Yeah?” 

“But that wouldn’t set a good impression, would it?” 

Nico’s lips parted. “Well, there might be a few minutes we can spare—”

“Wear this shirt, you look good,” you grinned, pressing a chaste kiss to his flushed cheeks before turning to walk out the bedroom. 

“Baby—”

“We are leaving in five minutes, Hischier!”

.

[mudandmire]

Azris one-shot

listen. listenlistenlisten I don't know what this is, I just thought it would be nice to see Eris drool over some thick, meaty Azriel. Not my intention to make him sound like a well-cooked steak but alas.

I wrote this in a very short amount of time so if there's typos or issues my bad but also I'm trying to get better at *gestures vaguely* not caring so much that it stops me from posting :D

(be warned there is smut, semi-graphic but I'm still virgin-esque at this so not fully)

*drops this and runs*

...

Eris had never truly thought of it—like looking at the sun straight on, it would probably burn him to do so. But that didn't mean he didn't see. Search the differences between two bodies and try and imagine where his hands would go on the soft curves of a waistline. The blush pink of kissed cheeks and satin skin framed by long, silken locks of hair. He could like it, could find the beauty in it, of course. But it was more like looking at flowers, the glimmer of sunlight on the surface of a lake. Such beauty was expected, known, and only to be looked at and admired—nothing to touch, certainly nothing to desire.

This body was different in all forms.

The camps had melded at some point, Eris had ended up somewhere different this time and honestly he was too stuck in his head to find his way back. The inky blue black of the night court wear became more common, Eris realized distantly he was somewhere in or close to the night court camp. Yet still, it wasn't enough to send him back-pedaling to his own camp, his own tent.

A male had come crashing to the earth, and Eris had seen skin. It was only once he had shut his agape mouth with a snap that he recognized the cobalt blaze of stones on the Illyrians chest and hands. Azriel—because surely he was forever cursed to only know that name, and so intimately that he knows the taste of his blood in his mouth yet doesn't know the shape the tattoo on his chest takes.

Azriel was yelling, tendons stark against his skin, sweat and a streak of blood across his forehead and jaw. His leathers were torn, from throat to nearly the waistline of his pants, hanging in ribbons around his body as he shucked off the arm of the male he was helping stagger to a medic. Something about the anger, so present it seemed to rattle his whole frame till those exposed parts of his body was jolting with it. Eris knew in some way that Illyrians are carved differently than autumn fae, even more so than high fae, yet it doesn't stop his mouth from going dry at the full look at just how different.

It's meat—he thinks it half-crazed. A healthy thickness to Azriel's chest that brings a curve to his pectorals, flexing with his movements as he shoves away one of the males, still shouting. Eris follows the path easily down, like his own trail of droplets of water or sweat or whatever remains staining his skin that glossy bronze. The weight of those muscles continues further, bunching at his abdomen which heaves and flexes and the hollow of his navel catches the light—

Shit. Cauldron boil him there are no words strong enough to describe the pang of lust that strikes him blind right between the eyes. It must've traveled all the way down the line of his spine because suddenly Eris can't breathe, can't look away, can't do anything but stay stuck, standing and feeling for the first time what he thinks is the white hot flame of desire flickering at the base of his spine. Some tease, some gentle prodding of 'you see me now?'

It's not like he didn't know. Eris had dragged Azriel's unconscious body enough times to know how impossibly heavy he is. It doesn't matter—seeing it, even partially bared to him like this, may just be the thing to send him to his knees.

He wants it.

Cauldron damn him to Hel, he wants.

And he's never been good at it, getting a hand around himself and reaching some pinnacle, some kind of precipice of relief so grand it's all the males his age could whisper and talk about. But he thinks, a little wild, a little starved, he thinks if he had the full weight of that body between his thighs. If he had it, warm with blood and flush with heat, maybe keeping the stripe of dried blood on his stubbled jaw—he thinks he could do it. Find the kind of release the soldiers in his army seem to find easily between the legs of a female.

And that's—that's the problem. That's him, in the depths of the problem.

It's amazing how many realizations he comes to within the span of what can be no longer than a couple heart beats. But in one moment Eris is watching the way Azriel's powerful body moves, muscles flexing under the bronze glint of his skin, and the next they're meeting eyes. Eris's body had gone from bubbling with a new kind of heat to icy with dread. The kind he only knows in window-less cells, iron chains.

Azriel meets his eyes, even from paces away, and Eris curses to himself as he feels his stomach swoop. Trying to dip closer to where that flame had rested even though it's hardly anything more than a dimming ember now. His eyes narrow, and Eris just hopes he can't see any of the lingering tinges of lust in his own gaze. That everything he felt had been kept in his head away from the environment outside.

For a moment he thinks he has succeeded in maintaining that careless facade, Azriel's own gaze darkening and his mouth tightening with a scowl. But then something happens, faster than Eris can understand, and he watches through what feels like fog as something crosses the Illyrian's face. His head tips, predatory and watchful, and begins to walk over.

Eris breathes out harshly, refusing to admit that it comes out trembling, that there's a part of him shaking deep behind his rib cage in fear that Azriel saw. Saw what Eris tried to hide and is coming to make an example out of him.

Eris draws himself up, chin pointed and looking down his nose as Azriel gets closer.

"Can I help you?"

Azriel doesn't say anything, the silence unnerving, as he just watches Eris from under the shadow of his lashes.

"Behind you." He says, Eris has to work to ignore the swell of his pectorals in front of him.

He swallows hard, off-balance, "I—pardon?"

"Tent, behind you, it's empty."

Eris starts to catch on—and it may not make a lot of sense, he may be welcoming his own murder, but there's something in the way Azriel's looking at him that brings the white hot flame back. The bubbles in his stomach, a clench at the base of his spine.

-

He's the first one in, the first one to cross the threshold of the tent but Azriel's not that far behind.

It's a different world when he steps through, maybe just a single moment in that world. A moment where Eris is allowed to look, to want.

And he wants.

-

Azriel's big, from up close and far away and right between his thighs the breadth of his shoulders is enough to send a tender ache through the muscles of his legs and the joints of his hips. It's messy from the start—trying to stay quiet and Eris coming to the mortifying realization that he's miserably bad at that. So Azriel keeps his mouth on his, or slides his fingers between his lips when he asks for lubricant, or presses his whole palm down across his mouth when he slides in.

All of him—Eris feels the length of him against the base of his spine and shivers hard—inside, pressed close, gods how can a body be so hot and not burn to ashes? And from there it's a chase. Eris keeps his teeth pinched in the meat of Azriel's scarred palm, and Azriel keeps his noises buried in the crook of his sweat-damp neck. He's all muscle, and there's no soft dip of a waist to cradle. There's no satin skin or delicate blush. Azriel is heavy, his stomach rolls over itself when his hips thrust back in, skin and muscle and Eris swears he can feel the flex of it all on his own neglected arousal.

His hands are—gods his hands—they're rough and worn, yet every now and then one will leave their position branding his hips with petal-shaped bruises and come up to cradle the back of his head. They run gentle over the back of his thigh when he pries him apart further—asking for him to open his body more, thighs to hip to where he's split open and raw at the center of his being.

The scars themselves are finger-prints.

These aren't the hands of anyone, of any male. Eris knows now, as the heave of their chests gets dire; the air hot and wet between their mouths, the constant, hard push of his cock right up into that one place that sets his belly on fire—he knows he'll forever remember this touch. Know these palms blind he swears he's been branded by the lightning-shaped ridges of them.

There's a moment where Eris loses sight, fingers locked in silken raven hair, as his hips move in harder, faster, his eyes rolling back to the point white sparks dance behind them. It's the end, some primal part of him knows what's coming even if he's never reached pleasure like this, and yet he digs in further with his nails, his heels as if keeping Azriel close will stave off the inevitable.

It does the opposite, Azriel's grunting low in his throat, animalistic and wanting and Eris sighs a soft moan when he feels the indentation of teeth at the hinge of his jaw. The noises their bodies make is nearly enough to send him off, but he's hanging there, just at the edge, just waiting.

Azriel's biceps flex, reaching under Eris's thighs and pulling them out and up so the backs of his knees rest in the crooks of his arms. He's folded, bared even further than he possibly thought he could be—feeling the roll of his own skin against himself and wondering when it got so wet. Gods does it do it, though. Azriel keeps himself closer than ever, hot breath against his cheek as Eris claws at him, a wail muffled behind his own hand, and feels the break through his body.

The angle, the pressure against that one perfect spot, Azriel's warmth and weight drawing so much heat from him, into him, everything snaps in one moment.

Azriel is there through it all, when Eris futilely arches up in some form of welcoming the lightning branding his spine, and when he comes back down. Still coiled tight under Azriel's working hips, though they falter in pace again, and again, and once more before Azriel curls over Eris's sweat-soaked, shaking body like the protective limbs of a tree.

The weight of his heaving stomach pressing against Eris's own makes him swallow hard, carding a trembling hand through Azriel's tangled locks, wondering if the scent of sex will stick to him like sunlight or if he'll only smell like he would after a battle, a sparring match. For a moment it's easy, gentle, breathing together and trying to find the balance they had completely lost once they crossed the threshold of the tent. Eris doesn't mind, the company is nice, even the ache of the stretch which has grown into a dull throb is pleasant.

It's the after he's dreading. The unsticking of their bodies, because Eris is warm here, and he knows deep down when Azriel pries himself away something vital will be ripped from him.

But it's a quick tryst in an empty tent, they both have things to do, and Azriel still has dried blood flaking on his cheeks. Eris supposes he can keep the memory of it for himself, just a little while.

...

(can you tell I didn't know how to end it)

um so like Hi. It's been a minute I blame college and my abysmal time management. First azris thing I've written in m o n t h s and man am I rusty but wow it feels good to get these two freaks back on my page 😎

[aramynx]

𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓈 𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒲𝒶𝓇

𝒦𝒶𝓉𝓈𝓊𝓀𝒾 𝐵𝒶𝓀𝓊𝑔𝑜 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝓈𝓊𝓀𝒾 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌���𝓎𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓉 𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈’ 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝒶𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓃𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝒻𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝒶𝓉 𝓊𝒶, 𝒶𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓂𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝓊𝓃 𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒽.

𝒶/𝓃: 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒻𝑒𝓌 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝒶𝓃𝑔, 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓍𝑜𝓍𝑜

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.* *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.* *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

part 1 • part 2

“Hey Kacchan!” You called out, bursting into a light jog towards the only familiar face you had seen that morning. You smirked as you watched him tense up at hearing that godforsaken nickname that you just loved to tease him with, causing him to spin around rapidly, although not to greet you.

You were feeling good in your new uniform- it was as comfortable as any school uniform could be, and fit almost perfectly. The man in front of you, however, looked like his trousers were a size too big as they pooled at his ankles. You were sure Mitsuki probably had to wrestle his tie onto him for a ‘first day’ photo before he left the house that morning, that surprisingly was still neatly tucked into the collar of his shirt.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing a tie, are you even the real Katsuki?” You teased, eyeing up and down in feigned suspicion whilst his scowl only grew stronger.

“Shut up, you’re so obsessed with me.” He scoffed, not willing to yell at you before he even walked into his dream school, “Can’t believe I have to deal with your annoying ass for another three years.”

“And the rest of our decades as pros after that! You know we make a great team- we could even put our agencies next to eachother.” You smirked, knowing exactly how to piss him off.

“Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?” Katsuki shouted half-heartedly before continuing to walk towards your new homeroom. He didn’t refuse your suggestion- you smirked.

You refrained from teasing your longtime ‘best friend’ on your way through the building, using the time to look around the halls of the prestigious U.A. High and really soak it all in. You were really here, on your journey to being a hero. Looking out through the long glass windows you ovserved the masses of students still making their way across the grounds, as tiny as ants from this distance.

Katsuki glanced over his shoulder, watching you for a moment as you stared out of the window peacefully. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but you might not be so bad when you weren’t deliberately trying to push his buttons. He turned away and opened the classroom door, quickly shoving his tie into his bag and kicking his feet up on the desk.

One difference between you and Katsuki was that you were willing to make friends with other people; that was something he’d never understand about you. Once you entered the room, you were practically swept up by a girl who was completely pink, with a wide smile and eager eyes.

“Hey! I saw you earlier on the way in and you are so so cute!” She said, squeezing your hands in hers enthusiastically, “My name’s Mina, wanna be friends?!”

She bounced up and down slightly, watching you as you nodded and told her your name in return before calling another girl- Tsu- over to meet you. As you waited for your teacher to arrive, you chatted with the girls about how amazing it was that you had gotten into U.A. Conversations throughout the room quickly ceased as the voice on your homeroom teacher filled the air, introducing himself with nothing but exhaustion before telling everybody to put on a gym uniform and head outside.

“Are you friends with that shouty guy?” Mina asked on your way down the stairs.

“Oh, Katsuki? Yeah, I guess you could say that.” You started, “We were in middle school together but its more like a rivalry than a friendship- I don’t think he actually likes me that much.”

“Ooohhh drama~!” She smirked in a sing-song voice, excitedly jogging ahead of you, “See you out on the field, ‘kay?”

Once you had changed into your gym clothes, you walked out into the slightly chilly spring air, the sun’s faint warmth overpowered by the cool breeze glazing over your exposed forearms.

“A quirk assessment this early?” Tsu whispered from beside you, “I hope he isn’t serious about expelling anybody.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to make jokes…” You responded, watching as Aizawa instructed Katsuki to throw the ball as far as possible using his quirk.

You weren’t surprised when you heard how far it went, after all, you already knew how powerful he was. In your way to the first assessment, you managed to catch up to Katsuki, hands in pockets as he walked over.

“Great job with the ball toss, bigshot.” You smirked, poking his cheek as his pursed lips quickly turned back into his signature scowl.

“Shut up! I’m gonna destroy you in every damn one of these tests!” He yelled, sparking up his palms towards you, but you only swatted them away and giggled, making his anger worse.

Despite his harsh words towards you, he never actually called you anything too demeaning, unlike with other people.

“Maybe in your dreams, Kacchan.”

Rivalry and teasing aside, you and Katsuki had some kind of close bond; the kind where you knew you could trust each other if it came to it in a life or death situation.

Little did you know just how soon that bond would be tested.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.* *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.* *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

[ladymercysletters]

Higher - Prologue #1: an Aemond Targaryen Series

Synopsis: Y/N Targaryen is the daughter of Rhaenerya Targaryen. Her parentage is disputed though unlike her younger brothers hers is not certain. Whilst they all share the same dark curls of Harwin Strong; Y/N shares her mother’s platinum with a dark streak running the underside of it. There are some, like Queen Alicent, who take this as a sign that her true father is obviously also Harwin Strong – Rhaenerya just getting extremely lucky that most of your hair was white. Others, including you mother, point out Laenors mothers, Rhaenys Velaryons, dark Baratheon hair, and that it obviously comes from there. But wherever your true blood lies you’ve always felt more dragon than anything else.

Word Count: 2,298

Rating (per chapter): none

A/N: Prologue is set when Aemond and reader are young. As I can neither remember, nor care to double check, I'm saying they're around 14 ish. If some of the timelines don't quite match up, does it really matter.

You had no idea where your mother was. Somewhere in the castle most likely; and your father? Which one? By right or rule of birth your father Laenor was nowhere to be found. You could hazard a guess that he was with his Lannister knight. They seemed good friends and you often saw them together. By blood or a guess Harwin Strong of the Kings Guard was teaching your brothers to defend themselves from their uncles, Aegon and Aemond in the training yard; and Daemon, you didn’t have the faintest idea. You rarely saw him and hadn’t seen him since his arrival with his family that morning.

Sitting in a stone alcove overlooking the training yard you pondered your newest sibling. Your mother was due to give birth in but a few days if she held on, and you truly hoped this one would be a girl. Not that you didn’t love your brothers, but boys could be so mean. You looked out of the window and saw how Aegon was mean to his brother Aemond, and goaded your own brothers to join in.

It wasn’t long since being here that you barely recognised them as they picked and taunted your youngest uncle like crows. Helaena had so much more of a sweet temper, and she truly felt like a sister to you when she was there, but she was barely ever there; in the room, on the same plain of existence as anyone else.  

Harwin never made his favouritism more obvious than when they were sparing. Even the lightest blow and he was pushing the two Targaryen princes from Jace and Lucerys and berating them. He was even protective of you on occasion but never as much as the boys; just about everything involving you was in half measures compared to your brothers.

You wandered down to the training yard, sick of being by yourself. You almost made it there before Aemond came running down the corridor at you, pushing past just to duck into a room and lock the bolt with a thud. You spun back around to see the main of Aegon’s wavy hair glowing around his head from the light behind him.

“What have you done this time!” you barked, squaring up to your eldest uncle despite your difference in height. Your brothers were behind him, giggling to themselves like a pack of hyenas.

“Just a laugh, niece. Nothing more than a joke. Only some are not yet man enough to take it.” He finished with a shout down the corridor. They all moved past you, bowling down the dimly lit tunnel to the Keep, they obviously didn’t see where he went. As soon as you knew they were out of sight you walked slowly over to the locked door and tapped.

“Aemond. Its me.” You called quietly through the cracks. “They’ve gone. Can you let me in?” You could hear his sniffs get closer as the door unbolted; cracking open just an inch so you could squeeze through. Pulling your gilded blue dress through the small frame you were met with your uncles red nose and pinked cheeks. “Oh Aemond” you began before he cut you off.

“I’m fine. Its fine.” He started, turning to walk back into the room, facing away from you. Even from your short glace you could see both of his eyes were bloodshot. You pulled your small handkerchief from your sleeve and draped it over his shoulder. This caught his attention, and he turned to find you not so subtly looking up at the ceiling and the tall beams that held it up, just so he was sure you couldn’t see his tears fall.

You sat in silence for a while. You often did, both of you finding it comforting just the two of you, not saying anything; but no one needed to. Eventually you both found yourselves sitting intertwined on the small bench at the end of the room. Your legs were placed over his, his head on your shoulder and yours resting over his; both your hands played with the others.

“I heard mother the other day.” Aemond started. “She was begging father not to betroth Helaena to Aegon. He says it is a good match to keep our blood pure.” His voice was small, and you could almost hear a question in it.

“Poor Helaena” was all you could mutter. And poor her you felt. You were both almost of age and you knew your mother and father had already discussed your future, to some extent at least. “Poor Aegon as well”

“Why poor Aegon?”

“Well, I don’t suppose he wants to marry Helaena any more than she would him.” stroking the back of Aemond’s hand. He huffed but accepted your answer. He sat up a bit and you switched with him, resting your head on his shoulder.

Aemond looked down at you. His hand reached around and fondled with your hair, the silver strands rolled back in small braids from your face, he felt around until he found the little patch of dark hair. He liked to play with that bit the most; perhaps it was because that was what they always teased you about, how even if they were bastards at least they knew who their father was, whereas you could be anybody’s! It wasn’t usually your brothers saying that, just Aegon. But he knew how to spin it to make them laugh at you as well.

Aemond sighed to himself as you relaxed against him. You’d been in the glorified cupboard a while now and he was sure they’d forgotten their search for him and moved on, but he didn’t want to move; not when he could hear you talking about something he feels he really should be paying attention to.

“… from the Reach, and the Riverlands, but she says I don’t have to think about my betrothal until I’m at least seven and ten years old. She says grandsire made her tour at fifteen and she hated it!”

“Betrothal?” Aemond blurted, sitting bolt upright and nearly knocking Y/N from her resting place “to whom?” he cried.

“Well, no-one yet. That’s the point.” You looked up at him and smiled. Aemond’s insides clenched when you did.

“Well don’t.” he said, matter-of-factly. To be honest he didn’t know what else to say. He was suddenly hit with the thought that you wouldn’t always be with him, around him, and he couldn’t stand it. Tears welled up suddenly in his eyes and he pulled out your hanky again to stop the tears.

You reached up to pull his hand from his face, tutting lightly as you saw his watery eyes. Taking the hanky from his hands you gripped them as you dabbed at his eyes.

“Okay” you murmured, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Aemond’s eyes widened at your action, his face flushing. You settled back against him in another comfortable silence, this time with a strange sort of certainty in your future.

**

A week later and you were still in Kings Landing. Not that you minded, but your mother had still not birthed and the maesters were beginning to get worried. Your father/s were more present, you noted, each one also becoming slightly more concerned at the late hour of this pregnancy.

You were sat with Helaena and the Queen, embroidering a handkerchief with a small silver dragon when Aegon came bowling in, followed by Lucerys.

“Mother! Ladies” he bowed comically. The Queen rolled her eyes but said nothing, drawing her attention back to her tapestry. “What do we have here then niece.” He said, lying sloppily next to you, grabbing the soft cotton from your hands.

“Give it back Aegon.” You snapped quietly, reaching out for it.

“Ah ah ah” he tutted. “Don’t snatch niece.” That irked you more. He always called you niece to belittle you, despite you being closer in age than his own half-sister. The Queen looked over the two of you, watching as her eldest son loomed over you teasing. Becoming bored of her tapestry she set it down beside her and left, never one to entertain her children for too long.

Aegon looked over the work in his hand, the corners of his mouth turning down as he was impressed with the small delicate stitches and beading that caught the light. “Why not make it gold niece.” He said finally, throwing the cloth back in you lap as he stood. “to match my glorious Sunfyre.” He smirked down at you before sauntering out again.

“A green bead. A blue bead. A green bead. A blue bead.” You turned to see Helaena muttering softly into her work. She wasn’t beading; you thought. Just sewing golden thread into the wings of her beetles.

**

At dinner that evening your mother was absent again. You almost requested you meal to be brought to your room but the Queen had insisted you eat with your brothers and her children. Silently you all sat, heads staying down after your prayer. Then you heard a noise. A snorting. Grunt.

Aemond stiffened beside you. Your eyes flickered to watch him before darting over the table at your brothers, each of them giggling between themselves. You looked over to Aegon – he was smirking.

“Jacerys” you scolded quietly, glaring daggers at him to get him to stop.

“What. Sister I am not doing anything.” He smirked. The Queen interjected.

“Velaryons. I hear your mother is in her labours.” She breathed. Setting her cutlery down. “That is good news is it not. After so long I’m sure you will all be glad to greet your new sibling.”

“Very much so, your grace.” Your eldest brother said politely, turning to her.

“I’m sure you are all looking forward to going home.” You could tell by the way she sighed as she said it, she was just looking forward to you leaving. Aemond looked over to you as you caught his eye, both of you silently sad that you would be leaving again in the not-too-distant future. “Y/N” she broke once more, grabbing your attention “You will no doubt be keen to return home” she smiled rigidly.

“Why is that?” you asked slowly, stuttering over the words in confusion.

“Well, I’m sure when your mother is well recovered you will need to prepare for your coming out. My husband tells me he has already received ravens enquiring when you are to tour for a husband. I’m sure your mother will want to prepare you herself.” She said curtly.

“Oh. I suppose so.” You said meekly. You knew your mother had received ravens, but to hear your grand-sire had also been in receipt of them made you fear he would use you as a bartering tool.

“I wouldn’t worry niece.” Aegon broke the silence, sensing your nervousness. Everyone looked up to him, surprised at his concern. “If you do manage to receive a decent proposal, the poor sod will have to first work out which father to ask! Ha!” he slapped his knee in jest at his fine joke.

“Aegon!” the Queen snapped. Aemond stood bolt upright next to you, knife gripped in his hand by his side as he stared down at his brother. Aegon laughed

“What are you going to do with that brother?” he questioned laughing. “Carve me up and eat me?”

“Show some respect brother.” Aemond muttered through gritted teeth. His eyes rolling over your brothers sat next to his own; dismayed that neither of them stood to defend you. Aegon scoffed but said nothing; kicking his feet from the ground as he stood, bidding his mother goodnight as he left.

You placed a small hand on Aemond’s wrist that held the knife. He seated himself back down next to you, placing the knife on the table as he whispered a small apology to you.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. Thank you.” You whispered back, hand not leaving his. You suddenly felt the Queens eyes boring into you and moved your hand swiftly from her son.

**

You wept quietly as you packed your trunk. Your mother had birthed your newest brother a week ago. Another brown-haired boy: and now you were set to leave again for Driftmark. You had sent the maids away, content to pack your belongings yourself in silence. Folding up some of your stockings you pushed them down into the corner of the trunk, sniffing deeply.

A low rumbling took your attention from the ground and you looked over your shoulder to the bookshelf in the corner of your room moving across the floor.

“Aemond!” you gasped, seeing your uncle emerge from the secret passageway. You ran across the room to embrace him. Since your departure had been announced you had not seen much of him; his mother keeping him away any time you asked after him – insisting that he was in his studies and must not be disturbed. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he buried his head in your neck, breathing in deeply.

“Y/N. You are leaving today?” he muttered

“Yes. Shortly. I just need to finish packing.” You drew back from him but did not release your arms.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave either.” You sniffed. Fresh tears willing in your eyes. “I hate boats.” you laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

“I brought you a book. For the journey.” You took the small book he produced from his back pocket and looked it over. As you turned it a small letter fell from between the pages. Aemond gasped and swiftly scooped it from the floor, pushing it back between the pages. “Don’t look at that until you have left. Promise.” He said blushing.

“promise.” You smiled.

[smoochi-march]

Sunkissed - Aloe

Fields of Mistria | March x F Reader

Summery | A flustered March get's accused of earning his fair share of sunburns, in reality, it may be a mixture of minor burns along with his inevitable embarrassment.

Warnings | Overly Fluffy!

Word Count | 2566

“…I’m convinced you have no clue what you’re doing.”

March grumbled and sat at his work desk begrudgingly with his usual scowl. Brows furrowed, he’d bite his lower lip impatiently. Stealing glances towards you, his knuckles digging into his cheek while leaning over his workstation inside, the space impressively tidy. Sat with his arm propped up on the top of his desk, allowing him a vision of you close by all while allowing him to hide his face easily.

“…and I’m convinced you have no faith in me.”

You’d argue playfully, sorting through several pieces of equipment in your bag. Tossing some odds n’ ends aside, clearly in search of something specific.

“I don’t… can I continue my work? If you haven’t noticed already, I have a routine that you’re interrupting.”

March hated waiting, how’d he end up here, to begin with? Why was it he could never argue against you? He had remained the very definition of all bark, no bite. With you specifically, and it frustrated him to no end. It was always you. You, you, you. He hated to admit it, but he was wrapped around your finger.

Before this whole situation, he had been hammering away at his station…

It was significantly brighter today where most would rush towards Mistria’s beach in their favorite swimwear. He didn’t have the time for that, however, no matter how much he desired to lay off the work and relax. It's not that he disliked his job, it was anything but that. Left with a stockpile of requests, the mass majority being boring small projects such as bolts and nails, that was the problem. Tools to sharpen, all basic level blacksmithing. At this point, he’s itching for a harder task, something to test his unmatched skills… all the trophies in his bedroom prove that fact is more than a self-claim.

“Good morning, March! I’m about to head out for the mines, is there any ore in specific you’d like? Copper? Iron? Silver?”

A familiar voice beamed from behind him, halting any further action as he snapped out of his previous thought process. He’d immediately recognize the voice, after all, it was you. You, you, you. How much he'd give to see that smile of yours by his side at night, not just these brief mornings before you part ways.

“Morning.”

He’d respond nonchalantly, lifting an arm to his forehead to block the incoming rays of sun from his eyes. Turning his body around, he’d noticed just how close in proximity you had been to him.

“W-What the hell?- what’re you doing?”

He’d lean back against the anvil, glaring at you as you’d suddenly lift both your hands to his cheeks. Delicate hands cradle his face sweetly, so light it could be mistaken for a pair of feathers brushing over his inflamed skin. He made several attempts to create some distance between the two of you, but you seemed insistent on whatever you had intended to do. Your eyes analyzing him closely,

“…have you been working all morning? You’re pink.”

Your voice was nothing more than a whisper, so close he could feel your breath fan against his face. Further fanning the flames beneath his skin,

“Of course I was. Is there a problem with that?”

You’d raise your chin with furrowed brows, you always were the one unafraid of their expression, huh? He'd catch himself on these thoughts, clearing his throat to focus on the initial task.

“Yeah. You shouldn’t be working outside in this heat, look… you’re burning up!”

He’d turn his head away, only for your hand to guide him back to face you once more. Glaring daggers at you only to lose that sharp gaze, faltering, he’d let out a defeated sigh. Eyes closing before shifting to relocate anywhere but in your own, when have you gotten so beautiful? Or perhaps you always have been. Either way, he’d allow you to follow through with your concerned actions, not without his grunts or grumbles of disapproval. You knew better than to trust his words, his body language giving him away.

He may end it all if a single person catches wind of this interaction,

March was used to experiencing higher elements of heat, ignorant towards the clear sign of his skin losing its battle against the sun. So caught up in his work, he now had your hands brushing over his cheeks, before lowering down his neck... trailing towards his shoulders, and lifting his arms for him to take note of his burns.

"March, look. Please? You're burnt."

You'd realize your words may have been too firm, softening quickly after to smooth over any misunderstanding. He always took care of himself, his brother, and those around him. But found himself needing the help this time,

"You're making this a bigger deal than it has to be, you act like you haven't had a burn in your time working on the farm."

Sparing you a disapproving look, he'd then take in the true tenderness you held. He didn't mean to concern you, he'll have to take better care of himself to avoid you getting in a position like this again... Your eyes glimmer, only to be overcome by a passing cloud beneath the sun. Your face naturally flushed as a response to the heat, those lips of yours so close and parted ever so slightly. Drawing him in.

"Get inside, I'll be back."

Your thumbs gently caress his skin absentmindedly, hesitating to let go, he'd notice this. Hesitant to pull away as well, the couple now staring away from each other bashfully, unable to let go. They were left at a stalemate.

He's unsure exactly how long he stood there with you in silence, being the one to wear his signature frown.

"What about your trip to the mines?"

You'd raise a brow, tilting your head as you step away from him. Pivoting on your foot, hiding your expression from his gaze. He then could notice how your hands clasp each other behind your back, fidgeting nervously. What caused this anxiety? Was it him? The idea of work?

"It can wait, be right back! You better be inside once I've returned, if I catch you breathing next to that anvil of yours I'll nag you all summer."

March rolled his eyes, using the spare back of his hand to feel the warmth in his cheeks. It may have started as sunburns, his sun-kissed skin is rosy like the flowers you had first-ever gifted him when you situated in town... but you were certainly more dangerous than the sun ever was.

"...you already do."

He learned to love that about you.

"Ah ha!"

You'd exclaim with a sense of accomplishment, lifting yourself and waltzing towards March who behaved like an unimpressed teenager. Eye scanning over your body, landing on the tiny bottle in your hand.

"What is that?"

This question wouldn't receive an immediate answer. Watching you squeeze the bottle, popping the cap off... a green gelatin substance now pressed against your palm.

"Aloe Vera. I bought some the other day from Balor,"

Before he could speak, you'd ask another question. He didn't hear what you said. Lost in his world the closer you got, it was pathetic. Biting back his tongue, he'd nod his head to whatever you said. Gaining a smile in return, you'd rub your hands together, spreading the Aloe in your hands. Soon reaching to grasp his face again, making him flinch at the cool temperature.

"-I thought you'd put up more of a fight, y'know. I appreciate it, March. You know... for all you do at the forge for Mistria."

Voice rendering as uncharacteristically mother-like, his eyes shut with ease. Finding pleasure in your fingers working the aloe into his skin, rubbing his cheeks in a circular motion. His face had begun to cool down in a matter of seconds,

"Don't mention it, there's no need to concern yourself over trivial matters like a slight burn."

March huffed, eyes fluttering open when he'd feel your motions stop at the bridge of his nose, upon hearing his words. He couldn't tell whether or not he enjoyed the contrast in temperature, a battle between the soothing gel against his flustered face.

"Your health is not trivial. Take that back, ...Idiot."

You'd playfully pinch his cheek, making him hiss in pain, and smack your hand away from his face lightly.

The tingling sensation of Aloe is evident as ever on his skin, this felt strangely... intimate. He's had Olric help him apply sunscreen when he was young where he couldn't reach, but, never a woman so generously offered to ease his pain... he still didn't believe it was important, still allowing you the satisfaction in helping.

"Tch. Yes ma'am."

The small talk would come to a close, his eyelids weighing down. He'd feel your body shift next to him. Their hands met his broad shoulders, beginning to massage them with newly applied gel. Small groans escaping the man, fuck it felt good. Your hands were like magic, his body melting at your wake, finely shaped like putty in your hands. His tension was immense, you wished nothing more than to help. Stretching out his muscles, You were no professional, but he enjoyed your actions thus far.

The silence was comfortable, time slowing with each pressure applied by your steady hands.

“This should help with your recovery, want me to leave the Aloe with you? I’m sure you could use it for future use.”

Your voice fissured a crack in the silence, bringing a smile to his face. Faint, a mere ghost of what it could be. Hidden from your sight,

“Sure.”

March would hear you hum in response, tilting her head back in an attempt to make eye contact with you. Only for those eyes to widen with your face hovering directly above his. Both party’s eyes were wide, unable to look away from the other this time. The way your hands were situated on his bare shoulders, your face hovering above his… it all felt right. Tilting his head further back, he’d raise an arm. His hand makes its way to your cheek, hesitant, but progressive.

“…why go through all this trouble?”

March's voice held a share of his vulnerability, an expression masked behind his nonchalant attitude for far too long. Here, marks the beginning of an end. Or, so the two of you can hope. Old habits are a tough pill to swallow, to process, and to accept. To embrace.

“Trouble? I see no trouble in supporting the one I…”

You’d begin, struggling to continue your original sentence. Was this going a step too far?

“-the one you..?”

He’d inquire, no sign of his previous smile. Rubbing it off to hide beneath a mask once more, unable to express himself openly to you comfortably.

March’s attempt to lower his hand from your cheek results in failure, due to the grasp of your hand on top of his. Holding it in place, your eyes shimmering like the beautiful jewels you’d donate to the museum…

“The one I care for, of course.”

March felt his heart flutter, observing how your body language evolved. His hand trapped against your cheek, he couldn’t help but feel a subtle blush rise to his face. The aloe stood no chance of keeping him cool at this rate,

“I- I see.”

Silence.

He couldn’t bear it much longer, unsure whether or not they had been crossing the line between comfortable silence or a tense air.

You couldn’t help but press your cheek deeper within the palm of his hand, it was large, calloused, and long due for an easy day's work. Something you were capable of granting him if only he’d allow it.

“I like you.”

What?

“Like, I like you, March.”

It was all so sudden he could hardly process all you had said. Silenced by your lips that pressed themselves against the back of his hand. It was as if his eyes were opened, he watched as all the colors surrounding them became significantly more vibrant. Hyper aware of the position you put them in.

The unwillingness to leave him be, despite such a common injury… the lack of materials on hand to venture through the mines in your bag. Had this been your intention all along? Did you lie about the mines? Using it as a segue to get closer to him? He’d never experienced such a scene. Not just anybody was confessing, no, it was far greater. It was…

You.

“T-Think about it, kay’?”

You’d lend him a toothy grin, your blush rivaling his burnt cheeks. You had finally done it, you confessed to him. With all the anxiety rushing through your veins, you brush his bangs out from his eyes, feeling his thumb caress your cheek you forced him to hold. His expression was more visible than ever before, no longer safeguarded beneath his bangs, all due to how he sat on his stool, neck craned back as he looked up at you from a flipped perspective.

“…say that again?”

His voice was quiet, uncertain. However, you wrote that off as your imagination. Your eyes admire his body, the way his skin shines after your massage, the Aloe glistening with each curve of his muscle. His fluffy red hair lost some of its color while the black roots made themselves clear, he'd no doubt dye them again this coming Saturday.

“I like you, March.”

Following through with his request as you would any other time,

“…again.”

Again. He requested, and you delivered. A gentle smile permanently embedded on your face, allowing his hand to fall from your cheek.

“March, I like you-“

Willing to stroke his ego, you wrap your arms around him. Leaning against his back, your chin resting on his shoulder, not applying too much pressure. Worried you may harm him by pressing on the burns,

"If this is a joke, I swear I-”

He’d grumble, feeling you rest your head aside against his. Listening to the comforting sound of your breathing, losing the ability to speak.

“…of course not. For someone as confident as you are in your achievements, you sure are insecure. Not that I mind, I'll remind you that nobody holds a candle to you March...”

Following your words with proof of your legitimacy, you’d sneak your way closer to his body, your breath brushing against his cheek sending a shiver down his spine. You begin pressing your lips against his sun-kissed cheek, a featherlike attack directed toward his heart.

"...Y-you aren't so bad yourself. I guess... no, you're actually... never mind, forget it. Quit it, we'll never hear the end of it if somebody walks in on us." He'd find the strength to press a hand against your face, forcing your lips off his body, tensing up as you'd soon follow his words up with a hushed whisper in his ear. "-Can we take this to your bedroom then? if the idea of getting caught is all that concerns you..."

You'd ask genuinely, laughing as he'd struggle to look in your direction. Feeling as if you'd tighten your embrace around him, returning your nose back in the crook of his neck.

"...shut up."

Neither of you would say a word afterward, basking in each other's presence. Whether it was by choice, or you rendered the inexperienced blacksmith speechless. You were confident he liked you too, despite not saying it verbally.

[eddiazx]

juno - evan buckley x reader

You had bought it as a joke. 

You and your friend had decided to go inside the inconspicuous-looking sex shop for fun, and she had dared you to buy the fuzzy pink handcuffs. You, not one to back down from a challenge, grabbed them and paid for them with your head held high. It wasn’t supposed to see the light of day; you had thought it would collect dust in your closet for months. 

So to see them dangling from Buck’s fingers, paired with a smirk on his face, was not what you had expected to see when you walked into your shared apartment.

“What’s this, babe?” Buck, ever the shit-stirrer, asks.

“‘S nothing”, you mumble, trying to grab it from Buck, but he raises it high so you can’t reach. 

“Do you wanna try it out tonight?” Buck then questions genuinely, looking deep in your eyes to gauge your interest.

You nod slowly but surely, because you can already feel your body react at the thought of using them with Buck.

“On me or on you?” 

You bite your lip and respond hoarsely, “on you, if you’re okay with that.” 

“I’m very okay with that.” Buck grins cheekily.

Which brings you to right now: Buck naked, both hands cuffed and resting over his head on his king-sized bed. You’re straddling him, riding him, and Buck is a whimpering mess. Not being able to hold onto you, whether it was your hips, your thighs, or your breasts, was sweet torture for him.

You switch your angle by digging your knees into the mattress, resting your hands on Buck's chest before lifting and slamming back down. Both of you come almost simultaneously with this new position, and Buck as usual, comes a lot. It slowly seeps out of you from the sheer volume, and both of you stare at it, stare at where the two of you are still joined, transfixed.

Just as you're about to dismount and uncuff him, Buck interrupts you.

"Sit on my face, babe. I want to taste how good we are together."

God bless those fuzzy pink handcuffs.

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience: ~Jungle Pool SOS!~

➼ pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Reader ➼ summary: when kyoya offers up his families yet to open resort no one could have guessed what would actually happen. ➼ what to expect: “I have a duty of care for you" ➼ warnings: none ➼ Part six | Part eight

Now considering this was technically considered a club activity you have to admit this was the most relaxed you had been in a while. The sun beaming down on you while you sun bathe, even the usual drama of host club antics get lost in the serenity of an empty resort.

"I must admit Kyoya, when I joked a few years ago that the ootori group should create a holiday resort and label it as a form of therapy I didn't think you took it seriously" you muse, eyes closed as you bring in the sun rays.

Kyoya shrugs but quickly remembers that you can't actually see him "Believe it or not I don't completely disregard your ideas, expecially when they truly have merit, my father seemed to agree"

You hum knowingly at what he actually meant by that statement "I'm assuming that he doesn't know that it was my idea then" You tease, not really being that mad about the stolen idea, it wasn't like Kyoya was getting any direct monetary profit from the resort. "I did try crediting you but he had a hard time believing a fifteen year old girl came up with it by herself"

You weren't exactly surprised, you had met Kyoya's father after all, you knew what it was like by now. Luckily you were too relaxed to care at that moment.

There was a moment of silence, peace between the two of you. It was actually something you enjoyed when spending time with Kyoya, the two of you never forced conversation for the sake of it, which on it's own sounds sad but it makes any words that the two of you do exchange all the more important.

"If...you have any more ideas like that...tell me about them...I can at least appreciate a good idea when it comes from you" you laughed under your breath, "Well of course" lifting your sunglasses to rest against your head, sitting up to face him properly "You have taste"

"Why thank you my dear" he joked, taking a sip of his drink, watching chaoes unfold as Tamaki and the Twins argue over what Haruhi should wear. Typical.

“Haru-chan! Let’s play! You wanna go swimming in the current pool with me?” Honey tugs on Haruhi’s arm with a pink float decorated with bunnies clinging to his waist.

“Nah. I’m not gonna swim today. Hold on. You know how to swim; you still need that float?”

Honey shakes his head, “Mm-mm. Just looks cuter this way, you know?” Honey spins on his heel to go prancing in the other direction toward the current pool.

“Mm, he’s right. Those bunnies are pretty cute.”

“He’s so innocent.” The twins materialize on either side of your chair despite the umbrella above them.

You sigh, leaning back in your sun lounger basking in the controlled chaos you are used to.

“No way! You’ve got it all wrong!”

You start, awakened by a powerful rumbling in the ground and echoing voice.

“Is that Renge?” Haruhi turns her head to the offending sound.

A cabana splits in half, and the trees part to make way for her infamous contraption, the rumbling sound now accompanied by her shrill laugh.

“How does she do that? It’s like the rig follows us.” Haruhi sweats.

you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose "One day, all i want is one day"

“That outfit’s pretty impressive,” Hikaru observes Renge’s two-piece bikini and a tattoo winding up her ribcage.

“What’s with the tattoo on your stomach?” Kaoru inquires.

“Oh, that? You don’t recognize it? I’m cosplaying.”

“Yeah, as who?”

“La-La~”

“LaLa? Like the manga magazine?” Kaoru grumbles.

“Her petite and slender frame, her blue eyes that light up young men’s faces, her singing voice! I am Quon Kisaragi!” Renge extolls.

“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Haruhi sneers.

“I had no idea who you were supposed to be.” Tamaki shrugs.

Once again, the twins and Tamaki are huddled in a circle as Renge poses for Haruhi, who watches, miffed.

“Hey, Boss, are you sure it’s okay for Renge to be dressed-”

“-like that?” They point to the girl in question.

“Well, yeah. That’s okay.” Tamaki shrugs indifferently.

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s cosplay? I guess.”

“Listen up, boys! You obviously need help understanding Haninozuka’s hidden motives. Look!” Renge notes, pointing over to Honey and Mori.

“Takashi!” Honey calls, landing in the current pool and letting the current sweep him gently away as Mori watches fondly.

“What are you talking about?” Tamaki implores.

“Think about what he said to you earlier.”

“Just looks cuter this way, you know?”

“He’s not being as sweet and innocent as you think.”

From the chair next to you, Kyoya shoves his glasses up his nose, “I agree. Try putting the word 'I’ at the beginning of that sentence.”

“I just look cuter this way, you know?”

“I look cute!”

“He planned that?!”

“That’s Haninozuka for you. In the last part, he felt threatened by another loli-boy type, so he’s taken steps to keep his rank. I should give him more credit. He’s a lot smarter than I thought.” Renge descends into the ground and disappears.

“Hey! Look at this, everybody!” Honey draws everyone’s attention to him and Mori.

Mori swims diligently against the current with Honey on his back.

“Check it out! Look! Even though we’re swimming really fast, we never go any farther than we are now!” He waves excitedly.

“So, what’s up with him?” Tamaki groans.

“Could he really be that smart?” Haruhi interjects.

Hikaru cocks his super-soaker water gun; the squeaking draws Tamaki’s attention to them before he’s blasted in the face with a stream of water.

“I got ya!” Hikaru winks handsomely, resting his weapon of choice on his shoulder.

“C'mon, Boss, let’s go! Let’s have a water gun fight.”

“It’ll be me and Kaoru against you. If you get it in the face, you lose. What do you say?” Hikaru implores, hand on his hip.

“Forget it.” Tamaki dries his face, “Why would I want to subject myself to a childish game like that?”

An idea forms in each of the twins’ minds.

All of a sudden, you’re grabbed by your wrist and pulled from your nap with an exclamation of surprise.

“y/n, I think it’s time that we got married! Then we’ll honeymoon in Atami!”

You quickly break from their hold, sitting back down on the lounger really not wanting to get involved. "Considering if y/n was going to marry anyone it would be me you clearly haven't thought through your plan very well" Kyoya spoke up, glaring at the twins before nodding towards haruhi.

The twins quickly pick up what he's putting down "Good point Kyoya, we were thinking about this all wrong, Haruhi clearly is the better option SHE should marry us"

"gee thanks" you mutter but its clear that it did the job of pissing off Tamaki, breaking out a waterfight between the three of them.

“I’ll get you guys! Sideways-leaping shot!” Tamaki launches himself sideways, but the twins shield themselves with two comically large tiki masks.

“That’s cheating!” When Tamaki lands, his foot catches on the previously discarded banana peel, and he tumbles noisily into a totem pole, head first.

You wince and suck in a breath through clenched teeth, “Oh- that didn’t sound good.”

One by one, the animals on the totem pole’s eyes glow an intimidating red until the final animal at the top is shining.

You remove your sunglasses from your eyes and place them on your head, “That… doesn’t sound good either.”

As if he senses something is amiss, Mori drops his glass at your feet, attention diverting to Honey in the current pool, still carelessly kicking his feet.

Something underneath the water rumbles, and a wave develops until it’s practically a tsunami. With wide eyes, Honey watches as it heads straight towards him.

“Wah~!” It crashes over him, and his bunny float is sent soaring into the air- but without him inside as he’s flushed in the wave.

“Honey-Senpai!” You lurch from your chair, and your sunglasses fall discarded to the ground.

“Mitsukuni!”

Both you and Mori hurry to see if you have enough time to save him, but Mori slips on the same banana peel and falls harshly to the unforgiving concrete.

“Mori-Senpai,” You call in concern.

Tamaki jabs a heroic finger in the air, “Gentlemen, we’re going after Honey-Senpai! That pool looks like the quickest way!” he announces, referring to the pool Honey was treading water in before he was washed away.

“Charge!” Haruhi, Mori, and the twins follow Tamaki’s lead as they sprint haphazardly in a random direction.

As you see that Kyoya’s stayed put, you decide that it might be best to stay put as well. His family did build this resort, after all.

“Wait! I wouldn’t go-”

It’s already too late; the club has come across the alligators in that direction. “There are alligators in there!” They flee as quickly as they can.

Tamaki jabs another heroic finger in the air, “Okay. So we can’t use that pool, then let’s try this way next!”

But where Tamaki has pointed, several more alligators appear, snapping their jaws in a warning.

“They’re here too!”

“And here!”

With his more petite, brown leather portable notebook, Kyoya’s glasses glint off the sun as he explains your current situation.

“Those alligators belong to the park’s tropical animals exhibit. I guess it is kind of dangerous to let them run wild.”

“And yet i'm supposedly the one with bad ideas?” You huff in frustration, peering at Kyoya from your crouched position on your nap chair.

“Though, the cause of our present situation seems to be the location of the switch for the current pool. I’ll have to have a little chat with our designers.” He snaps the notebook shut.

“Thanks a lot, you guys. I got some great data today.”

“You what?!” The club exclaims.

“Ok I'll admit that is a little smart" You shrug.

“This is a map of the Tropical Aqua Garden. This is our current location. We need to get here- I have a feeling that’s where Honey-Senpai probably ended up. It might be tough, because to get there, we’ll have to make it this jungle area in the southern block.”

Kyoya drags his pen along the map to indicate your path, “Distance-wise, we’re talking about 800 meters.”

“It looks like there’s a lot of undeveloped areas. And idea what might be lurking in those parts of the jungle?” Haruhi cautiously inquires.

“Since they’re still being developed, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Yeah, someone’s going to have to carry me.” You lift your arms high and glance around for any takers.

None. Yet. You’re going to have to work on your skills.

“Whatever’s out there could be even more dangerous-”

“-than alligators.”

“Alright. Now, this is a mission of survival! I know we can make it through the treacherous jungle in one piece… It is our sworn duty to save Honey-Senpai!”

♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡

In the dense plant life and humidity of the inner workings of the jungle, the sunlight is much more filtered than it was out in the open.

“Wow, this place is just like a real jungle, huh?”

If you couldn’t see the glass dome and someone had dropped you off in the middle of this theme park with no knowledge as to how you got there, you might have believed you were in the jungle.

“Yeah, and I keep hearing all of these really strange animal calls,” Haruhi grumbles.

“You don’t think that all of those animal sounds-”

“-could belong to the real thing, do you?”

Kyoya shrugs, “To be honest, I’m not sure, but I do know that my family always strives for authenticity whatever the cost.”

"There surely must be some kind of ethical issue if that is the case, wouldn't be a good healing facility if there is a serious alligator injury" you pointed out, suprised that Kyoya's family would put actually dangerous animals in an enclosed area.

Kyoya hummed "I suppose so but it also wouldn't surprise me if that was on purpose to drive more business to our hospitals" he muttered only loud enough for you to hear really. It didn't surprise you either really but you dreaded to think if that was actually the case.

As if on cue, Mori slips and falls behind the group. At the loud grunt and crash, you all turn to him. He lays unmoving with a banana peel on his face.

“Mori-Senpai is-”

“-acting as clumsy as you do, Boss.” Hikaru and Kaoru worry.

“Shut up!” Tamaki snarls as Mori sits up from his position on the ground.

Your accusations are correct- Mori is more worried than you can imagine.

The sunlight diminishes greatly, and you look overhead to see the beginnings of rainfall.

“Uh-oh, it’s about time for the squall,” Kyoya notes as he checks his wristwatch.

“Huh?”

The first few drops fall, then it turns into a downpour. You and the club take refuge in a nearby pavilion with a straw roof.

“Hey, Mori-Senpai. You seem to be really close with Honey-Senpai. Are the two of you like childhood friends?” Haruhi inquires from her seat in the pavilion beside the twins as Mori leans on the edge, watching the raindrops fall.

"You don't know?" hikaru asked "They're cousins" Kaoru added. You lean back against the wall of the shelter you are all in, sighing as you look out into the rain.

"Now this is the kind of rain that I remember" you mutter to yourself, the rain reminding you of europe. Kyoya also leans against the wall next to you "Hello? It's me. Well, we've had an incident that's caused some trouble"

you look up to see Kyoya on the phone, most likely to either his father or someone high up in his private police force. "No she's fine. yes she's unharmed" You raised an eyebrow, obvious that he was talking about you although you were confused on why whoever he was talking to was asking about you.

In the mean time Mori and Haruhi seem to wander off "Yes, at once, please" he finally put down the phone. "My family's private police force is going to send in a search and rescue team to help us, they're better equipped to find Honey-senpai than we are. so let's just go back to the gate and wait there"

The others weren't listening except for you, too busy arguing over Haruhi. "Hey, where are Mori and Haruhi?" he questioned as all of you left the shelter to head for the gate, but he shrugged it off, figuring they would show up at some point with a search and rescue team around.

The other boys rush ahead, still arguing "when you were on the phone before, you were talking about me? weren't you?" You ask kyoya, looking up at him as he looks ahead. "I was, why do you ask?"

You dead pan at him, head tilting at the side "You know why"

Kyoya sighs "you know I have a duty of care for you, as does my father, if I call up our police force when it is known that I am with you it is protocol to ask about your safety" he explains.

He pauses, stopping in his tracks "You know, I'm don't believe I mentioned to them that there are other visitors here. Huh. Oh well" He shrugs carrying on, hovering a hand over your back to urge you forward.

however instead of finding the gate you instead find a series of police officers on the floor with honey, Mori and Haruhi standing before them. We break out into a run at the sight of them "Haruhi!" Tamaki cries.

"Are you alright?" he adds, the five of you out of breath as you come to a halt "Hey its Tama-chan!" Honey says as if he hadn't just knocked out a dozen guards.

"You okay, senpai?" Hikaru asks. "Haruhi!!!" Tamaki leaps for her "I was so worried" the twins bend down to check on the guards "I'm not sure what happened here, but at least they're alive"

"It's pretty amazing that this is Honey sepai's work"

"He must have been really holding back" they continue to poke at the guards

"Huh?"

“What do you mean he was holding back?” Haruhi queries with innocent eyes, although Tamaki is in serious pain.

“So then-”

“-you don’t know about Senpai?” The twins seem bewildered by her lack of knowledge.

“The Haninozukas are famous for their martial arts. Not only have they helped train the police and SDF forces, but they’ve also worked with several overseas military forces.” Hikaru elaborates as they abandon their fascination with the grounded soldiers.

“Honey-Senpai, in particular, has been called the dreadnaught of the Haninozuka family. By the time he was in middle school, he’d become the national champion in both karate and judo.”

Honey turns when he feels he’s called, then giggles with closed eyes.

That’s the karate and judo champion for you.

“Mori-Senpai’s no slouch either. He won the national championship in kendo when he was just in middle school.”

Haruhi looks to her savior, and he turns when his name is mentioned.

“So how were you able to find us, Honey-Senpai?” the twins inquire as Honey has returned to his natural aura.

“It wasn’t hard. It didn’t take me long to reach the end of the current pool, so I decided to look for you guys.”

“We humbly apologize!” A different, more foreign voice pipes in, and the attention of the club directs to the soldiers, now reoriented from their initial shock and kneeling to the ground in a show of respect.

“I am a second-generation student of the Ishizuka Dojo!”

“I’m a student of the Todoroki Dojo!”

“And I’m from the Otakeh Dojo! We are in your debt!”

Honey’s eyes and posture display innocence and confusion, “Why? Is something wrong?” His voice can easily be mistaken for an eight-year-old boy’s.

“Yes, sir! We’re so sorry, sir! We were unaware that we were searching for Mitsukuni Haninozuka! We’ve committed a terrible offense here! I apologize for this confrontation. But my dojo will be so excited to hear that I’ve come face to face with the great Haninozuka! I cherish this moment!”

You snort, scooting closer to Kyoya, “I bet if he offered them an autograph, they’d pass out.” You snicker. You almost draw a smile from him, but rather he gives you a condescending look.

“What? I bet I’m not wrong.” You pout.

Honey takes Mori by the wrist and gently brings him down to his level, patting him gingerly on the forehead, “Takashi~ you did an amazing job of protecting Haru-chan.”

This patronizing show of affection elicits a smile from Kyoya as he adjusts his glasses.

“I bet you were pretty lonely without me around, huh?”

Mori’s eyes dart to the right where Haruhi is stood, “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

Honey smiles with a fond giggle.

♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡

With the sun setting, the clear, blue water now fades to an orange, coral color as it washes upon the shore. It has taken the rest of the day to walk back to where you’d begun this journey.

Despite his earlier resentment, you now ride on Kyoya’s back, limp arms slung around his neck and your cheek pressed to his back, eyes contently shut.

Back to your much deserved nap.

“You know, maybe we should go to the beach next.” The twins stride ahead with arms casually thrown behind their heads.

“Yeah, the beach would be nice.” Kaoru agrees.

Kyoya glances over his shoulder at your relaxed features and smiles fondly. He’ll have to keep you away from the water.

“You idiots, Haruhi’s not interested in anything like that.” Tamaki scoffs confidently.

Haruhi smiles gently, “Actually, I might like to go to the beach.” It stuns the club, each one stopping in their tracks to look at her.

“I may not be into this silly water park but I like the ocean. It would be nice to go the beach, and it’s so pretty.”

Completely recovered and acting like he hasn’t just opposed it, Tamaki glitters, “Yeah! Alright. Then that’s where we’ll go next time.”

“We’re all gonna go to the beach, Tama-chan?” Honey quips, perched on Mori’s shoulders.

He hums gently, “That’ll be fun, don’t you think?” His inquiry is directed to Mori below him.

Mori simpers fondly, “Yeah,” It’s not hard to pick up the genuine agreement in his tone.

Next time on patience 'The Sun, the sea, and the host club!'

Tag list (reply to be added): @skottch @cgmajor @rebirthbunbun @bbybubbles @blueberry19000

[girlactress]

through the lens

pairing: matt sturniolo x reader

a/n: based on this post from matts instagram!

. ݁₊ ⊹.ᐟ

you stood a few steps back, camera in hand, framing matt against the late afternoon sun. the golden light softened the edges of everything it touched—his denim jacket, the rolled-up sleeves revealing his forearms, and the faint curve of his jaw as he glanced down at his boots. he shifted, clearly unsure of what to do with his hands, and the small, endearing motion made you grin.

“relax,” you called, adjusting the camera slightly. “you look great. just be yourself.”

matt glanced up at you, his lips twitching into something between a smile and a grimace. “this is me relaxed,” he muttered, his voice low and sheepish.

his laugh was soft, but the sound carried, warm and familiar. he tried to hide it by looking away, the tips of his ears flushing a light pink. you couldn’t resist teasing him. “if that’s you relaxed, you’re one step away from becoming a statue.”

“come on,” you coaxed, tilting your head as you adjusted the focus. “give me something real. i don’t know… maybe that look you give when you’re pretending not to be embarrassed.”

his head shot up, his eyes narrowing at you in mock offense. “i don’t have a look,” he said, his tone defensive but playful.

“oh, you definitely have a look,” you shot back, your finger poised over the shutter. “you’re doing it right now, by the way.”

he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet, here you are,” you replied without missing a beat, snapping a shot just as he shook his head, a small, exasperated smile breaking through.

matt groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck as his blush deepened. “you’re lucky i agreed to this,” he said, glancing at you from under his lashes.

“lucky? please,” you teased, lowering the camera for a moment. “you’ll thank me when this post gets a million likes. everyone’s gonna lose their minds over you.”

he rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up again, betraying him. “yeah, sure. it’s definitely not your photography skills they’ll be complimenting.”

“oh, absolutely not,” you said, smirking. “it’ll all be about how good you look. and, matt,”—you paused dramatically, clicking the shutter again—“you look really, really good.”

his blush deepened so fast you almost felt bad. almost. he ducked his head, a shy laugh escaping him as he mumbled, “stop. seriously.”

“why? you’re cute when you’re flustered,” you replied, stepping closer now.

his hands found the edge of his jacket, his fingers fiddling with the fabric. “you’re impossible, you know that?”

“and yet, here you are,” you echoed, lifting the camera for one last shot. this time, he looked directly at you, his smile soft but genuine, the kind of smile that always made your chest feel just a little too tight.

“perfect,” you murmured as you lowered the camera, unable to keep from smiling back.

“yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hopeful.

“yeah,” you said, meeting his gaze. “but i think it’s less about the photo and more about you.”

he groaned again, covering his face with one hand, but you could see the smile beneath it, the way his shoulders shook with a quiet laugh.

“you’re impossible,” he said again, but there was no mistaking the affection in his tone.

[seven-seas-of-rhye-bread]

Lucius Verus x F!OC (Cassia)- Part 2

They're baccckkkk! Still finishing the outline for the rest of "A Fate Worse Than Death", but still wanted to write something today, so here is another fic with Lucius and our fave thermae attendant, Cassia.

Warning: Smut smut smut-- pinv, oral (male receiving), fingering, angsty longing etc etc. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE!

Disclaimer: dont @ me with historical accuracies-- its not that I don't care, it's that my brain only has the capacity for smut when I'm in this kind of feral mood.

A/N: Yes, I know there's not really an ending, but the good stuff is there. My brain just stops after my characters cum, I can't help it, it's a PROBLEM.

Once again, very lightly proof-read, sorry xx

Cassia watched the moon rise over Rome sitting on the steps of the thermae portico, another day come and gone. It had been another busy one as Roman citizens were feeling a sense of renewed hope for the future, eager to discuss the future of the city with one another within the walls of the baths. The city had been buzzing since the rightful emperor Lucius took the throne, stories spreading about the gladiator-turned-emperor.

Cassia had listened to Alba in disbelief, in their small shared room one night, as she relayed the fantastical stories she heard in the marketplace earlier that day. The gladiator champion-- yes, Hanno-- was Lucilla's lost son, rightful heir to the empire. Cassia had laughed at Alba's tale, she couldn't believe such a rumor, her friend must have misheard. But as the days and weeks passed, it was confirmed time and time again by bathers, and by the fact that Hanno had not returned to the thermae. She had slept with a Roman emperor-- no one would believe her if she told, except Alba-- who had blushed bright pink with excitement when Cassia regaled her with the story. 

And now Alba waved as she crossed the courtyard towards their living quarters, her silhouette illuminated against the fading lamp light. Cassia was about to get up and follow Alba when she saw their master, Italus, walking at a furious pace towards her.

He wasn't exactly kind, but he wasn't cruel like other masters in the city, as long as she did her job well, he let her be, so the look on his face was cause for concern. 

"Italus, good evening.." she said standing up to greet him, hoping that a civil start to the conversation would be heeded.

"Who do you know in the palace?" he demanded, his brow furrowed. 

"What do you mean?" Cassia asked-- she had never set foot on Palatine hill, how would she know someone in the palace?

 "I've received a summons for you from the palace! There is a guard here ready to escort you."

Cassia was at a loss, she never rubbed shoulders with elites, especially anyone residing in the palace. But it was then she realized it could only be Hanno-- or Lucius, now, she supposed. She kept quiet though, not wanting to divulge her history with the new emperor. 

"It.. must be a mistake, how would I know someone there?"

She could tell Italus was suspicious, but she knew that he could not reject a request from the palace-- even if it was a mistake.

 As he turned away hastily, he shouted back to her "Go change.. I don't need you embarrassing me in front of whoever has summoned you."  Cassia did change, with help from Alba, into her nicest tunic, in a deep saffron shade. Alba quickly brushed Cassia's hair and pinched her cheeks, bringing the slightest flush to them. She hurried to the main entrance where a guard was waiting next to a carriage. He said not a word but helped her in.

Cassia's stomach and mind turned the whole way there. When Hanno-- Lucius-- left the thermae for the last time, he had kissed her gently and taken a moment to just be in her grasp. She hadn't known at the time that he was only a day or two away from changing the future of the Roman empire.

It seemed so simple, a gladiator and a bathhouse servant, it was certainly nothing new, but she saw everything in a different light now. He was no longer more or less equal to her-- he was an emperor. He surely had everything-- and everyone- at his disposal now, but he still wanted her. Cassia wished her heart didn't swell with hope at this thought-- this was a whole other beast itself. She never wanted to be a concubine, never wanted to be at the beck and call of a man-- but was this now her fate? She was, after all, answering his call. 

The carriage came to a stop at the front of the palace, where she was helped out and led to the complex of grand buildings that made up the imperial palace. The servant who met her at an imposing archway led her through halls and rooms of unspeakable magnificence. Cassia had to remind herself, she was not here to admire the frescoes and mosaic floors. They arrived outside a set of doors, the servant opening one and motioned for her to enter.

Cassia could feel her heart pounding as she stepped across the threshold into a room, lit with countless lamps that reflected against the gold leaf that seemed to adorn every corner, but she didn't take note of any further details, as her eyes trained on him, standing by the entrance to a courtyard. 

She stood still near the door, not sure what she should do in the presence of an emperor. A radiant smile flashed across his face, as if she had materialized from the heavens. 

"You're here" he declared with satisfaction and what Cassia noted was a hint of relief. 

" I don't think I had a choice." she said quietly, still standing in the same spot.

His face fell with confusion, "why do you say that?"

"Refusing a summons from the palace isn't something one does." she explained, her heart full of so many different emotions-- wariness, apprehension, happiness at seeing him again-- unsure of how to act around him, now that he was emperor. 

Lucius walked towards her then. He looked like the same man she had known at the thermae, except dressed in vibrantly embroidered tunic and no longer covered in bruises and blood. 

"You came here... out of obligation?" he asked, an edge of disappointment in his voice.

He was standing near, but kept his distance from Cassia. She was honest with him, "Not only out of obligation."

A hint of a smile flashed across his face, and Cassia couldn't help but smile to herself. 

"What am I to call you now?" she asked, the knot in her stomach loosening in his presence.

 He gave another small smile, " whatever you want to call me."

She took a step towards him, "Caesar?... Imperator?...Hanno...?"

He laughed heartily at this last one, "you can call me Lucius."

Lucius stepped closer to Cassia and grabbed her hand, "I'm glad you came.. I had wanted to call on you sooner, but I wasn't sure if I should."

She felt comfort in the fact that he was also apprehensive, aware of each of their statuses in this world now.

"And why did you call me here?" she ran her fingers through his hair, a move he leaned into with eyes closed, "I don't think you need a bath..."

He gave a laugh and pulled her in close, his eyes searching hers, before he whispered, "you know why..."

Lucius met her lips with a sigh that stirred something in Cassia. She could feel relief in his kiss, and urgency to be as close to her as he could. His tongue brushed her lower lip and she met him with her own. Cassia kissed him as if it was the last time she would ever kiss him, or anyone, for that matter-- with a hunger, a desire to feel everything with Lucius so intensely that it would be burned into her memory forever. 

He pulled away reluctantly and led Cassia to the lavish bed that was centered just so that the moonlight shown on it through the open courtyard. Lucius pulled her in once more, untying the belted knot at her waist before turning Cassia around so her back was against his chest.

She could feel his cock, already fully hard and she hadn't even touched him yet. Lifting the fabric of her tunic, his hands, still calloused and rough from fighting, found her core.

He made slow circles around her clit, leaning into the rhythms that made her moan. Cassia grasped at him behind her, as he placed bites down her neck and collarbone. He slipped two fingers in her and pumped them in and out slowly. 

"You're already so wet for me..." he growled in her ear and retreated from within her.

 "Lucius..." Cassia breathed, her nails now digging into the side of his neck. She felt weak with pleasure, resting herself against his body.

Cassia grasped his hand as he pulled back from under her tunic, taking his fingers, still slick with her, into her own mouth. She hummed as she sucked herself off his fingers. She could hear a throaty groan from Lucius at her action and she turned back around to face him.

His mouth crashed into hers, desperate to taste what was left of her wetness. Cassia grasped at his elaborate tunic, helping him to pull the weighty fabric up and over his head.

She took a step back, pulling off her own tunic before casting a glance at his body. He might be emperor now, but he was riddled with scars-- some old, some newer, still healing. Cassia passed light fingers over his arms, feeling the taut, warm muscles, then moving her hands over his shoulders and chest.

Lucius's eyes fluttered closed, relaxing deeply at her touch. She felt along his cock with the lightest touch, feeling it twitch at the feather light feel. 

He kept his eyes closed, he breathed, " don't tease me.." 

She let her hand close around his shaft and replied, "I would never tease the emperor."

Cassia guided him back to sit on the bed while she got to her knees. Placing kisses and small bites up his strong thighs, she worked Lucius gently with her hand before taking his length into her mouth.

His cock was warm inside her mouth, filling her up to her throat, savoring the feeling and taste of him in her mouth. 

Cassia," he moaned, "Cassia, oh gods..."

 She pulled back, his cock making a pop as it left the velvety warmth of her mouth. Cassia sucked on the tip while stroking his shaft with one hand and gently massaging his weighty balls with her other.

Lucius grasped the back of her head, wrapping his hand around her hair and pulling gently. In a moment, he sat up on her elbows and looked down at her, his eyes heavy with lust, " I can't come until I have you."

She placed gentle kisses around the head of his cock, giving it one final suck before climbing on the bed. Lucius straddled her as soon as she lay back, spreading her legs open for him.

He held the tip of his cock against her cunt, rubbing it against her clit making Cassia squirm with pleasure underneath him. "Please, Lucius..." she moaned as she grasped her own breast, feeling the need to do something-- anything-- to feel pleasure. 

He dragged his cock up and down her cunt once more, gathering her wetness before he leaned down over her. Both of them stilled for a moment, simply looking into each other's eyes, their breathing was in unison now.

Lucius positioned his cock at her wet entrance and pushed in, slowly filling her up. Cassia felt her walls stretch with his length and thickness, breathing through the intensity of the stretch until he was fully in her.

He started slow and deep with his thrusts, eliciting a low moan into his ear, somehow making him even harder. He picked up his pace when she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him into her as deep as he could go.

Lucius placed one leg up over his shoulder, burrowing even deeper into her. Cassia arched her back into him, her breathing becoming shallow and ragged. He could tell by the way her cunt clenched around his that she was going to come soon.

Cassia held onto his arms as he continued to fuck down into her, hearing her gasp his name as he felt her approach her orgasm. He followed soon after with his own climax, crying out as he collapsed on top of her.

"I'm crushing you, I'm sorry..." he said breathlessly, attempting to roll off of her but she stopped him.

"Don't... not yet," Lucius let himself rest back into her arms.