#and it is a monumental life changing moment

[kpoplustzone]

Wedding Fuck - KIM YOO JUNG SMUT - Diamond Exclusive

OC X KIM YOO JUNG

Yoojung sat perched on the edge of a vanity stool, the weight of the pristine white dress a tangible presence around her. The mirror reflected an image she barely recognized, a woman on the precipice of a monumental life change. The gown, a masterpiece of delicate lace and flowing silk, dipped daringly low in the front, offering a generous view of the gentle curves of her breasts and the alluring valley of her cleavage. Her fingers traced the intricate embroidery along the neckline, the cool silk starkly contrasting with the sudden heat that flushed her skin.

She remembered watching Jiwoo's joyful video earlier, the unbridled happiness radiating from her friend. A faint smile touched Yoojung's lips, a genuine warmth for Jiwoo mingled with that persistent pang of longing for her fairytale. Today, however, the fairytale was supposed to be hers. She was marrying Kang Hyun-woo, a charming and successful businessman who, on paper, was everything she had ever wanted. 

The photographer's gaze lingered a moment longer than professional courtesy demanded, his eyes, a touch too hungry, tracing the curve of Yoojung's exposed cleavage where the delicate lace of the bodice barely contained her full breasts. He swallowed subtly, the movement betraying his captivated attention.

As Yoojung stood, the wedding dress satin stretched taut across her abdomen and hips, emphasizing the sleek, toned lines of her figure. The fabric clung to her like a lover's embrace, revealing the firm swell of her backside with each graceful step. The low-cut neckline plunged deep, offering an enticing glimpse down the shadowed crevice between her ample breasts, a view that undoubtedly made the photographer's job more… engaging. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, a silent, appreciative appraisal that went beyond simply capturing the perfect shot. It was a gaze that stripped away the layers of the bridal gown, seeing the desirable woman beneath

Yoojung composed herself, a practiced smile gracing her lips as she prepared to strike a pose. "Ready when you are," she said, her voice carrying a professional lilt. The cameraman adjusted his focus, then reached up and slowly removed the black face mask he had been wearing.

A shock, sharp and sudden as an electric jolt, ripped through Yoojung. Her smile faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Standing opposite her, holding the expensive camera with a disconcerting air of nonchalance, was Min-jae – her ex-boyfriend.

Her mind reeled, a chaotic whirlwind of disbelief and resurfacing pain. Min-jae. The man whose betrayal had left her heartbroken and questioning her judgment. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, a scene ripped from a poorly written drama.

Her thoughts flashed back to those painful months, the unraveling of their once seemingly perfect relationship. It had started with small, almost insignificant inconsistencies – late nights at work that stretched into the early hours of the morning, hushed phone calls he’d take outside, a vague defensiveness that had never been there before. Yoojung had initially brushed them aside, trusting him, wanting to believe in their love.

But the whispers had started soon after, insidious little seeds of doubt planted by mutual acquaintances. They spoke of Min-jae being seen with other women – a junior colleague from his office, a striking model at a club, even a former classmate he’d reconnected with. Each rumour was a tiny pinprick, slowly deflating the balloon of her happiness.

The final confirmation had come like a brutal punch to the gut. A friend, utterly mortified, had sent her a series of blurry photos taken late one night at a secluded restaurant. Min-jae, his arm wrapped intimately around a woman who was not her, their faces inches apart, a tender smile on his lips that Yoojung had once believed was solely for her. There were more photos – him leaving the restaurant with the same woman, their hands intertwined.

The world had tilted on its axis. The man she had loved, the man she had envisioned a future with, had been systematically betraying her, not just once, but seemingly with multiple women. The photos were undeniable, the truth a bitter pill she was forced to swallow.

The confrontation had been messy, filled with her tearful accusations and his pathetic denials that quickly crumbled under the weight of evidence. He’d tried to gaslight her, to twist the narrative, but Yoojung, fueled by the raw agony of betrayal, had seen through his lies. The breakup had been swift and decisive. She had cut him out of her life, the pain a constant ache that had slowly, painstakingly begun to heal over time.

Now, here he was, standing a few feet away, his presence a ghost from her past resurrected on the most important day of her life. The audacity of it stunned her, the shock momentarily eclipsing everything else. Her carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter. What was he doing here? Had he known? Was this some kind of twisted game? Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence that had fallen in the room.

Yoojung found her voice, though it was a strained whisper, barely audible above the hushed preparations around them. “Min-jae? What… what are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding the initial shock.

Min-jae offered a slow, almost arrogant smile, the same one that used to make her heart flutter with excitement, now twisting in her stomach with a bitter resentment. “Surprised to see me, Yoojung-ah?” His gaze swept over her, lingering pointedly on the low-cut neckline of her dress. “You look stunning. Truly… a vision.” There was a husky quality to his voice, a familiar tone that used to precede stolen kisses and whispered intimacies.

Yoojung’s fists clenched beneath the folds of her dress. “That doesn’t answer my question, Min-jae. You have no right to be here, at my wedding.”

He chuckled softly, adjusting his camera lens with a deliberate slowness. “Oh, but I do. The happy couple hired me, or rather, the wedding planner did. My portfolio speaks for itself. Though” his eyes flickered down her body again, a predatory glint in their depths, “nothing in my portfolio has ever captured a subject as… exquisitely tempting as you look right now, all trussed up in white, ready to be claimed.”

A wave of nausea mixed with a perverse thrill washed over Yoojung. His audacity was infuriating, yet his words, laced with that familiar seductive undertone, stirred a long-dormant ache within her. “Get out,” she hissed, her voice trembling slightly. “Leave, before I make a scene.”

Min-jae took a step closer, his eyes locked on hers, the camera now resting against his chest. “Make a scene, Yoojung? On your wedding day? Would your handsome groom appreciate the drama? Or perhaps… he wouldn’t mind a little reminder of what he’s about to possess? This dress… it barely hides anything, does it? All that soft skin, those perfect curves… I remember them well.” His gaze dropped again to her cleavage, and Yoojung felt a flush creep up her neck. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, even after all this time.

Before Yoojung could formulate a sharp retort or demand Min-jae’s immediate removal, the door to the room swung open and a flurry of excited voices filled the air. Her bridesmaids, close friends from her school days, rushed in to shower her with last-minute well wishes and exclamations of admiration.

“Yoojung-ah! You look breathtaking!” exclaimed one, Hyeri, her eyes wide with genuine delight.

“Like a goddess!” another, Soo-jin, chimed in, rushing forward to give Yoojung a tight hug.

Min-jae, with the swiftness of someone practiced in evasion, immediately turned his back and pretended to busy himself with his equipment, his face now conveniently obscured by his camera and a raised hand as if adjusting something. Yoojung’s heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t risk her friends seeing him, not now, not before the ceremony.

“Oh my gosh, let’s take some pictures!” Hyeri suggested, pulling out her phone. The bridesmaids gathered around Yoojung, their bright smiles a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within her. For the sake of appearances, Yoojung plastered on her most radiant smile. Min-jae, still facing away, subtly adjusted his position as if capturing the scene with his professional lens, his silence going unnoticed in the cheerful commotion.

After a flurry of phone snapshots and excited chatter about the upcoming ceremony, the bridesmaids, mindful of the time, gave Yoojung one last round of hugs. “We’ll see you at the altar, our beautiful bride!” Soo-jin called out as they made their way towards the door. “Everything’s going to be perfect!”

As the door clicked shut behind them, a heavy silence descended upon the room once more, the earlier joyful atmosphere now replaced by a palpable tension. Yoojung’s smile vanished, her gaze immediately snapping back to the man who was slowly turning to face her, the mask now discarded on a nearby table.

Min-jae closed the distance between them, his eyes slowly raking over Yoojung from the delicate veil adorning her hair down to the intricate lace at the hem of her gown. He stopped mere inches away, his gaze lingering on the deep V-neck of her dress. “You look… different,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper. “So pure, so… untouched. Almost makes me forget all the nights that dress wouldn’t have lasted five seconds on that body of yours.”

His eyes flickered up to meet hers, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “This pristine white… a far cry from the way it would be stained after a night with me, wouldn’t you say?” He let his gaze drift down again, imagining, no doubt, the marks he used to leave on her skin. “That perfect skin… I remember how it would flush under my touch, the little shivers that would run through you when I just grazed your thigh.”

He lifted his hand slowly, his knuckles lightly brushing against the side of his neck, mimicking a caress, and his eyes locked with Yoojung’s. “And this… this would be slick with your saliva, your nails digging in as I…” He let the sentence hang in the air, the unfinished words painting a vivid picture of their past intimacy.

Yoojung’s breath caught in her throat. Despite the anger and resentment she felt towards him, a wave of unwanted memories flooded her mind. The feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of his lips, the way her body would indeed tremble and ache with a desperate need for his touch. A shiver traced its way down her spine, a physical manifestation of the memories that his words had so crudely resurrected. Her carefully constructed composure began to crack, a flicker of something other than anger – a confusing mix of longing and revulsion – flickering in her eyes. Her own hands, still clasped tightly in front of her, betrayed her inner turmoil, the knuckles white against the delicate lace of her gloves

Min-jae moved with a predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet as he circled behind Yoojung. He stopped directly behind her, his body so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him, even through the layers of her wedding gown. He leaned in, his breath warm against the delicate skin of her neck, just below her ear where he knew she was most sensitive.

“Remember this, Yoojung-ah?” he rasped, his voice thick with a possessive hunger. “The way my breath used to make you shiver? This exact spot… begging for my lips, my teeth.” His hands, no longer holding the camera, now hovered inches from her waist, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

“This dress,” he continued, his voice a low purr, his gaze tracing the line of her spine visible through the fabric, “it’s beautiful, truly. But all I can think about is tearing it off you, piece by piece, just like I used to, remember? That frantic desperation to feel my skin against yours.” His hands finally made contact, his fingers splaying across her waist, pulling her back just a fraction against his hardening body. Yoojung’s breath hitched, a gasp escaping her lips despite her attempts to remain composed.

He lowered his head further, his lips nuzzling the delicate curve of her ear. “And down here…” His fingers subtly tightened on her hips, pressing her against the growing bulge in his trousers. “This is where you’d be pressed against me, slick and begging for my cock. That little wetness that would bloom between your legs just thinking about me… I can almost feel it now, can’t you?” His words, raw and explicit, painted a vivid picture of their past encounters, a stark contrast to the virginal white of her wedding dress.

Yoojung’s body betrayed her, a tremor running through her despite her anger. Her thighs instinctively clenched, a familiar heat pooling low in her belly. The memories, so carefully suppressed, surged back with a visceral intensity – the way her body used to crave his touch, the almost shameful eagerness with which she would surrender to his desires. He knew her so well, every nerve ending, every secret pleasure point. And with just a few words, a few carefully placed touches, he was unraveling her, right here, moments before she was supposed to pledge herself to another man.

Yoojung tried to stiffen, to pull away from the intoxicating closeness of him, but her resistance felt weak, almost perfunctory, like a swimmer caught in a strong current. “Min-jae… stop it,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper, betraying more breathlessness than command.

He chuckled softly, his lips still close to her ear. “Stop? When you know you want this, Yoojung-ah? When your body is already remembering every touch?” His hands moved from her hips, sliding up her back, his fingers tracing the delicate boning of her corset. He paused just below the neckline of her dress, his fingertips hovering tantalizingly just above the swell of her breasts, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, his hand slipped beneath the low-cut edge of her dress. His fingers, warm and knowing, slid down the creamy skin of her chest, settling right in the deep valley between her ample breasts. He could feel the soft, yielding flesh beneath his touch, the heat radiating from her skin. Yoojung gasped, her eyes fluttering closed, a shiver running through her entire frame.

Min-jae slowly turned Yoojung around, his hands sliding from her cleavage to grip her waist, pulling her close until their bodies were almost touching. Their eyes locked for a tense moment, a silent battle raging between anger, resentment, and a resurfacing desire. Then, his gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted, and a familiar hunger flickered in his eyes.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers tentatively at first, then pressing harder, a demanding kiss that sent a jolt of unwanted pleasure through Yoojung. His mouth moved over hers with a practiced familiarity, a dance they had performed countless times before. Memories of their passionate embraces flooded her senses, momentarily overriding her present circumstances.

His hands, still possessive, remained on her breasts, his thumbs pressing into the soft fabric of her wedding dress, directly over her nipples. He could feel them harden instantly beneath his touch, a silent confirmation of her body’s treacherous response to him. The pressure was firm, almost bruising, yet a thrill shot through Yoojung, a stark reminder of the raw, unfiltered desire he used to ignite within her. The delicate lace and satin of her bridal gown felt like nothing, a mere barrier to the intimate connection his touch was re-establishing.

Min-jae’s kiss deepened, his lips parting hers, his tongue slipping inside to explore the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. It was a familiar invasion, a taste that still lingered in her memory, both sweet and forbidden. Yoojung found herself momentarily lost in the sensation, her body responding with a treacherous familiarity, her tongue hesitantly meeting his.

His hands on her breasts tightened, his fingers kneading through the layers of satin and lace, finding the sensitive tips and teasing them with a rhythmic motion. Yoojung gasped into the kiss, a low moan escaping her throat that she tried to suppress.

Min-jae broke the kiss, his breath hot against her flushed cheek. “You still taste the same, Yoojung-ah,” he rasped, his eyes dark with lust. “Like pure sin and everything I shouldn’t want… but crave anyway.” His hands slid further down her chest, spreading out over the soft mounds of her breasts, his thumbs now rubbing insistently against her already hard nipples. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath his palms.

“This dress…” he murmured, his fingers tracing the outline of her areolae through the fabric, “it’s supposed to be for your husband, isn’t it? Imagine his surprise if he knew what had already happened in it… the way my hands are all over you, remembering every inch.” He leaned closer, his lips finding her ear again. “Tell me, Yoojung, are you as wet for me now as you used to get just from my whispers?”

The dam of Yoojung's resistance finally broke. His words, his touch, the raw familiarity of his desire had chipped away at her anger until only a desperate yearning remained. With a soft groan, she surrendered to the kiss, her lips parting wider, her tongue meeting his with a fervor that matched his own. The carefully constructed image of the poised bride shattered, replaced by the passionate woman he remembered so well.

Her hands, which had been clenched tightly moments ago, now roamed freely over his body. She clutched at the fabric of his shirt, bunching it in her fists as she pulled him closer, her body pressing against his through the layers of her wedding gown. Her fingers then traced the hard contours of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart mirroring her own frantic rhythm.

Min-jae broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes, burning with undisguised lust, dropped to the neckline of Yoojung's dress. With a swift, practiced movement, his fingers fumbled with the delicate clasps at the back of the bodice. The low-cut front loosened further, and with a final tug, the fabric parted, revealing the full glory of Yoojung's ample breasts. They spilled out from the confines of the dress, their weight and fullness momentarily taking his breath away, the already hardened nipples now fully exposed and begging for his touch.

Min-jae’s lips left hers, trailing a line of wet kisses down her jawline to the sensitive hollow of her throat. He lingered there, sucking gently on her skin, and Yoojung’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Remember how much you loved this?” he whispered against her skin, his breath hot and moist. “My mouth on your neck, your body trembling like a leaf?” He lifted his head slightly, his eyes locking with hers, a knowing smirk on his face.

Then, his gaze dropped to her exposed breasts, his expression softening with a raw desire. Slowly, reverently, he reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her left breast. The skin was soft and warm, and her nipple was already erect, a hard little bud begging for attention. He brushed his thumb across it lightly, and Yoojung gasped, a shiver running down her spine.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Just as I remember. Big and full, wanting to be touched, wanting my mouth all over them.” His other hand joined the first, and he cupped both her breasts, savoring their weight in his palms. He began to knead them gently, his thumbs circling her nipples, teasing and taunting them.

Yoojung’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. The feel of his hands on her bare skin, after the initial shock, was igniting a familiar fire within her. She closed her eyes, the wedding dress feeling like a ridiculous costume in this moment of raw, resurfacing passion.

“Tell me what you want,” Min-jae whispered, his lips hovering over her right breast, his warm breath caressing her nipple. “Tell me you want me to taste you, just like I used to.” His fingers tightened slightly on her other breast, and Yoojung’s hips shifted instinctively, a silent plea.

A soft whimper escaped her lips. “Min-jae…” she breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of longing and shame.

He didn’t wait for her to finish. His mouth closed over her nipple, sucking gently at first, then with more intensity. Yoojung’s back arched, and a moan of pure pleasure ripped from her throat. Her hands, still entangled in his hair, pulled him closer, wanting more of the sensation that was flooding her senses

His other hand, no longer content with simply cupping her breast, slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, finding the bare skin beneath. His fingers traced the curve of her ribs, then moved lower, inching towards her waist, feeling the subtle tremor that ran through her body with every touch. The contrast between the smooth, exposed skin of her upper body and the restrictive layers of the wedding gown below only heightened the illicit thrill of their encounter.

Min-jae’s suction on her nipple intensified, and Yoojung cried out, her body arching involuntarily. He switched his attention to her other breast, his mouth now latching onto that eager peak, his tongue flicking and swirling around the sensitive nub, drawing out a series of escalating moans from her. His hands worked her flesh relentlessly, squeezing, kneading, and teasing, as if rediscovering every familiar contour.

“Tell me you remember how good this feels, Yoojung-ah,” he murmured between frantic sucks on her breast. “Tell me you’ve missed my mouth on your body, driving you wild like this.”

Yoojung’s head lolled back, her eyes half-closed, her senses overwhelmed by the sensations he was so expertly evoking. “Yes… Min-jae… yes,” she gasped, her voice barely audible. Her hands, no longer hesitant, were now clawing at his back, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer, desperate for more.

His hand that had been exploring her waist now dipped lower, his fingertips brushing against the top of the delicate fabric of her bridal undergarments. He lingered there for a torturous moment, feeling the dampness that had already begun to bloom. A knowing smirk touched his lips against her breast. “Just like I remembered,” he whispered, his voice thick with triumph. “So eager for me, even in this ridiculous dress for another man.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with hers, their depths swirling with a potent mix of lust and a complicated history. He reached down and gently lifted the hem of her wedding dress, his gaze lingering on the expanse of her bare legs revealed beneath. The pristine white of the fabric against her flushed skin created a stark and undeniably erotic contrast. His fingers trailed up her thigh, sending shivers racing through her, until he reached the lace trim of her panties, already soaked with her arousal.

Min-jae’s fingers slipped beneath the lacy elastic of her panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he slid them down her thighs, the soft fabric bunching at her ankles before falling silently to the floor. Yoojung shivered, the sudden absence of the delicate barrier intensifying the heat that had already taken root between her legs. The cool air against her slick skin only heightened her arousal.

Keeping the front of her wedding dress lifted just enough, Min-jae’s hand returned to the core of her being. His fingers, still slightly damp from touching her breasts, now traced the swollen lips of her already soaking wet vagina. Yoojung gasped, her thighs parting instinctively, offering him greater access. He pressed a finger gently into the slick crevice, feeling her muscles clench around him.

“So wet for me, even now,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. He began to stroke her slowly, his finger gliding along the sensitive folds, teasing and tantalizing. Yoojung’s head fell back against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hips began to rock almost involuntarily, pressing against his exploring fingers, seeking deeper contact.

He then traced a line down from her swollen clitoris, feeling its hard bead beneath his touch, down through the slickness to the opening of her eager channel. He lingered there for a moment, pressing gently, before sliding his fingers further inside, one then two, stretching her, filling her. Yoojung cried out, a high-pitched moan that echoed in the room, her body arching off the wall as his fingers began to move within her, mimicking the rhythm of their past intimacies.

Just as Min-jae’s fingers delved deeper, a sharp, insistent knock echoed from the door, followed by a familiar voice calling out, “Yoojung? Everything alright in there, honey? I just wanted to check on you before the ceremony.”

Yoojung’s eyes widened in sheer panic, her breath catching in her throat. It was Hyun-woo, her groom. With a strangled gasp, she grabbed Min-jae’s arm, her grip like a vise, and frantically pulled him towards the far side of the dressing room. A row of full-length dresses, still in their protective coverings, offered a last-minute shield.

They stumbled behind the hanging garments, the rustling of fabric momentarily masking their movements. Yoojung pressed herself against the wall, her head just barely visible above the tops of the dresses. Min-jae, with a knowing smirk playing on his lips despite the precarious situation, crouched down out of sight, his gaze now level with the exposed lower half of her body.

The situation was undeniably compromising, and the visual from Min-jae's vantage point was a chaotic tableau of illicit desire against the backdrop of impending matrimony. Yoojung’s wedding gown was hiked up around her hips, revealing her bare, flushed buttocks. Below, his fingers were still slick with her arousal. Above, the bodice of her dress had been pulled down, and her full breasts spilled out over the lace, their nipples still taut and sensitive from his touch. The contrast between her bridal attire and her utterly exposed state was a potent and undeniably erotic sight for the hidden photographer.

Hyun-woo stepped into the dressing room, his voice warm and filled with anticipation. He spotted Yoojung’s head peeking out from behind the row of gowns and chuckled softly. “There you are, my beautiful bride. Almost ready?” He didn’t venture further into the room, respecting her privacy as he assumed she was still in the final stages of dressing. He leaned against the doorframe, a fond smile on his face. “I just wanted to tell you that you look absolutely radiant, even from this little glimpse I can see.”

While Hyun-woo’s attention was fixed on Yoojung’s face and his words filled the air, Min-jae, hidden from view, took the opportunity. His hands, still slick from Yoojung’s arousal, moved with a practiced stealth. He gently spread her bare buttocks apart, his fingers sliding into the warm, wet crevice of her vagina from behind. Yoojung gasped softly, the unexpected intrusion sending a shiver of both shock and a perverse thrill through her. She bit her lip hard, trying to suppress any outward reaction.

Hyun-woo continued, oblivious to the secret drama unfolding just behind the dresses. “I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle. It feels like a dream. Are you nervous?”

Min-jae’s fingers inside Yoojung began to move slowly, mimicking the rhythm of their earlier encounter. Yoojung’s thighs clenched involuntarily, and a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She tried to focus on Hyun-woo’s voice, forcing a smile to her lips that he could see. “A little,” she managed, her voice slightly breathier than she intended. “Just… excited.”

Min-jae’s middle finger found her sensitive spot, pressing gently, and Yoojung’s eyes flickered shut for a fleeting moment. She had to keep it together, for Hyun-woo's sake, for her own wedding. But the secret, forbidden pleasure Min-jae was so expertly delivering just inches away was making it agonizingly difficult.

Yoojung risked a quick, surreptitious peek down the row of dresses. Her body was angled slightly as she leaned forward a touch to keep her conversation with Hyun-woo sounding natural, a subtle adjustment that unintentionally offered Min-jae a more intimate view. The lifted hem of her gown, combined with her slight bend, now showcased the glistening wetness between her legs in the soft light filtering through the dressing room. Her exposed breasts, freed from the tight bodice, swayed gently with her movement, the nipples still visibly erect.

Hyun-woo continued to chat, his voice full of the sweet anticipation of their wedding. "I can't wait for you to finally be my wife, Yoojung. It feels like we've been waiting forever."

Behind the dresses, Min-jae's fingers continued their slow, deliberate strokes, his gaze now feasting on the unobstructed view. He could see the delicate folds of her vagina, glistening with her arousal, the creamy inner lips slightly parted

As if an invisible string had pulled her forward, Yoojung subtly bent down to adjust the hem of one of the dresses, her action conveniently placing her backside directly in Min-jae’s line of sight. The slight downward tilt offered him an even more explicit view of her glistening opening, practically begging for his touch. He didn’t hesitate.

With a swift, silent motion, Min-jae unfastened his trousers and freed his thick, engorged penis. The air thrummed with a charged anticipation as he positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock pressing against her wet folds. With a soft groan that he barely managed to suppress, he thrust forward, his length sliding deep inside her eager body.

Yoojung shuddered violently, a gasp escaping her lips that she quickly muffled with a cough. It had been so long since she had felt his thick shaft filling her, stretching her in that familiar, intensely pleasurable way. Her muscles clenched instinctively around him, her body instantly recognizing and welcoming the long-missed sensation. A deep, primal moan threatened to erupt from her throat, a sound that spoke of a thirst finally being quenched

Just a little nervous about saying the right vows," Yoojung said to Hyun-woo, her voice a carefully controlled tremble. Behind her, Min-jae thrust deeper, the head of his cock bumping against a spot that sent a wave of intense pleasure through her. Vows... yeah, the only vows I'm thinking about right now are the ones my body is screaming to Min-jae.

"Oh, don't worry, my love," Hyun-woo replied reassuringly from the other side of the dresses. "You'll be perfect. You always are."

Min-jae’s hands, which had been gripping her hips to steady himself, now began to squeeze and knead her buttocks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Perfectly tight,” he whispered close to her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. Yoojung had to bite down on her lip to stifle a gasp.

"It's just... a big commitment, you know?" Yoojung continued to Hyun-woo, her voice slightly strained. With each of Min-jae's thrusts, a searing pleasure shot through her, making it harder to concentrate on her words. Commitment… ironic, isn’t it?

"Of course, sweetheart," Hyun-woo said gently. "But it's a wonderful one. One that I know we're both ready for."

Min-jae pulled almost out and then plunged back in, hitting her sweet spot again and again. Yoojung's knees threatened to buckle, and she had to grip the dress in front of her to stay upright. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

"Did you say something?" Hyun-woo asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Just... adjusting my dress," Yoojung lied quickly, trying to keep her voice even. Behind her, Min-jae chuckled softly against her back, his cock throbbing deeply inside her. He knew exactly the precarious position he had put her in, and the thrill of it was evident in his movements.

“Yes, a very big step,” Yoojung replied to Hyun-woo, her voice wavering slightly as Min-jae’s pace quickened behind her. He was now thrusting with a more urgent rhythm, his hips grinding against her backside with a subtle friction that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her. She gripped the fabric of a nearby dress tightly, her knuckles white.

“But one you’re ready for, right?” Hyun-woo asked, a touch of teasing in his tone. “No last-minute cold feet?”

“Ready,” Yoojung insisted, her voice gaining a forced firmness. Behind her, Min-jae’s hand slipped lower, his fingers now tracing the wet folds surrounding his invading cock. He pressed down gently on her perineum with his thumb as he thrust upwards, hitting her deepest nerve. A gasp escaped her lips, and she coughed quickly to cover it.

“Sounds like you’re still catching your breath,” Hyun-woo chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.”

Min-jae’s lips were now at Yoojung’s ear again, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine. “Tonight?” he whispered, his voice thick with amusement and lust. “He has no idea what kind of ‘care’ you truly crave, does he?” He thrust hard, making Yoojung’s knees buckle slightly.

“Just… a little excited,” Yoojung managed, trying to keep her voice steady for Hyun-woo. Her head lolled forward against the dress she was holding, her body a tense wire strung between feigned composure and raw, mounting pleasure. Min-jae continued his relentless assault, each thrust a deep, possessive claim on her body, a secret, forbidden act taking place mere feet from her unsuspecting fiancé.

“Alright, my love, I’ll let you get back to your final touches,” Hyun-woo said, his voice fading as he presumably left the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him.

A wave of relief washed over Yoojung, the tension that had been coiled tight in her shoulders finally beginning to loosen. Her earlier panic receded, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and a lingering flush of arousal. She turned to face Min-jae, ready to deliver a scathing reprimand for his reckless behavior.

But the sight that greeted her stopped her words in her throat. Min-jae hadn’t moved, his trousers still unfastened, his thick, hard cock standing at full attention, jutting out from the fabric. The sheer size and obvious arousal on display were a stark reminder of the intense pleasure he had just given her.

Her initial irritation melted away, replaced by a potent wave of desire. Her gaze dropped from his impressive erection back up to his eyes, a newfound boldness sparking within her. Instead of scolding him, a slow, seductive smile spread across her lips. Reaching out, she hooked her fingers around his loosened tie and gave a sharp tug, pulling him closer. “Oh, I’m not quite done with you yet,” she purred, her voice low and husky. Turning her back to the now-closed door, she led him towards a plush vanity chair in the corner of the room

Yoojung knelt down in front of Min-jae, her eyes tracing the length of his thick, throbbing cock. The head was a deep, rosy red, and a drop of precum glistened at the tip. A soft sigh escaped her lips. “God, Min-jae,” she whispered, her voice thick with rediscovered desire. “I really have missed you… missed this.”

Her hand, still adorned with the delicate lace glove, reached out slowly, hovering just above his erection before finally making contact. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft, feeling the immediate jump in his pulse beneath her touch. “So thick,” she murmured, her thumb running along the underside, feeling the prominent vein throbbing there. “So hard.”

Her touch became bolder, more confident. She slid her hand up and down the length of his cock, her grip firm, milking him gently. A low groan rumbled in Min-jae’s chest. Yoojung leaned closer, her lips just inches from the head of his penis. “Do you remember how I used to love to taste you?” she whispered naughtily, her tongue flicking out to trace the swollen ridge.

Min-jae’s breath hitched. He reached out, his fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head back slightly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Yoojung-ah,” he rasped, his eyes burning into hers.

Yoojung just smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She squeezed his cock firmly, then ran her hand slowly down to the base, feeling the weight of his balls in her palm before sliding back up again. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” she purred, her gaze locked on his, a silent challenge and an undeniable invitation in her expression.

Yoojung leaned forward, her gaze never leaving Min-jae’s as she slowly opened her mouth and took the head of his hard cock inside. Her lips closed around him with a practiced suction, and she ran her tongue along the sensitive underside, eliciting a deep groan from him. She then slid further down, taking more and more of his length into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing with the effort.

Her hand continued to stroke the base of his shaft, her fingers occasionally dipping lower to cup his heavy balls, teasing their wrinkled skin. She laved the head of his cock with her tongue, sucking on the tip with an almost desperate hunger, making wet, smacking sounds that filled the silent dressing room.

“God, Yoojung,” Min-jae rasped, his fingers tangling in her hair, his grip tightening and loosening with his escalating arousal. “You always knew how to take care of me.”

Yoojung pulled back slightly, her lips glistening with his precum. “And you know how much I’ve missed it,” she replied, her voice husky. She then dipped her head again, taking his full length into her mouth this time, sucking deeply until he shuddered.

“In just about an hour,” Min-jae said, his voice strained, “you’ll be standing at the altar, promising yourself to another man. And just now…”

Yoojung punctuated his sentence by taking his balls into her mouth, slurping on them greedily, making Min-jae groan loudly. She looked up at him through her lashes, a wicked glint in her eyes. “And just now,” she finished, her mouth still full, “I’m tasting you like you’re all mine.” She then returned to his cock, sucking with renewed intensity.

“Those lips,” Min-jae continued, his hips beginning to thrust involuntarily against her mouth. “In an hour, you’ll be using those lips to kiss him… the same lips that are wrapped around my cock right now, sucking me like you can’t get enough.”

Yoojung pulled back again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. “He won’t know what these lips have been doing,” she purred, her eyes filled with a delicious naughtiness. She leaned forward and took him back into her mouth, her hunger seeming insatiable.

With a sudden surge of desire and a newfound boldness, Yoojung took the lead. She stepped back slightly, her eyes blazing with a raw hunger that mirrored his own. With a swift movement, she reached down and gathered the heavy skirts of her wedding gown, lifting them high around her waist, revealing her bare thighs and the glistening, swollen lips of her already thoroughly aroused vagina.

She looked directly into Min-jae’s eyes, a provocative challenge in her gaze. Without a word, she turned her back to him, positioning herself over his still-erect cock. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself, guiding the head of his penis with her hand to the slick opening between her legs. With a soft groan of pure pleasure, she slid down onto him, feeling his thick length fill her completely, stretching her in that familiar, exquisite way.

A jolt of intense sensation shot through her, a feeling of homecoming after a long absence. She closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat as her body paused, savoring the fullness, the perfect fit. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their mingled breathing. Then, with a slow, sensual rhythm, Yoojung began to move, her hips rocking gently against his, her body remembering the dance they had performed so many times before.

From his hidden vantage point, the reflection in the ornate, gilded mirror across the spacious dressing room offered Min-jae a voyeuristic masterpiece, a tableau of raw desire unfolding in the most forbidden of settings. Yoojung’s head, tilted back at an almost regal angle, betrayed the sheer pleasure coursing through her. Her lips, still slightly swollen and reddened from his earlier kisses, were parted in a silent symphony of moans and gasps, each exhalation misting the air around her. Her eyes, though mostly closed, would occasionally flutter open, revealing a hazy, unfocused gaze, lost in the intoxicating sensations he was delivering.

The way her body moved upon his was a dance of pure instinct, a rhythm honed by years of shared intimacy. With each slow, deliberate descent, her core tightened around his shaft, milking him with a precision that sent shivers of pure ecstasy down his spine. He could see the slight tremble in her shoulders, the delicate arch of her back, the subtle flexing of the muscles in her arms as she gripped the edge of a nearby dress for support.

Her breasts, now fully exposed and gloriously unrestrained, bounced with each movement, their weight and fullness evident in the way they swayed. The dusky pink areolae, their nipples still proudly erect from his attention, seemed to beckon his touch. The contrast against the pristine white of the surrounding wedding dress was a visual feast, a stark reminder of the secret, passionate storm raging beneath the surface of her bridal facade.

And then there was the focal point, the nexus of their illicit union: her vagina, glistening wet and openly displaying the rhythmic intrusion of his engorged cock. With each downward slide, his thick shaft disappeared completely within her, the tight walls of her canal gripping him firmly, drawing out a strangled groan from his own throat. As she rose, the mirror captured the slow, tantalizing reveal, the slick head of his penis emerging, coated in her juices, before plunging back in again with a soft, fleshy sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room. He could see the delicate folds of her inner lips parting to accommodate his girth, the way they clung to him, almost desperately.

Her thighs, milky white and toned from years of dancing and exercise, framed this intimate portrait. They flexed with each movement, their inner surfaces brushing against his own, a friction that added another layer of sensory overload to the already intense experience. He imagined the heat radiating from her core, the frantic pulse that surely hammered beneath her skin. He was buried deep within her, their connection a visceral, undeniable truth that transcended the white dress and the impending vows to another man. This was Yoojung, his Yoojung, lost in the moment, her body singing a song of pure, unadulterated pleasure only he knew how to orchestrate. The reflection in the mirror was a testament to their secret history, a forbidden indulgence stolen in the precious moments before she was supposed to begin her new life.

Min-jae, watching Yoojung’s reflection in the mirror, a primal urge finally taking over, could no longer remain a passive recipient of her ministrations. He gripped her hips firmly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks, and initiated his own deep, powerful thrusts. His hips began to move in sync with hers, then quickly overtook her slower rhythm, driving deeper and harder with each push.

The change in pace sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure rocketing through Yoojung. Her breath hitched, and a series of involuntary moans spilled from her lips, louder and less inhibited than before. Her head lolled back against the cool wallpaper behind her, her eyes fluttering closed as she surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensations. Her long, dark hair, usually styled with such precision, now tumbled down her back and over her shoulders in a wild, tangled mess, framing a face flushed with desire. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead and the delicate curve of her neck, catching the light filtering through the nearby window.

Her exposed breasts bounced with an almost frantic energy, the nipples taut and achingly sensitive with each jarring movement. Min-jae’s hands tightened on her hips, guiding her, controlling the depth and angle of each thrust, ensuring maximum pleasure for them both. He could feel the intense heat radiating from her core, the frantic clenching of her muscles around his throbbing cock.

“That’s it, Yoojung,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust and exertion. “Ride me like you mean it. Like you used to.” His words were a potent reminder of their shared past, igniting a wilder, more uninhibited passion within her.

Yoojung’s movements became more frantic, her earlier slow, sensual rhythm now replaced by a desperate urgency. She bucked against him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts with an equal intensity, her body seemingly possessed by a primal need for release. The soft rustling of her wedding dress against her bare skin, the faint squeaking of the chair beneath them, and their ragged breaths filled the small space behind the row of dresses.

Min-jae leaned forward, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, nipping and sucking gently, adding another layer of sensation to her already overloaded senses. His hands continued their relentless work on her hips and buttocks, squeezing, kneading, and lifting her to meet his every thrust with an almost savage intensity. He could feel her fingernails digging into his back, her silent language of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

The reflection in the mirror showcased her utter abandon, the way her body was completely consumed by the act. Her lips were parted in a silent scream of pleasure, her chest heaving with each frantic breath. The sight of their joined bodies, the pristine white of her wedding dress in stark contrast to their sweaty, entwined forms, was a potent and undeniably erotic spectacle,

“Think he’s excited to finally call you his wife?” Min-jae murmured against her neck as he thrust deep, his hands now free to roam. Yoojung gasped softly, her head falling forward. “He’s a good man, Hyun-woo,” she replied, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. “He deserves to be happy.”

Min-jae’s hands found her breasts, which swung freely with her movements as she rode him, her back to his chest. He cupped their weight, his thumbs brushing across her nipples, which were still incredibly sensitive. “And you? Are you happy to be his?” he asked, his voice low and probing.

Yoojung hesitated for a moment, her rhythm faltering slightly. “He makes me feel safe,” she finally said, a touch of uncertainty in her tone.

Min-jae chuckled softly, his fingers now gently squeezing and kneading her breasts, enjoying the feel of their fullness. “Safe is good, Yoojung-ah. But is it… this?” He punctuated his question with a deep, powerful thrust that made her cry out. Her hands gripped his forearms for support, her knuckles white.

“He… he’s kind,” she continued, her voice a little breathier now as Min-jae’s ministrations on her breasts intensified. He was teasing her nipples, pinching them lightly, sending jolts of pleasure down her spine.

“Kind,” Min-jae repeated, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Is kind what makes your pussy clench around my cock like this?” He thrust again, and Yoojung’s head fell forward, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her hips continued to rock against him, an undeniable rhythm of desire.

“He… he loves me,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability creeping into her voice.

Min-jae’s hands continued to play with her breasts, one hand now gently stroking the underside while the other teased her nipple. “And I don’t?” he asked, his voice laced with a familiar tenderness that momentarily cut through the haze of lust.

Yoojung remained silent for a moment, her body still moving on his, the sensation too intense to ignore. “It’s different,” she finally said, a sigh escaping her lips. “It was always different with you.”

Min-jae’s grip on her hips tightened, his thrusts becoming deeper and more insistent. “And it still is,” he murmured, his lips finding the curve of her neck. “Even now, in your wedding dress, about to marry another man.” He squeezed one of her breasts firmly, and Yoojung’s head fell back, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

As Yoojung’s movements reached a fever pitch, a series of sharp, shuddering breaths escaped her lips. Her body tensed, every muscle clenching around Min-jae’s cock in a tight, spasmic grip. A high-pitched cry tore from her throat as wave after wave of intense pleasure washed over her, her climax rocking her body uncontrollably. Her grip on his arms tightened to the point of pain, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her breathing ragged.

Min-jae held her tightly, feeling the pulsing contractions of her orgasm gripping his length. He waited for the tremors to subside slightly before, with a low grunt, he straightened his legs, standing up while still deeply embedded within her. Yoojung, caught off guard by the sudden change in elevation, instinctively bent forward, her hands now resting on the back of the vanity chair she had been facing moments before.

Her wedding gown was now bunched high around her waist, her bare buttocks thrust out behind her, offering Min-jae an even more exposed and vulnerable view. Her breasts swung freely, still damp from his kisses. He gripped her hips firmly, his cock still buried deep inside her, and began to thrust again, the change in angle offering a different, equally intense sensation.

“Like this, Yoojung-ah?” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Bent over for me, just like a little slut? Is this how you should be before your wedding, your tight little pussy still wet and stretched from my cock?”

Yoojung gasped, the new position intensifying the stretching sensation. “Min-jae… oh God…” she moaned, her voice thick with lingering pleasure and a hint of breathless shock.

He continued to pump into her, his thrusts hard and deep. “That pretty little ass of yours is begging for my handprints, isn’t it? Begging for a spank or two before you walk down the aisle all innocent and pure.” He slapped her bare backside lightly, the sound echoing in the room. “Remember whose you really are, Yoojung. Remember who had you screaming just moments before you promise yourself to him.”

Min-jae’s grip shifted, his fingers tangling in the soft strands of Yoojung’s hair at the nape of her neck. He gently but firmly raised her head, forcing her to look at their reflection in the large mirror across the room. The sight that greeted her was a raw, unfiltered depiction of their transgression. Her face was flushed and contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure, her eyes wide and glazed, barely seeing her own image. Her exposed breasts, heavy and swollen, hung low, their nipples dark and wet from his earlier ministrations. Her knees were visibly trembling, threatening to buckle beneath her.

The sight of her own body so completely lost to pleasure, so utterly yielding to him in her bridal attire, sent another wave of intense sensation crashing over Yoojung. Her muscles clenched around Min-jae’s cock, the pulsing contractions starting again, even stronger this time. A strangled cry escaped her lips, her body shuddering with the force of her second orgasm.

Min-jae groaned, feeling the intense tightening around his shaft, the unmistakable sign of her climax triggering his own. His thrusts became deeper, faster, more desperate. The friction intensified, the pleasure reaching an unbearable peak. With a final, guttural roar, he emptied his seed deep inside her, his body convulsing as he spilled his hot load into the woman who was about to marry another man

Yoojung took a deep breath, the air in the dressing room suddenly feeling thick with unspoken promises and lingering tension. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool wood of the vanity table for a moment, gathering her thoughts. The weight of Min-jae’s seed inside her was a tangible reminder of their secret, a stark contrast to the pristine white fabric clinging to her body.

Min-jae, still breathing heavily behind her, gently withdrew, the sensation leaving a lingering ache and a sense of emptiness, quickly replaced by the knowledge of what had just transpired. He stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on her hips. “So,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that only she could hear. “Now what, my beautiful bride?”

Yoojung straightened up, turning to face him, her expression a complex mix of exhilaration and a strange sort of newfound confidence. The flush on her cheeks was still vibrant, and her eyes held a knowing glint. “Now,” she echoed, a slow smile spreading across her lips, “I go and get married.”

Min-jae raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his gaze. “Just like that? After… that?”

“After that,” Yoojung affirmed, stepping closer to him, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw. “I walk down the aisle, become Mrs. Hyun-woo, and play the part perfectly.” She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “And you, Min-jae, you were just the photographer, capturing the happy day.”

“And what happens after the happy day?” he asked, his voice husky with anticipation.

Yoojung’s smile widened. “After the happy day,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his, a silent promise passing between them, “whenever I need a reminder of what I truly desire, whenever I need a real touch, a real connection… I know exactly where to find you.” She ran her hand down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. “You’ll be ready, won’t you?”

Min-jae’s grip tightened on her hips, his gaze burning into hers. “Always, Yoojung-ah. Always.”

She stepped back, her eyes flicking down to his still-aroused member. “Keep that in mind for later.” With a final, lingering look that held both a promise and a silent command, Yoojung turned away and began to straighten her wedding dress, the faint, sweet scent of their mingled desires lingering in the air. The knowledge of their secret, the power she now felt in controlling their future encounters, gave her a strange sense of calm as she prepared to face her groom. The aisle awaited, and she would walk it with a secret, scandalous thrill pulsing within her.

PART 2 - BUSINESS PROPOSAL SMUT -  KIM SEJEONG STORY IN SHOP

LINK

[khaoala]

the 32 frames that will be saving me until we get the trailer.

[marstyler42]

A moment dedicated to those souls lost

[reasonsforhope]

"For years, California was slated to undertake the world’s largest dam removal project in order to free the Klamath River to flow as it had done for thousands of years.

Now, as the project nears completion, imagery is percolating out of Klamath showing the waterway’s dramatic transformation, and they are breathtaking to behold.

Pictured: Klamath River flows freely, after Copco-2 dam was removed in California.

Incredibly, the project has been nearly completed on schedule and under budget, and recently concluded with the removal of two dams, Iron Gate and Copco 1. Small “cofferdams” which helped divert water for the main dams’ construction, still need to be removed.

The river, along which salmon and trout had migrated and bred for centuries, can flow freely between Lake Ewauna in Klamath Falls, Oregon, to the Pacific Ocean for the first time since the dams were constructed between 1903 and 1962.

“This is a monumental achievement—not just for the Klamath River but for our entire state, nation, and planet,” Governor Gavin Newsom said in a statement. “By taking down these outdated dams, we are giving salmon and other species a chance to thrive once again, while also restoring an essential lifeline for tribal communities who have long depended on the health of the river.”

“We had a really incredible moment to share with tribes as we watched the final cofferdams be broken,” Ren Brownell, Klamath River Renewal Corp. public information officer, told SFGATE. “So we’ve officially returned the river to its historic channel at all the dam sites. But the work continues.”

Pictured: Iron Gate Dam, before and after.

“The dams that have divided the basin are now gone and the river is free,” Frankie Myers, vice chairman of the Yurok Tribe, said in a tribal news release from late August. “Our sacred duty to our children, our ancestors, and for ourselves, is to take care of the river, and today’s events represent a fulfillment of that obligation.”

The Yurok Tribe has lived along the Klamath River forever, and it was they who led the decades-long campaign to dismantle the dams.

At first the water was turbid, brown, murky, and filled with dead algae—discharges from riverside sediment deposits and reservoir drainage. However, Brownell said the water quality will improve over a short time span as the river normalizes.

“I think in September, we may have some Chinook salmon and steelhead moseying upstream and checking things out for the first time in over 60 years,” said Bob Pagliuco, a marine habitat resource specialist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in July.

Pictured: JC Boyle Dam, before and after.

“Based on what I’ve seen and what I know these fish can do, I think they will start occupying these habitats immediately. There won’t be any great numbers at first, but within several generations—10 to 15 years—new populations will be established.”

Ironically, a news release from the NOAA states that the simplification of the Klamath River by way of the dams actually made it harder for salmon and steelhead to survive and adapt to climate change.

“When you simplify the habitat as we did with the dams, salmon can’t express the full range of their life-history diversity,” said NOAA Research Fisheries Biologist Tommy Williams.

“The Klamath watershed is very prone to disturbance. The environment throughout the historical range of Pacific salmon and steelhead is very dynamic. We have fires, floods, earthquakes, you name it. These fish not only deal with it well, it’s required for their survival by allowing the expression of the full range of their diversity. It challenges them. Through this, they develop this capacity to deal with environmental changes.”

-via Good News Network, October 9, 2024

[jov1ii]

Mine, All Mine

♡⃕.pairing: Husband!Salesman x Wife!Reader ♡⃕.synopsis: life with your husband. ♡⃕.word count: 1.4k+ ♡⃕.content warning: a little suggestive if you squint, arranged marriage.

The corner of his lips twitched as a hint of a smirk danced upon his lips. He had been watching you since the onset of morning. There was just something so…so captivating about the way you moved, the subtle grace of your mannerisms.

He supposed, it was the simple things that enticed him the most.

Tearing his gaze away, he rose and crossed the room to the mahogany desk; a silent cue for you to do the same.

"I suppose we shall get to know each other better?" You propose.

He watched silently as you stood and approached the desk. This arrangement, it was strange, unconventional. And yet, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to abhor the idea of spending every day, every hour in your company.

"Oh yeah? Is that what you want?" He was somewhat bemused by your suggestion.

You were hardly the type inclined toward the idea of matrimony, and neither was he. But here you were, his wife. His wife—the term sounded foreign upon his tongue.

He regarded you with a stoic eye, head canted slightly to the side. He was trying to figure you out, to understand the machinations of your mind. Such a task was seemingly monumental, no doubt, by the way of your closed off demeanor, a quiet, stoic disposition. But that was all the more reason he wished to figure you out.

You were... intriguing.

Days had come and gone since their first conversation.

He had, for the most part, settled into this married life quite well.

There was something soothing, peaceful, about the quiet domesticity of it all. Both you and him became acutely aware of each other's presence.

They say familiarity bred contempt, but for you and him, it bred something much different.

Every now and then, he would recall the subtle slope of your nose, the elegant dip of your shoulders, the way the sunlight pooled upon your skin… It took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to ravish you there and then.

He had always thought of himself as an individual who could not possess emotions such but it wasn’t just carnal desire that he felt, rather, there was a certain depth to this feeling. A feeling he wasn’t quite able to place.

He tried to push away those thoughts as best as he could, but in the hours at night when he laid in bed, with you so close, it became harder to shut you out.

He laid awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep and plagued with the memory of your smile, the way you laughed, the scent of your hair- Wait.

"Can't sleep?" You ask, looking back at him.

The abrupt voice broke him from his trance. And then he groaned for the second time that night. He remained motionless for a few moments and then he rolls over, only to find you staring back at him from the other side of the bed.

”Clearly, neither can you…” He said, raking a hand through his rumpled hair which earned a chuckle from you.

The corner of his lips quirked into a smirk as the sound of your laughter reached his ears. He propped himself up on one elbow, studying you in the dim light. There was something rather enthralling about seeing you like this, all relaxed and vulnerable in the quiet night.

“I’d ask why you can’t sleep, but I think I already know the answer,” He teased.

"Oh yeah? What do you think is the cause?" You ask, smiling softly.

“You don’t seem to have much trouble sleeping during the day, when the sun is out. But come night time, suddenly there’s a change." He responded without a bit of hesitation. He wasn’t one to sugarcoat after all.

“You’re nervous about this new... condition, and about the future, and, if I’m not mistaken…a little scared of me,” He said, glancing back at you.

His words earned a huff from you. "Scared of you?"

His smirk widens into a sly smile as he props himself up on an elbow. He meets your gaze, regarding you with a keen eye.

“You are,” He states bluntly, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

“I can see that little shiver that goes through your spine every time I touch you. That little bit of hesitation in your movements whenever I’m around.”

Oh.

When he suggested leaving the house “to get some air” on a Friday evening, you didn’t think much of it.

After all, for the first few weeks after marriage, he had spent his days working and evenings on the armchair by the fire. However, the last thing you had expected was to be led out the door and into his black car.

A date—was, and is, the furthest thing you had expected from a reserved man like your husband.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was nervous. A man as stoic and reserved as he, nervous for a date? Who would’ve thought. He had never been the romantic sort, too occupied in work and realistic for the idea of romance.

You tried to catch a glimpse of his expression from the passenger seat, but he was avoiding your gaze at all costs. Not a word was spoken, only the steady hum of the engine was heard as the scenery passed by.

Eventually, he pulled into a secluded spot overlooking a shimmering lake. A modest family-run restaurant on the edge of town.

He gets out of the car and comes around to your side, opening the door for you after. And as you get out of the car, you are quick to glance around and take in your surroundings. Expensive.

The restaurant looked modest and homey, quaint even. You watch as he speaks a word to the waiter who leads the two of you to a secluded table.

He gestures to the table and pulls out your chair for you.

A soft “thank you” escapes your lips in response as you sink into the seat, before he takes his own seat across from you. He reaches for the wine list, scanning it before ordering a bottle of red.

"Do you plan on staying this quiet, or...?" You ask, biting back a teasing smile.

So she hasn't quite lost her bite, then. He leans back in the chair and crosses one leg over the other, a sign of feigned aloofness. "Perhaps I'll save my tongue for our food." He said.

"Boring." You comment, watching as the waiter approached with a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.

You took the glass, now filled with wine and brought it towards your lips, glancing at him.

"Boring, eh?" He asks. "Maybe I should order a second round of drinks just to shut you up," he retorts with a smirk.

"You look a tad too cocky for my liking."

....

It did not take long before the drinks started to get you. You were laughing louder, talking more freely, and your cheeks had taken on a rosy flush. It would almost be cute, were it not so annoying- or so he liked to believe.

He sets the glass down on the table and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Perhaps one drink too many.

He watched you from across the table, the smile never leaving your lips, the glint in your eyes all the more noticeable when your guard was down like this.

"Don't look at me like that." You whispered, swirling the liquid in the glass, your voice slurred.

"And how exactly am I looking at you?" He asked in a low voice, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"Like you want to rip my dress right here, right now." You said, smirking.

He blinked, that little remark sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. He tried his damned best not to react, but the words had an immediate effect on him.

"Don’t be ridiculous." He mumbled. But your words were doing all kinds of things him, in all the right places.

And he could only take so much.

And just like that, one last drink, a ride home, a few fumbled steps in the doorway and a heated night later, when you woke up the next morning, you think all of it had been a dream- the dinner date, the alcohol, the lust-filled return home... But the sight of a slender arm curled around your hip said otherwise.

You can't help it, a smile starts to form on your own face. If this was how married life was supposed to be, then you were more than ready to welcome it with open arms.

[ellesreids]

homecoming — s. reid

spencer reunites with his wife, and their baby. (post-prison spencer)

𖡼 ⊹ ˚.

Spencer can feel his spine go rigid once he stands in front of his house's door. It's the exact moment he's fantasized about so many times while trapped inside the four walls of prison; when sleep would evade him and his mind would drift to the day he finally got to see you again.

When he'd get to hold you in his arms once more and smell your shampoo and perfume and feel the way a satisfied breath left your lungs as you clung to him. That moment he's been dreaming about for months on end is finally a reality, yet it still feels like a dream to him.

With bated breath, he turns the knob and the door opens with a small creek. In the back of his mind he wants to chastise you for having the door unlocked, but the bigger part of his brain can't be bothered to make a big deal out of that right now when all he can think about is the prospect of feeling your warmth against his otherwise cold and aching body again.

Quietly, he makes his way through the house, and he realizes with a pained heart that it feels unfamiliar to him. Nothing has actually changed since he'd been gone — all the furniture was still placed where he'd left it and nothing substantially new had been added as far as he can tell — but it feels as if he's stepping into another world, an environment he no longer has a place in.

He walks past the living room when there's no trace of you in it and when he doesn't find you in the kitchen either, he makes his way down the hallway to the first room on his left. The door is open a fraction, and from behind it, he can faintly hear your voice as you softly sing a lullaby that's not familiar to him.

At once, like a bucket of ice water straight to the face, it hits him that he's not only reuniting with you, but for the first time, he's going to be meeting the newest addition to the family. The family he had so abruptly been pulled away from and deprived of some of the most monumental moments in both your lives.

His heart had been shattered when he realized he wasn't going to be present for the birth of his own child, that you would have to spend the last few months of your pregnancy alone and unsure of the fact that you'll ever see your husband again. He owes both Emily and JJ the world and would spend the rest of his life thanking them for looking after you while he was away and providing the support he couldn't physically give you.

He hadn't met them yet, but before the baby was even born, he had promised himself he would be the best father he could be. He promised himself we would never be like his own father, that he'd give his everything to his new family.

Very quietly, he opens the door, and his gaze is immediately drawn to you as you stand in the middle of the freshly finished nursery. You have your back facing him as you softly sing to the baby held within your embrace. Your voice, after he'd been deprived of it for so long, sounds like the most heavenly music to his ears, and he suddenly feels like he wants to cry. He's finally home with both of you, and he gets to listen as you sing to your baby. He gets to see his baby for the first time, and it's all too much for his big brain and even bigger heart to handle.

Finally, as though you could sense his presence, you turn around and look Spencer square in the eyes as he stands in the threshold of the nursery. For the first few moments, you try to convince yourself you're simply seeing things. It wouldn't be the first time, seeing as your mind loved to taunt you at times when you could hear his voice calling to you in the hallways or when his pillow case smelled like he was still sleeping right next to you.

You soon realize that it's not your mind playing tricks on you, though, and that it really is Spencer standing in front of you. With the realization, it felt like all the air had been sucked from your lungs, like a painful punch to the gut. You wanted to scream, to launch yourself into his arms, cling to him, and cry in a way you haven't allowed yourself to since he went away. But you do none of that, and instead, you just stand and look at him as if your feet had been deadbolted to the floor, and your voice had permanently disappeared.

"Hi." Spencer's voice finally fills the seemingly endless silence, sounding unsure and small. "Hi," you return the gesture with a much shakier tone, desperately trying not to burst into tears.

The baby in your embrace suddenly starts fussing, cooing and wiggling around in your steady arms, and both you and Spencer's attention are drawn to the small bundle still wrapped in your embrace.

You whisper a few hushes and move your arms back and forth in a calming rhythm. As the cooing turns to soft breathing once again, your eyes move to Spencer, almost as if you're scared he'd dissappear if he leaves your sight for too long. You see that his attention is still stuck on the baby on your arms, brown eyes tired yet filled with so much emotion you could almost cry just looking at him.

"Would you like to hold her?" you ask softly, and Spencer's attention is once again on you. "Her?" he asks excitedly, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache with an overwhelming amount of love. Oh, how you missed him. "It's a girl?" You nod with a sad smile, looking down at her as she now lays asleep in your arms. "You can hold her, Spencer, it's okay," you say, noting his hesitance seeing as he still stood planted by the entrance, not having taken a single step closer.

Your encouragement fuels him, and he slowly makes his way inside the nursery until he's standing in front of you, looking down into the crook of your arm. From within the swaddle of blankets, he sees the little face; closed eyes, and a mouth that stays in a permanent pout with a button nose that scrunches adorably every now and then.

"Open your arms," you say, getting ready to hand her over, and he feels his heart beat frantically in anticipation. He almost feels lightheaded with anxiety and excitement, but he opens his arms, and carefully, you place her into his embrace. You watch attentively as he holds onto her securely, head bending down slightly so as to get a better look as he peers down at his daughter, still fast asleep in his arms.

He doesn't even register he's crying until he can feel your hand gently wiping at the stray tears on his cheeks. He looks over at you, brand new tears sitting idle in his waterline as everything finally sinks in for him. He was finally home with you and his daughter, his family, and he finally got to see you and hold you close to him.

In reality, he knew there was still so much left unsaid, and both of you had a long way to go from here, but right now, nothing else mattered. He was finally home, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

[kabuki-writes]

An Entertainment For The Gods

chapter: 2 chapter 1 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: Through an invitation from the Emperors themselves General Acacius and his daughter attend one of the bloody Gladiator fights at the Colosseum. But this time it is not only the brutality of the arena that encaptures Geta and Caralla.

warning(s): mention of violence | mention of alcohol consumption | swearing | sexual implications | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: -

word count: 2.5k

There was no bigger temple in Rome than the Colosseum. A monument to the Roman Empire, an architectural masterpiece as well as a slaughterhouse for humans and animals. They had to die for the amusement of the masses in the pale white sand and under the eyes of the Roman citizens as well as the Emperor's. You've never visited the arena before, it just wasn't the entertainment you usually seeked as you fancied the amphitheater and stage plays of comedies or tragedies. No one really died from a well-spoken dialogue and the stages weren't drown in blood afterwords. Your father was a similar soul with this. As someone who had seen war and death countless of times, Acacius developed a distaste for the useless killing, which he argued was the mere core of the collosseum's existence.

But while one would despise this form of humanity at its core brutality, other's simply loved it. First under Commodus the fights in the arena became more frequent, while Septimius Severus after him didn't change anything in that matter. Under Geta and Caracalla however Gladiator fights reached an all time high, especially those 'special' spectacles with exotic animals or ships. They themselves had an own Gladiator school under their wings, which was due to their wealth filled with the most skillful warriors and the best equipment, that it was almost unfair.

Given the fact that both twins enjoyed the performance in the arena and the bloody outcome, it wasn't surprising that they were frequent visitors. For the Emperor the colosseum had an own arena box with the best view over the inner pit and with two throne like chairs for each one of them to sit comfortably. It wasn't unusual for them to have guests here either and this time it was a special one. The moment Geta and Caracalla stepped out, the masses greeted and cheered for their Emperors, who - at least in Rome - offered them bread and games to forget the common sorrows of life. Both of them were dressed in the finest, colorful fabrics, while their golden laurel crowns throned on their heads. They waited for General Acacius at the balustrade to come forward, join them and speak to the people. He was still their celebrated hero, their triumph card, so to speak. It was an easy way to win the hearts of the people through a figure like Acacius, who was the ideal Roman.

After your father held a small, yet powerful speech about the braveness of the Gladiators they'll see today, a slave went forward to place a cushioned chair between the thrones of the Emperors. You hesitated a second, since usually you would be seated at the side of your father. "Since we've heard that you had never witnessed a fight in the arena befoe, we thought you might like a good view", Geta suddenly explained to you, before he sank into his own chair. "Please, sit down."

Your eyes went to your father for a quick exchange and you saw in them how he displeased this way of treatment, yet he nodded and you sat down. More and more you understood that the situation had a differnt tone in it. It wasn't mere courtesy why the Emperors treated you like that and given the way you'd read their eyes, it was more than clear that you've captured their interest. Usually any woman of the realm would fight for that privilege, but you had seen how your father acted in front of them, how worried he was when you first made your way to the palace - something was off. You knew you needed to pay attention and be cautious.

"Citizens of Rome, the arena welcomes you! Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, we the people bow to your greatness and the mighty of our beloved Empire! Under the eyes of the sun the colosseum presents to you a spectacle like no other!", the high-toned, yet thunderous voice of the richly decorated announcer set the beginning of the show and drew all eyes on the white sand down in the arena pit, where a group of men in armor but with a limited equipment of weapons entered through a door from the Colosseum's catacombs. "First we present to you the brave Gladiators that will be our Theseus' today! They may not need to save their Ariadne, but they'll still have to face horde of Minotaurs today in an attempt to safe their own lives!" With those words a couple of other doors opened and six wild bulls entered the arena. Their massive and strong bodies stirred up the sands with every step of their big hooves. They may've been animals, but they had terrible weapons on their head with sharp horns that grew out of their heads.

Caracalla clapped with a joyful laugh. "Oh i love mythological pieces, even though they forgot the labyrinth!"

Your fingers nestled with the fabric of your dress in nervousness as you watched the men prepare themselves for the attack of the angry bulls, which were already pawing with their hooves. More than one set off to ran towards the Gladiators and given the fast but powerful movements of those animals, it didn't take long until the first fighter got overrun by them and another one faced the horns that drilled themselves like spikes into his torso, where blood spilled like a waterfall. The other fighters tried their best to ran or face the bulls with the few weapons they'd been given. One of them even striked down a beast by pressing his sword into its neck, when it was running towards him. You watched the spectacle with a neutral, yet pale face, while the Emperors seemingly enjoyed the show. Geta quickly noticed the way you followed the happenings down in the arena and leaned towards you.

"Are you not entertained, y/n ?", he asked you in a low voice, still loud enough to overcome the cheerings of the crowd. Your eyes went to him, facing the deep blue of his own, while you tried to put on a mask of apathy. "It is hard for me to understand, why useless killing is viewed as entertainment, I'm afraid," you answered, but it just got you an amused smirk in return.

"Oh it is not useless. You see, nothing is as entertaining as humanity itself. What lies more in our human nature than violence, power and the survival of the strongest? Without that, your father wouldn't be able to win all his great victories and our father would not have been able to secure the Roman Empire after the weak reign of the senate."

"And yet Emperor Marcus Aurelius believed that true strength isn't born in violence, but in mindfulness and kindness. The ability to speak, think and therefore to thrive for something higher than mere survival, is what distinguishes us from animals," you responded in a clear, settled tone. This sudden response surprised Geta clearly as his eyes widened and his fingers tensed up. Even Caracalla's eyes had left the arena for a moment and were locked at you. Even though he followed the fight down there, one of his ears had catched every word you'd said. What a sweet, naive woman you were... it made this whole moment even more interesting.

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched and at first you weren't able to tell if he found your words disrespectful or not. In fact, he'd not expected such a bold answer from a woman, especially not against an Emperor. And even though he wouldn't agree with you, it proved him right, that you were not a simple-minded girl. Naive maybe, but not dull.

"Interesting thought, my dear. But would you recite the words to one of these brave warriors down there too? Who will ll earn their freedom, if violence keeps them alive long enough? We offer them a precious gift, and in return they entertain us."

Your eyes went to the pit again, which was mottled in deep red blood now with only one man and one bull remaining. The moment was intense as both animal and human watched each other with intensity, before the bull stormed forward and the speer of the Gladiator, who waited for the perfect moment, hit his opponent. The massive body fell to the ground and the people cheered in Ecstasy. Geta and Caracalla clapped with admiration for the celebrated Gladiator, as he sunk to his knee and bowed to them.

The next round began after the exhausted and wounded 'hero' stumbled through one of the doors, back into the darkness of the catacombs, before he was replaced by a bigger group of Gladiators, who now had to face armed chariots. Their opponents wore the armory of old Sparta while they teared down one after one with their arrows. You leaned back in silence, watched by Caracalla, whose eyes were taking in her side profile for quite a while now. Even though he loved the fights down there, the blood, the violence... you encaptured him more right now. Your stern face, which carried a deep displeasure for this, while you tried so hard to hide it, it was captivating.

Everyone, even his own twin tend to underestimate Caracalla. Even though he was born a couple of minutes earlier than Geta and was therefore technically older than him, his stature was smaller and he wasn't as tall as his brother. This was accompanied by the fact that he enjoyed the pleasantries the god Bacchus had to offer him: wine, music, arts and sex - even more than Geta did. Together with his rather impulsive way of acting, it often led to the false thought that the more capable brother of them was Geta. Oh, Caracalla hated this, it was a misinterpretation weaved like a thread through his whole life. Because he had a gift, he could read people and together with his extensive web of information sources and spies within the city of Rome and beyond, he had a power that lied in the dark. And it was a preparation he did on purpose after he'd learned about the plot that was once set against Emperor Commodus. Some would've said it was paranoia, maybe it was, but he would call it 'preparation'. Nonetheless it came with the pleasant side effect of knowing a lot about the people around him.

"I've heard that you rather choose the theater over the arena", he said with a soft, yet unreadable smile on his lips. "You're a dreamer, aren't you?"

As you heard his voice next to you, your eyes quickly turned to him. "There is nothing wrong with dreaming, my Emperor...", you answered and he nodded quickly as if he'd hoped for that answer. Caracalla even grinned, his golden tooth gleaming in the light. "No, not at all." My Emperor. The way you've said it with your eyes looking at him. It electrified him, so much so that the cheers of the crowd almost faded in the background. You'd faced the pit and the fighters again, but he was still staring at you.

"Which play?"

"Octavia," the name almost shot from you mouth.

"And you consider yourself to be?"

"Octavia. And you?" You didn't even expected him to give you an answer on that, but meanwhile Caracalla's grin grew wider.

"Nero," he said just as fast as you'd answered before.

Your eyes instantly went back to the Emperor, whose eyes were now focused on the deadly fight between a Gladiator and a chariot rider. He couldn't hold back a chuckle, while he watched how the man pushed his sword through the neck of his opponent, ripping off his head.

Nero.

"Why?", you suddenly asked, this time it were your eyes, that watched him.

"I cannot blame him for setting himself free." His answer was almost like a whisper, yet you heard every word. It was a very unconventional way of interpreting the mad Emperor, one she herself would even despise, if he wouldn't seem to be so certain of it. It meant something more.

The arena fight slowly came to an end, when only to oppontents were fighting for the right to claim the victory. Nearly all of the Gladiators and chariot riders were dead, their bodys laying in the pale sand and drowining it with their blood, a weird composition of death that accompanied your questions about Caracalla's answer.

After a final hit, one of the men went down on his knees. He was wounded, severely, and he now felt the tip of a sword against his neck. He surrendered and the gods had to decide what will happen with him. One of the Gods was Geta, who stood up from his chair and approached the balustrade, while the crowd called for a decision. The Gods need to decide, yet Geta suddenly turned his head to you. "What do we say,...? y/n, should he live or die?"

Your face grew even paler than it already was, your fingers were almost digging themselves into the armrests of your chair. You felt a thousand eyes on you, even though it was only Geta and Caracalla watching you, as well as the eyes of your father from behind. The Gladiator waited, while his opponent's arm was cut off and his head was bowed down as if he awaited death. And the crowd screamed and screamend. Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

It rang in your ears, you didn't want to make this decision. But the moment you faced the Emperor, just as you opened your mouth, Geta simply bowed his thumb down - Death.

And the sword went down. Death.

The head dropped in the sand followed by the body, the cheers errupted in the arena, screaming the name of the victorious Gladiator. But you just stared into the nothingness that was in front of you, while you bit your tongue to the point of pain. "Don't pain yourself about this, my dear. There was only one answer anyways," Geta said while he suddenly reached out for your hand and kissed your knuckles, before he took his glass of wine. You didn't move, you couldn't.

Caracalla stared at this scenery and his fingers were shaking as his eyes darkened. The intense urge came up his mind: To simply take his brother and throw him from this box into the pit, his neck breaking from the impact. Those thoughts sometimes came and went, but they got more intense every time he saw Geta interacting with you. And this interaction hit a new high point in him that was only interruped by your form the moment you stood up.

"My Emperors, it was a pleasure to join you, but i need to leave now...", you said in a tone that tried so hard to be polite and not carry any emotion, before you turned your back and quickly stepped out of the imperial arena box, followed by your father General Acacius, who bowed and excused himself in an equally neutral tone.

Both Geta and Caracalla watched them leaving, before the taller one of the twins took a deep sip of his wine. "She'll learn to love it sooner or later."

______________________________

Tags:

@barcelonaloverf1life @naysha140 @shinnerslighttt @mmkkzz @ange-olras @earfq0ake @honey-eyed-munson @koshkahhh

Please leave a comment, if you want to be tagged in the next chapter.

If you liked my fic, please feel free to like, reblog and leave a comment. I am always happy to hear your thoughts <3

[catboyllawliet]

nobody tells u how devastating it is to graduate college hehe 💔🥀

[colebabey888]

Rebranding Yourself in 90 Days: A Universe of You | IT GIRL DIARIES

The journey to rebrand yourself isn’t just about external changes—it's about cultivating an entirely new internal reality, a universe where you are in control. Mental change is just as powerful, if not more, than physical change. Within 90 days, you can tap into your self-concept, discipline, dopamine, and accountability, helping yourself reset and thrive. How?..

A Self-Concept

Your self-concept is the foundation of this transformation. The image you hold of yourself shapes how you act, feel, and respond to life. Rebranding yourself means updating that image. Consider who you want to be—stronger, more disciplined, elegant, and intentional. Visualize this every day and align your habits accordingly.

Discipline

Discipline fuels rebranding. It’s what bridges the gap between who you are and who you aspire to be. You’ve already taken steps with healthy eating habits, daily green juices, consistent exercise, and skincare routines. Continue building on these to stay disciplined. Small daily actions—like starting your day with lemon water, pulling coconut oil, or following your workout regime—stack into monumental changes.

Dopamine

We often associate dopamine with unhealthy habits, but it can be rechanneled to serve your goals. By tying small wins—like completing a workout or sticking to your skincare routine—to positive rewards, you hack your brain’s dopamine system. It’s about retraining your mind to find joy in the discipline rather than instant gratification.

Accountability

As you work toward rebranding, it’s essential to acknowledge both your past and present. Mistakes you’ve made, times you’ve slipped up or lacked discipline—these moments are part of your story. But instead of letting them weigh you down, forgive yourself. Recognize that missteps don’t define you, but your ability to rise after them does. Forgiveness unlocks your potential to keep moving forward with compassion for yourself. By learning from your past, you free yourself to fully embrace the person you’re becoming.

____

In 90 days, you can create an entirely new universe where you embody discipline, embrace positive habits, and radiate elegance in every facet of your life. By focusing on self-concept, discipline, dopamine, and accountability, your transformation will extend beyond appearance—it will become the essence of who you are.

xoxo, colebabey8.88

[gf2bellamy]

part one: alert synchronicity

— ★ spencer spends a day surrounded by small reminders of you—and finally understands that he's already lost his heart to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist. - part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Something shifted.

It wasn’t just a minor change, a fleeting blip in the rhythm of his day—no, this was something bigger. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a deeper instinct trying to get Spencer's attention, he didn’t know.

He woke that morning with an odd heaviness in his limbs, the kind that made the simple act of opening his eyes feel like a monumental effort.

The space beside him was empty. Cold.

And for a long, disorienting moment, he stared at the undisturbed sheets, his mind caught between sleep and wakefulness, reality and the lingering traces of a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

You weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t. You had left hours ago, after the movie credits rolled and the apartment had settled into silence.

You had laughed at something he said, before gathering your things and slipping out with a quiet "Bye Spencer."

That had been the plan. That’s how it always went.

Yet, for twenty minutes, he lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the vacant space beside him as if expecting it to offer answers. His mind was a paradox—simultaneously blank and overcrowded, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a gust of wind, too fast to grasp, too numerous to ignore. It was as though a hundred thoughts were scrambling for attention at once, but none of them quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t grab onto anything.

All he knew was that something didn’t sit right.

Was it just exhaustion? The residual effects of too many late nights and too many cases blurring together?

Because the truth was, he had felt it before. That eerie, inexplicable tug of fate, the universe nudging him toward something he couldn’t yet name. And today, it was stronger.

Today, it refused to be ignored.

The sensation clung to him like static, prickling beneath his skin even as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked tired—more than usual.

His eyes landed on the toothbrush—the one that wasn’t technically yours, but might as well have been. A soft pink handle, sitting next to his own.

He’d bought it months ago, after the third time you’d stayed over and sheepishly admitted you’d forgotten yours. It had been a practical decision at the time—a small, logical accommodation for someone who kept ending up in his space, in his life, for longer and longer stretches.

His fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, as if it might burn him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, fluttering and restless, but beneath it was something hollow, something aching.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to understand it.

Shaking his head slightly, Spencer wandered into the kitchen. The fridge door groaned as he pulled it open, half-hoping for inspiration, half-hoping to distract himself.

He frowned at the nearly empty shelves. A few containers. Half a bottle of almond milk. Some leftover takeout he wasn’t entirely sure was still safe.

He pouted, just a little. That soft, childlike disappointment that slipped out before he could mask it.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked:

Your cookies. The chocolate chip ones.

The kind you never used to bake until you learned he liked them more than your usual vanilla batches .

The first ones you made had been slightly burnt on the edges, the chips off balance, but you kept trying. Adjusting the recipe, tweaking it each time like it was a science experiment. The way you’d squint at the oven timer and mutter about ratios—it made him smile more than he ever let on.

Over time, they’d gotten better. Perfect, even. To the point where Spencer had started associating the smell of melted chocolate and brown sugar with you—with the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, with the flour dusting your sleeves, with the way you’d always leave a few extra in his freezer "just in case."

Now, the absence of them felt like a physical thing.

He closed the fridge door slowly and let out a long sigh, his back pressing against the cool metal as he leaned there for a moment.

But then his eyes caught something on the counter and his breath caught.

There, on the counter—your box of cookies. The very ones he’d just been craving.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor sometimes, dangling the answer to a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. A coincidence? Maybe. But the way his pulse jumped at the sight made it feel like something more.

A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the box, his fingers brushing over the familiar creases in the cardboard—the same way you always folded the edges to keep them fresh.

On top, a note in your unmistakable handwriting:

“For my favorite genius. I know you probably don’t have anything to eat for breakfast. And you need to stop living off coffee.”

Next to it, a lopsided smiley face, the kind you always drew when you were teasing him.

And beneath it, another slip of paper—this one with a quote:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.” —The Importance of Being Earnest.

His book. The one he’d lent you months ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with his cramped scribbles. You’d not only read it, you’d remembered it. Enough to pluck this line, this line, the one he’d laughed at when he reread it next to you.

Something warm and unnameable curled in his chest.

He gently traced the smiley face with his index finger before carefully peeling the note off the box and walking to the fridge. He smoothed the edges against the metal and stuck it there. Right in the center, right beside the magnet he never used. The quote followed, aligned just so.

Two little pieces of you.

He fully enjoyed the cookies—more than he wanted to admit. One turned into two, two into five, and before he knew it, he was staring at the bottom of the box, only two left. He hesitated, tempted to finish them off, but something made him stop. Maybe he wanted to save them. Maybe it felt symbolic somehow—leaving just a little behind.

He set the box aside with a quiet sigh, realizing it was probably time to face reality. If his breakfast consisted of cookies and the last splash of coffee from yesterday’s pot, then yeah—he needed groceries.

The thought alone was exhausting.

Reluctantly, Spencer went to get dressed. As he rummaged through his dresser for a sweater, his fingers brushed against something soft in the corner of the drawer. He paused, then slowly pulled it out.

The scarf.

The one you’d given him last winter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, a little handwritten tag that simply said “For when the cold gets into your bones.”

He hadn’t worn it much. Not because he didn’t love it. He did. Too much, maybe. He was worried he’d ruin it, spill something on it, or catch it on a subway door or lose it in a moment of distraction.

So instead, it became a part of his quiet morning rituals—he’d look at it while choosing what to wear, smile to himself, then fold it back gently, like preserving something sacred.

It became a small, secret reminder of you that never failed to make his lips twitch upward.

But today, something tugged at him. Wear it.

He paused, hesitating. There was no case today. No flights, no crime scenes, no risk of ruining it in some chaotic whirlwind of work. It was just grocery shopping. A quick errand. No danger. No reason not to.

Before he could overthink it, he looped the scarf around his neck. The wool was warmer than he expected, carrying the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla—your perfume, maybe, or just the ghost of memory.

He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold hit him immediately —but the scarf helped.

You helped.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel quite so alone.

The drive to the grocery store should have been routine—just another mundane task.

Spencer flipped on the radio out of habit, his fingers automatically tuning to his usual station: the one that dissected quantum physics and debated the ethics of emerging technologies in monotone, academic voices. It was comforting, familiar. He usually looked forward to it. Even if he already knew most of the facts being discussed, there was something soothing about hearing others speak his language.

There was comfort in the predictability of it.

But today, the voices grated.

He listened for maybe a minute, maybe less. The words blurred together, sounding hollow in a way they usually didn’t.

He stared ahead at the red light, fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. Restless. Unsettled.

His gaze drifted to the radio display. Without really thinking, he pressed the button to change the station.

Click. Static. Then a beat.

And then—your favorite song.

It took him a second to register it, but once he did, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a popular song, not one that played often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard it on the radio.

But here it was. Blasting softly through his speakers like the universe had handpicked the moment.

The same song you’d hum under your breath while baking, the one you’d insisted on playing three times in a row that one rainy afternoon when he’d pretended to complain but secretly memorized every lyric.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if the universe had reached into his chest and plucked out a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. Behind him, a horn blared—sharp, impatient—jolting him back to reality.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, flushing as he hit the gas, the car lurching forward a second too late.

He didn’t change the station.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze, the music wrapping around him like an echo of your voice.

By the time he pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the song had faded into something else, but the melody lingered, tangled up in the wool of your scarf and the ghost of flour on your hands.

Once he stepped out of the car, Spencer paused and looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, dark and swollen with the promise of rain.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered to himself, “Alright. Just in and out. Quick.”

October weather was unpredictable. He quickened his pace toward the store, shoulders hunched against the cold. The last thing he needed was to get caught in another downpour.

Like last night.

The memory surfaced unbidden: you, standing in his doorway, drenched and shivering, your hair plastered to your forehead while rainwater pooled at your feet. He’d panicked—of course he had—fussing over the cold you’d surely catch, the inconvenience, the unnecessary risk you’d taken just to watch some movie with him.

And then you’d grinned, wide and unrepentant, before launching yourself at him.

The hug was instantaneous, your arms locking around him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. He’d stiffened—“You’re getting me all wet!”—but you’d just buried your face in his shoulder and mumbled, “We’ll be sick together, Spencer.”

He hadn’t stood a chance.

You’d spent the rest of the evening wrapped in mismatched towels, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your laughter warmer than any blanket. And if a cozy evening like this with you made him get sick? Who was he to care? If anything, he had used the rain and the cold to scoot even closer to you on the couch, mumbling a small "My apartment is cold" as an excuse to press his thighs closer to yours.

Now, standing in the grocery store parking lot with the wind gnawing at his scarf—your scarf—he realized something with startling clarity:

He missed you.

Not in the abstract, distant way he missed people when they were gone. But viscerally, like a pit in his stomach, that couldn't be filled with anything but the sight of you standing infront of him with a smile.

The clouds overhead rumbled softly, like the sky missed you too.

Spencer turned toward the store, tugging his scarf a little tighter, and stepped forward, but something caught his eye.

Next to the grocery store, nestled between a laundromat and a pharmacy, was a new coffee shop. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the name?

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he read the sign above the door.

Drip Drop Brew.

His eyes widened. He blinked, like maybe he had read it wrong. But no—those words stared right back at him, painted in playful script across the front window in soft red and black.

His breath stuttered.

“Drip drop drip drop,” you had murmured just last night as he made you tea, still damp from the rain.

You had stood beside him in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing useful, your hair still curling with leftover stormwater. You never offered to help—and he never minded. You just liked being near him while he moved around the kitchen.

“Drip drop?” he’d repeated back, bemused, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves.

“The rain,” you’d said, as if it were obvious, tilting your head toward the sound. “Listen.”

And he had. Not to the weather, but to you—the way your voice softened around mundane things, how you found rhythm in the ordinary. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was such a you thing to do, finding magic in something as ordinary as the sound of water hitting glass.

Now, standing frozen on the sidewalk, the memory wrapped around him like the scarf still knotted at his throat.

A coincidence. It had to be.

But the way his pulse jumped said otherwise.

He took a slow breath, torn between stepping inside and continuing to the grocery store. He didn’t need coffee.

Groceries were forgotten the moment he pushed open the coffee shop door.

The place was you—cozy and vibrant, with mismatched armchairs in deep red and black , shelves lined with well-loved books, and the scent of freshly ground coffee.

He could already picture you here, curled up in that corner nook by the window, a half-finished report abandoned in favor of people-watching.

You both had a habit of doing reports in cafés—something that started as convenience and turned into tradition. A small ritual between the chaos of the job. He could still remember the first time you'd convinced Hotch to let it happen.

It had been on a slow day, paperwork piling up, everyone dragging. You'd walked into the bullpen and said, “What if we were… slightly more productive in a cozy public setting with caffeine and pastries?”

Complete with your best “convince-Hotch” smile.

Somehow, it worked.Honestly, most of the team had a hard time saying no to you. Even Hotch, who wasn’t exactly known for bending rules.

But Spencer? Spencer never stood a chance. He wasn’t even sure the word no existed in his vocabulary when it came to you.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly said no to you. The word dissolved in his throat whenever you smiled at him.

He ordered a coffee—black, simple, but he let the barista add a drizzle of cinnamon syrup, just because it reminded him of the way you'd order his drinks when you thought he needed “spicing up.”

Then he settled down in the corner seat, back against the wall, giving him a view of the whole shop. It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead, the absence beside him was deafening.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in. The handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Cute drawings of animals, such as ladybugs. The tiny potted succulents lining the windowsill. A basket of dog treats by the door. A stack of used books by the counter with a handwritten sign that read: “Take one, leave one, love always.” C

Time slipped through his fingers like sand.

What should have been a thirty-minute grocery run had stretched into nearly two hours—first the coffee shop, then the quiet absorption of his book (of course he’d brought one; he’d sooner leave the house without pants than without reading material).

Eventually he forced himself to leave.

With a full bag of groceries and a head full of thoughts, he made it home. The sky had darkened even more, a low rumble of thunder in the distance echoing through the streets. Rain hadn’t started yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He unpacked everything robotically, stacking the pantry and fridge, then tossed his coat aside and curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around him.

He traced the spine of the book in his lap, his thumb brushing over the slight crease near the top.

Your book.

The one you’d pressed into his hands last week with theatrical solemnity, your brows furrowed in mock severity. “This one is my favorite,” you’d said, voice low, as if entrusting him with state secrets. When you’d jabbed a warning finger in his face, he’d barely suppressed a grin. “If anything happens to it—”

He’d waited, eyes bright with amusement, until you’d leaned in close, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper: “You will know my rage in ways you’ve never known before.”

The threat was absurd—he’d seen you genuinely angry exactly once, and even then, you’d mostly just frowned harder—but he’d played along, snatching the book from your grip with exaggerated defiance.

“Terrifying,” he’d deadpanned, already flipping to the first page.

That was another one of your rituals: swapping books every week, your version of a love language. You’d once called it “literary matchmaking.” Every Friday, without fail, a book would be passed between you—sometimes annotated, sometimes dog-eared, always loved.

This book had been your favorite.

Now, tracing the dog-eared corner of page 111—your favorite passage—he realized with a quiet ache that he could almost hear your voice between the lines.

He’d read three chapters today, but the words blurred together, his focus frayed by the day’s odd synchronicities—the cookies, the scarf, the song, the café.

And now this: your favorite book in his hands, your phantom laughter between the lines.

Spencer exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of you.

Thirty minutes later, he turned the final page.

The book was finished, and God, he understood now why you loved it so much—the way the prose curled around his ribs like smoke, the underlined passages that felt like secrets shared between just the two of you.

Your notes in the margins had been his favorite part: little exclamation marks beside plot twists, sarcastic commentary in the corners, the occasional doodle when you’d clearly gotten distracted.

With a quiet sigh, he set the book on his lap, but the spine—well-loved and cracked from years of your hands holding it��fell open again of its own accord.

And there it was.

A single line, highlighted in soft yellow, framed by a constellation of pink hearts you’d drawn with the same care you reserved for frosting cookies or arranging flowers in his too-empty apartment:

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It hit him with the force of a bullet train—no warning, no gradual buildup, just the devastating certainty of it.

The cookies. The scarf. The radio station. The coffee shop. The way his chest ached when you laughed. The way he’d memorized the cadence of your voice without meaning to. The way every road, every book, every breath seemed to lead back to you.

Oh.

Spencer Reid was in love with his best friend.

And the terrible, beautiful truth was—he’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

[kathaelipwse]

Stolen Hoodies & Soft Confessions | P.Seonghwa

Pairings: Seonghwa (ATEEZ) × Reader (VYRA)

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8603 words ; Reading Time: 31-ish mins

Trope: Idol × Idol | Co-parenting energy [hwa the MOTHER of Ateez & Y/N the DAD of Vyra | Secret relationship | Friends to lovers | Soft domestic chaos

Warnings: Mild language, public discovery of a relationship, mentions of stress, light fan/media frenzy, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: In the chaos of idol life, late-night ramen and borrowed hoodies spark a quiet, unexpected romance between KQ’s “parents.” What started in secret can’t stay hidden forever—especially when the fans (and their chaotic kids) catch on.

Author’s Note: This is a love letter to quiet intimacy and the chaos of idol life. (THIS SMAU ITSELF IS CHAOS.) If you've ever shipped your bias with comfort and ramen-flavored affection, this one’s for you. – with love, always

VYRA

Members (4 + You): You (eldest, leader, main vocalist) – Tired Dad™, emotionally constipated, accidentally soft for Hwa Jinny (02 liner, main dancer) – Absolute menace, ships you with Hwa loudly Sera (03 liner, lead rapper) – Lowkey savage, always filming your moments with Hwa Nari (04 liner, maknae, lead vocal) – Innocent-looking but chaotic gremlin Hana (00 liner, visual) – The calm one, voice of reason, actually more feral in private

--

The first day of the survival show was already shaping up to be an Olympic-level disaster, and you were pretty sure you deserved a medal in the “Most Likely to Spontaneously Combust from Stress” category.

You knew it the second your slightly battered sneakers squeaked onto the polished studio floor, your lungs burning from the sprint, and your arms screaming under the weight of the chaotic detritus your four beloved but utterly space-brained groupmates had managed to forget. Mic pouches (Jinny’s, naturally). Hairbrushes (Sera’s, the expensive one). Someone’s half-empty water bottle (Nari, probably convinced it held magic hydration powers). Someone else’s lucky scrunchie (Hana, who claimed it channeled her inner zen, which was currently MIA). Your own tote bag was threatening to give way at the seams, your hoodie was a monument to rushed dressing with its half-zipped state, and your reservoir of patience? Currently hovering somewhere around absolute zero.

“Morning, sunshines,” you muttered, the words laced with a sarcasm thick enough to spread on toast, as you finally reached the VYRA huddle. Your four members stood there, radiating an aura of blissful ignorance, looking for all the world like they were waiting for a particularly slow bus, rather than the start of a career-defining survival show.

“Unnieee,” Jinny wailed dramatically, latching onto your arm like a particularly clingy barnacle. “You’re the best! You brought everything!” Her eyes, however, darted immediately to the forgotten mic pouch peeking out of your overloaded bag.

You huffed, the sound escaping your lips like air from a punctured tire. With a grunt, you deposited the precarious pile of belongings onto a nearby thankfully sturdy table. “Next time any of you forget so much as a single bobby pin, I’m locking the dorm from the outside, throwing the key into the deepest part of the Han River, and changing the locks. Understood?”

Four heads bobbed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. You weren’t entirely convinced they’d even registered your words, but you were too tired to elaborate.

From across the bustling studio, a low, quiet chuckle drifted your way. You turned your head slightly, your gaze snagging on a figure standing near the ATEEZ contingent. Seonghwa. Of course. He always seemed to exist in a pocket of calm amidst the surrounding frenzy. He looked impossibly put together, cool and composed in a way that made your current state of disheveled exhaustion feel even more pronounced. He was holding a simple paper cup, the steam curling gently into the air.

And then, inexplicably, he started walking towards you.

Your eyes widened almost imperceptibly. You blinked, trying desperately to rearrange your features into something resembling composure. Your hoodie was now actively sticking to your damp back. Your face felt flushed, a delightful combination of the biting morning air and the sheer, undignified speed-walking you’d employed to arrive (almost) on time. You probably looked like you’d wrestled a particularly aggressive octopus and lost.

“You look like you could use this,” Seonghwa said quietly, his voice a smooth contrast to the surrounding chaos, as he extended the paper cup towards you.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second. Was this some kind of K-Drama slow-motion moment? Because it certainly felt like it. You glanced at the cup, then back at his kind eyes.

“…You sure?” you managed, your voice a little rougher than intended.

He offered a small, gentle smile that somehow managed to convey both amusement and genuine concern. “You’re the only one here who looks like they’ve already run a marathon before ten in the morning.”

You finally relented, reaching out and taking the cup with both hands. The warmth seeped into your chilled fingers, a small but significant comfort.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, surprised by the unexpected gesture. “You’re a… a genuine life-saver.”

“I try my best,” he replied, a playful tilt to his head that hinted at a dry wit you hadn’t anticipated.

Before you could formulate a proper reply, a booming voice cut through the studio noise. “Alright everyone! Positions! Cooking segment starting in five!” A harried-looking staff member gestured towards a designated area with various cooking stations.

You groaned inwardly. You still couldn’t fathom who at KQ Entertainment had greenlit the idea of a live cooking competition featuring a dozen sleep-deprived idols with varying levels of culinary incompetence. That person, you decided, owed you not just an apology, but a lifetime supply of industrial-strength coffee.

VYRA, predictably, was a disaster zone the moment they approached their station. Sera, in her enthusiasm, nearly managed to ignite her loose sleeve on an open burner, requiring a swift intervention from Hana and a fire extinguisher held precariously close by a nervous staff member. Nari, bless her chaotic heart, somehow managed to knock over half a bottle of sesame oil, creating a slippery hazard that threatened to take down the entire group. Hana, meanwhile, seemed to view the raw ingredients as an all-you-can-eat buffet, surreptitiously taste-testing everything with the unwavering confidence of a toddler who hadn’t yet grasped the concept of food poisoning. And Jinny? Jinny attacked a block of tofu with the ferocity of a warrior facing their mortal enemy, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of her knife a bizarre soundtrack to the unfolding culinary catastrophe.

All the while, you—the aforementioned tired, overworked, and now marginally more caffeinated leader—navigated the swirling vortex of flour, spilled liquids, and near-miss kitchen fires, desperately trying to prevent your group from achieving peak immolation.

“Jinny, honey, not that burner—it’s on high! Wait, Hana, sweetie, that chicken is still… very much alive in its raw state—Nari! Watch your elbow! You’re going to take out Sera’s entire spice rack!”

The cameras, you knew, were capturing every single exasperated sigh, every soft-yet-desperate scolding, every pinched expression that screamed of impending parental breakdown. They probably had a close-up of the exact moment you held your head in your hand, wondering if early retirement to a remote island was a viable option.

Then there was ATEEZ. Across the studio, they operated with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Seonghwa, in particular, moved with a quiet grace, offering calm instructions to his members, his hands deft as he chopped vegetables and seasoned dishes. Their plating was practically artistic. There was no fire. No bloodshed. Definitely no screaming.

You even swore you saw him offer a small, almost imperceptible smile as he calmly wiped down his pristine counter, a stark contrast to the sticky, oil-slicked battlefield that was VYRA’s station.

Disgusting. Utterly, enviably disgusting.

Hours later, after the chaotic filming finally wrapped and a surprisingly decent (and thankfully pre-cooked) dinner was served, the staff announced that everyone would have the rest of the evening off. Everyone… except the unlucky few who had the distinct honor of cleaning up the aftermath of the live cooking segment. The cleaning assignments, naturally, were to be decided by the ancient and universally dreaded game of rock-paper-scissors.

“Please, please, please let me win,” you silently begged your fickle luck as the final round commenced. You faced off against Nari, who, despite her innocent facade, possessed the competitive spirit of a honey badger.

You lost.

And, much to your quiet dismay (and a flicker of something unidentifiable), so did Seonghwa.

Which is how the two of you found yourselves standing side-by-side at an industrial-sized sink, elbow-deep in soapy water and surrounded by a mountain range of greasy pans, while eleven other idol children laughed and played a raucous game of charades just outside the studio doors, seemingly oblivious to the monumental task at hand.

“Remind me again why we willingly subject ourselves to this madness?” you asked, attacking a particularly stubborn patch of burnt soy sauce clinging to the bottom of a large pot.

“Because we love them,” Seonghwa replied, his voice a soft blend of fondness and utter exasperation. He scrubbed diligently at a baking sheet covered in what looked suspiciously like charcoal.

“…Right. Love,” you echoed dryly. “That old, reliable trap.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly warm in the otherwise sterile environment. “You’re definitely the dad of your group, aren’t you?”

You paused your scrubbing, considering his words. “Yeah,” you admitted with a sigh. “And you’re… their mom.”

A beat of comfortable silence hung between you, punctuated only by the clinking of dishes and the distant shouts of the playing idols. Then, a shared laugh bubbled up, surprising you both.

“They’re completely insane,” he said, shaking his head with a fond smile.

“The absolute worst,” you agreed vehemently, finally conquering the burnt soy sauce.

“But I wouldn’t trade them for anything,” he added quietly, his gaze softening as he glanced towards the group outside.

“…Me neither,” you said, your voice softer now, the earlier sarcasm fading.

You glanced at him then—really looked at him, beyond the initial impression of serene composure. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead cast a slight sheen on his slightly damp hair, a few strands falling across his forehead. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the lean muscles of his forearms as he worked. He looked… calm. Gentle. And, strangely, familiar, like an old friend you hadn’t realized you knew.

It was odd, this unexpected ease that had settled between you. Like the two of you had navigated countless greasy dish piles together in some past life. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken responsibilities, the only tired parent in this bizarre and demanding industry.

Outside, the joyful chaos of the eleven younger idols continued to echo through the evening air.

Inside, as suds clung to your wrists and a newly cleaned pot was passed between your hands, something else bloomed quietly in the shared exhaustion.

A sense of unexpected warmth. A feeling of quiet comfort.

And the very first, fragile glimmer of something that didn’t yet have a name, but felt strangely… promising.

--

It started with a scream.

Not a dramatic, stage kind of scream. It was a real one—sharp, panicked, and laced with actual pain. And it came from somewhere off camera.

"WOYOUNG!"

The live chat exploded, fans typing frantically as the camera shakily refocused, catching sight of a commotion near the obstacle course.

You were the first to move.

Instinct over logic, body already in motion. Your headset dropped to the floor. The apron you wore flapped behind you as you sprinted toward the sound.

Seonghwa was only seconds behind.

Wooyoung was sitting in the dirt, clutching his ankle. His face twisted, eyes squeezed shut, and he kept trying to wave everyone off—classic idol instinct. Hurt, but don’t show it.

“Yah, stop moving,” you said firmly, dropping to your knees beside him.

Seonghwa was already crouched on the other side, hands steady, voice calm. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Wooyoung winced. “I—I’m fine. It just twisted—”

“Fine my ass,” you muttered, eyes scanning the swelling ankle. You reached into your back pocket. “Hana, pass me the first aid pouch, now!”

The staff hadn’t even moved yet. Everyone else stood frozen—ATEEZ, VYRA, even the MCs.

But you and Seonghwa?

Already in full emergency parent mode.

Together, you rolled up Wooyoung’s pant leg. Seonghwa gently held his leg in place while you wrapped a cold pack around the ankle. Your movements were quick but careful.

“You’re breathing too fast,” Seonghwa said softly, brushing Wooyoung’s hair off his forehead. “Slow it down, alright? Just follow me.”

The chat was no longer watching the survival show. They were watching you two. ➝ “YALL LOOK AT THEM???” ➝ “They didn’t even look at each other. Just knew what to do.” ➝ “Mom + Dad energy hitting like a truck.” ➝ “This is parenting, not teamwork.” ➝ “KQ really sent out two exhausted parents to supervise 11 toddlers 😭”

You glanced up at Seonghwa. He met your eyes for the briefest second.

And in that instant, something passed between you—unspoken, but powerful. Like a thread had tightened between your hearts.

You weren’t thinking about cameras. Or staff. Or fandoms. You were just worried about his hids, now yours too.

The stream cut moments later. KQ didn’t want to risk airing too much of the injury live.

Staff swooped in. Wooyoung was helped off the field, protesting the whole time, saying he was fine, waving like a drama queen despite the limp.

You stood off to the side, hands still cold from the ice pack, nerves fraying at the edges.

“He’ll be okay,” Seonghwa said gently, stepping closer. “The medics said it’s a mild sprain.”

“I know,” you murmured, but your arms were still crossed too tightly.

“You always go full dad when someone’s hurt?”

You looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You always go full mom?”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “I guess we’re just built this way.”

“Parent-coded idols, huh?” you mumbled.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, then added, “We make a good team.”

That stopped you.

You blinked up at him, heart doing something you were not ready to name yet.

“…Yeah,” you whispered, “we kinda do.”

Later, while VYRA and ATEEZ fussed over Wooyoung in the green room, you sat beside Seonghwa outside the building, sharing the rest of the lukewarm coffee he’d saved from earlier.

The cold air bit your nose. His jacket brushed against your arm.

You didn’t talk much.

You didn’t have to.

Because sometimes, being tired parents to a chaotic idol family was enough to pull two strangers together into something a little more like home.

LAST DAY

“San, you’re listing to port,” you declared, your voice a low murmur amidst the controlled chaos backstage. The boy in question blinked at you, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion, until you reached out a hand and gently straightened the errant mic pack clipped precariously to the back of his satin stage shirt. You gave the thin wire a slight, professional tug, ensuring it wouldn’t snag or pull under the intricate embroidery of his jacket, your movements more akin to a seasoned broadcast technician than a perpetually sleep-deprived idol leader.

San finally seemed to grasp the situation, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Sorry, Noona. I think Yeosang was trying to adjust it earlier…”

“Don’t move a muscle,” you warned, your own brow furrowed in concentration as you meticulously checked the connection. “If your mic cuts out again during the final performance, I am not sprinting across that entire Olympic-sized set just to fix it. I’ve already played human cable organizer twice today, and my personal best for the hundred-yard dash was years ago.”

Behind you, the red light of the cameras blinked intermittently, capturing snippets of the controlled pandemonium. It was the final day of the survival show broadcast, the air thick with a potent cocktail of nervous energy, lingering adrenaline, and the frantic last-minute preparations. Everyone, from the contestants to the exhausted staff, was buzzing with a chaotic pre-recording hum.

Meanwhile, across the bustling backstage area, Seonghwa was crouched beside the VYRA girls’ designated cooler, a picture of quiet attentiveness. He meticulously handed out chilled water bottles to each of your members, offering a soft word of encouragement to each. When he reached Jinny, who accepted the bottle with an enthusiastic bow, he lingered for a moment, gently patting the top of her head with a warm smile.

“Stay hydrated, okay, Jinny-ah?” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “You all worked incredibly hard today. You need to keep your energy up for the final stage.”

You observed the entire exchange from the corner of your eye as you meticulously tucked a small, slightly crumpled tissue into the sleeve of San’s jacket. He’d confessed earlier, in a moment of surprising vulnerability, that he “might cry again if they win,” and you, ever the prepared leader, weren’t taking any chances on a rogue tear ruining his stage makeup.

Seonghwa then glanced up, his gaze meeting yours across the sea of frantic activity. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch played at the corners of your lips.

That was your kid. Your loud, energetic, dance-obsessed menace of a kid. And he was just… patting her head like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been tucking her into bed and making sure she drank enough water for years.

And you? Well, you were currently playing impromptu stylist/emotional support for a member of your rival group, ensuring his tear ducts wouldn’t betray him during a potentially emotional finale.

The live chat, you knew instinctively, was probably experiencing a collective meltdown. The notifications on a nearby staff member’s phone were already pinging with alarming frequency.

➝ “YALL THEY’RE LITERALLY TAKING CARE OF EACH OTHER’S KIDS NOW??” ➝ “Y/N just casually fixed San’s mic like she’s his personal tech support. And Hwa gave Jinny water and a HEAD PAT 😭 My heart!” ➝ “This is a FAMILY. A beautiful, chaotic, sleep-deprived FAMILY.” ➝ “Mom & Dad of KQ Nation officially confirmed. Someone needs to print the family portraits.” ➝ “Who’s gonna be the brave soul to break the news to them that they’re basically married in the eyes of the entire internet??”

It was utterly ridiculous. The situation was bordering on absurd. And yet… there was a strange, undeniable comfort in the easy camaraderie, the unspoken understanding that seemed to have blossomed between you and Seonghwa amidst the survival show madness. Maybe it was the shared exhaustion, the mutual understanding of the pressures and the fierce protectiveness you both felt for your respective groups. Or maybe… maybe it was something more.

By the time the final bows were taken, the confetti rained down in a celebratory shower, and the exhausted staff scrambled to cut the livestream, you were running on approximately three hours of sleep and a precarious three percent phone battery. The adrenaline was slowly draining away, leaving behind a heavy weariness that settled deep in your bones.

You’d just finished your customary double-check of your members’ backpacks – a surprisingly consistent inventory of two phones (one perpetually dead), one tangled charger, three oddly specific plushies, and one entire makeup pouch someone (you were looking at you, Jinny) had inevitably forgotten – when Seonghwa approached, his footsteps quiet amidst the post-show hubbub.

He held something concealed behind his back, his expression unreadable but the corners of his eyes crinkling with a soft, almost shy warmth.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle, a welcome contrast to the surrounding noise. “Can I… uh… borrow the tired dad for a sec?”

You blinked, the unexpected nickname causing a faint flush to creep up your neck. “I—uh. Yeah? Sure.”

He brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing a familiar can of your favorite soft drink – the ridiculously overpriced imported one you’d been lamenting the loss of three days ago when the vending machine had greedily swallowed your cash without dispensing the promised sugary goodness.

You stared at it, a wave of surprised warmth washing over you.

And then you noticed the small, brightly colored sticky note attached to the side.

You carefully peeled it off, your fingers slightly trembling. The neat handwriting read:

“For the tired dad who forgets to take care of herself too. — Hwa [xxx-xxx-xxxx]”

A soft, surprised laugh escaped your lips, a little breathless and utterly unexpected. “Seonghwa…”

He scratched the back of his neck, his ears just barely tinged with pink. “Thought you might need it. You looked… particularly done in. Also…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking around the emptying studio. “I meant to… you know… do this earlier, but uh. Didn’t exactly want to hand you my number with ten high-definition cameras pointed at our faces.”

You clutched the cool can a little tighter, the unexpected gesture causing a flutter in your chest. Your heart was doing a strange little dance against your ribs.

“Thanks,” you managed, your voice quiet, almost a whisper.

“You don’t… have to use it or anything,” he added quickly, his eyes widening slightly, as if suddenly regretting his boldness. “Just… if you ever need someone to, you know, scream about children with. Or… vent about the general absurdity of idol life.”

You looked down at the sticky note again, tracing the neat characters with your thumb. A genuine smile finally bloomed on your face, chasing away some of the lingering exhaustion.

Later that night, after the last of your members had finally succumbed to the siren call of sleep, the dorm room filled with the soft sounds of their gentle snores…

You carefully unlocked your phone, the screen illuminating your tired face in the dim light.

One new message. From an unknown number.

[unknown number] This drink slaps btw. You're lucky I like you enough to share. You stared at the message for a long moment, a small smile playing on your lips. You hesitated for a beat, then began to type. [you] You left your number just to insult me over a drink? Bold move, Seonghwa. The reply came almost instantly. [hwa] Bold? No. Flirty? Maybe. 😉 …Still feeling like a walking zombie, Dad? [you] Always. Comes with the territory. But… slightly less now. Thanks to the sugar rush. [hwa] Then that’s a win in my book. Get some rest. You deserve it. You leaned back against your pillow, the half-empty soda can resting on your nightstand. A surprising warmth had settled in your chest, chasing away some of the usual pre-sleep anxiety. Your phone buzzed again, the soft vibration a comforting presence in the quiet room. [hwa] Goodnight, tired dad. Text me if your kids make you cry. Or if you just want to complain about survival shows. I get it.

You smiled to yourself, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached your tired eyes. Texting Seonghwa hadn’t been part of the survival show script. It hadn’t been part of any plan at all.

But maybe, just maybe, navigating the chaotic landscape of idol parenting had finally led you to something – someone – you hadn’t even realized you needed. And for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t feel quite so exhausting.

-

The digital thread between you and Seonghwa had become a constant in the two months since the survival show ended. A steady stream of late-night texts filled the quiet hours after your respective groups had finally crashed, a lifeline of shared anxieties, industry gripes, and surprisingly tender moments woven between the casual banter. You’d both become experts at deciphering the subtle nuances of each other’s messages, the unspoken understanding that bloomed in the digital space a comforting weight against the often-overwhelming reality of idol life.

ONE NIGHT

hwa [11:07 PM] The dorm’s eerily quiet tonight. Everyone’s out with Hongjoong, probably terrorizing some karaoke bar. You wanna come over? I have approximately three packets of extra ramen and a couch that doesn't threaten to collapse under the weight of my existential dread.

You stared at the message glowing on your phone screen from the sanctuary of your bed, a ridiculous grin tugging at your lips. Your own dorm room was a testament to the sleeping habits of four energetic young women, a tangled landscape of limbs and discarded blankets punctuated by soft snores. The air was surprisingly chilly despite the layers of bedding, and the silence felt… empty. You missed the easy companionship, the quiet understanding you’d found in your late-night digital exchanges with Seonghwa, a welcome contrast to the constant chatter about stage outfits, forgotten choreography, and the eternal mystery of the missing mic belt.

you [11:09 PM] Consider my weary self en route. Just point me towards the ramen and the non-judgmental couch.

Seonghwa’s dorm, a space you’d only glimpsed in passing during the survival show, held a surprisingly homey atmosphere. It smelled faintly of clean laundry and the unmistakable, comforting aroma of instant noodles, a scent that spoke of late nights and shared comfort.

He greeted you at the door, framed by the warm glow of the hallway light, looking impossibly soft in gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. His usually meticulously styled hair was adorably fluffy, and the weariness around his eyes seemed to melt away as he offered a small, genuine smile.

“You actually came,” he said, stepping aside to allow you entrance, a hint of surprised amusement in his voice.

You held up the small bag of convenience store snacks you’d grabbed on your way over like a peace offering. “I come bearing peace. And questionable nutritional choices.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “And snacks. Clearly, you understand the ultimate love language.”

You gratefully sank onto the aforementioned non-judgmental couch, its cushions yielding with a sigh of relief. From the living room, you watched Seonghwa move around his surprisingly tidy kitchen, the soft clinking of dishes and the gentle hum of a melody you vaguely recognized filling the quiet space. He meticulously diced green onions on a small cutting board, his movements precise and surprisingly domestic.

“You’re far too good at this,” you called out, your voice slightly muffled by the plush cushions.

“At what, exactly?” he asked, leaning around the corner, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in playful inquiry.

“This,” you gestured vaguely with your hand. “The cooking. The hosting. The general air of domestic bliss that is frankly bordering on disgustingly sweet.”

He leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you saying you’re finally succumbing to my charms, Dad?”

“Hard to say,” you teased, a familiar layer of playful sarcasm settling over the unexpected warmth you felt. “My primary love language is sarcasm and trauma bonding. We’re still in the early stages of deciphering this… connection.”

You heard his genuine laughter echo from the kitchen, a warm and deep sound that chased away the last vestiges of the day’s stress.

By the time the fragrant aroma of steaming kimchi ramen filled the living room, you found yourself sniffling rather loudly. The dorm was warmer now, but a persistent chill seemed to have settled in your bones.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked, a concerned frown creasing his brow as he approached, carefully carrying two steaming bowls.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand. “Just… a little cold, I guess.”

He glanced at your thin spring jacket hanging over the back of the chair. “You’re wearing a glorified windbreaker in the middle of December.” He set the bowls down on the coffee table with a sigh, disappearing into his bedroom before you could even offer a weak defense of your questionable outerwear choices.

He returned moments later, holding a familiar oversized hoodie – his hoodie, the one he often wore during late-night practice sessions – and a soft black beanie. Before you could even formulate a protest, he was gently tugging the hoodie over your head, the familiar scent of fresh cotton and a hint of his signature cologne enveloping you in a comforting embrace. Then came the beanie, carefully pulled down over your messy bun.

“Don’t even think about arguing,” he muttered, his voice laced with a surprising amount of concern. “You’ll get sick, and I’m not dealing with a sniffling, miserable leader. My sanity is already hanging by a thread thanks to my own chaotic children.”

You blinked up at him, now practically drowning in the soft, oversized fabric of his hoodie. It felt strangely… right. And warm. Incredibly warm.

“…Thanks, Mom,” you said softly, the nickname slipping out almost unconsciously.

He deadpanned, but a hint of a smile played on his lips. “Keep calling me that, and you’re getting two bowls of soup. And maybe a lecture on appropriate winter attire.”

You beamed, the warmth spreading beyond just the hoodie. “So romantic.”

You were halfway through your bowl of delicious, spicy ramen, your earlier chill completely forgotten as you regaled Seonghwa with the latest hilarious (and slightly disastrous) dance practice bloopers involving Jinny, a rogue rolling chair, and an unfortunate encounter with a strategically placed speaker, when the front door of the dorm slammed open with a resounding bang.

“HYUNG I LEFT MY –“

Wooyoung’s boisterous voice abruptly cut off mid-sentence.

So did you, your spoon frozen halfway to your mouth, a stray noodle dangling precariously.

So did Seonghwa, his eyes widening slightly as he turned towards the doorway, a look of dawning horror slowly spreading across his face.

Because there you were: curled up comfortably on his couch, practically swimming in his oversized hoodie, holding a spoon mid-air like a startled deer, your messy bun completely hidden under his black beanie, your cheeks flushed a delicate pink from the warmth of the soup and the shared laughter.

Yeosang peered cautiously around Wooyoung’s broad shoulder, his eyes widening in surprise.

Then Mingi, ever the dramatic one, gasped audibly as he stepped into the living room.

Followed by San, who simply stood there, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.

An awkward silence descended upon the small living room, thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

And then—

“OH MY GOD,” Mingi shrieked, pointing a dramatic finger in your direction. “ARE YOU—ARE YOU WEARING HYUNG’S CLOTHES?!”

“No way…” Wooyoung looked back and forth between the two of you, his expression a mixture of disbelief and utter scandal. “NOONA, YOU—YOU’VE SOMEHOW DOMESTICATED OUR MOM. I DIDN’T THINK IT WAS POSSIBLE.”

“I— This isn’t— It’s just— I was cold!” You shot up from the couch, nearly sending your bowl of soup flying, your cheeks now burning with a completely different kind of heat. “He was just being… hospitable!”

“Oh, it is,” San said, smugly crossing his arms, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Look at you, all cozy in Hyung’s favorite hoodie. You’ve been claimed.”

Seonghwa covered his face with one hand, a low groan escaping his lips. The tips of his ears were now a shade of pink that had likely never before been documented by scientific research.

“I think I’m going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment,” he muttered from behind his hand.

“You’re not even denying it!” Yeosang pointed out, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Mingi, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with suppressed excitement. “I officially ship it. #TiredParentsUnite.”

You made your hasty retreat approximately twenty minutes later, Seonghwa’s oversized hoodie still clinging to you like a warm, comforting security blanket. Your heart was still doing a frantic tap dance in your chest, and your mind was a whirlwind of mortification and a surprising amount of… warmth.

As you slipped through the back entrance of your own dorm building, hoping to avoid any late-night encounters with your own inquisitive members, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

[hwa] I’m never hearing the end of this. They’re already making memes. [you] You mean OUR kids saw us being perfectly normal human beings and completely lost their minds? Can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s a generational thing. [hwa] You still cold? [you] A little. But your hoodie is doing a valiant job of keeping the arctic winds at bay. [hwa] Keep it. It suits you more anyways. Plus, I have like five more. [you] That’s… dangerously close to actual flirting, Seonghwa. Are you feeling alright? Should I call a medic? [hwa] Maybe. Maybe being around you is making me soft. Don’t tell anyone. Goodnight, Dad. Sleep tight. You stood in the dimly lit hallway of your dorm, the soft fabric of his hoodie pulled over your hands, your eyes locked on the screen of your phone. A silly, contented smile stretched across your face. [you] Okay, Mom. Sleep tight. And try not to let your children post too many embarrassing photos of us online.

Your heart swelled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the stolen hoodie. Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected detour into something more than friendship was exactly what two perpetually tired leaders needed.

-

Three weeks had drifted by in a hazy blur of promotion schedules, dance practices, and the lingering remnants of a stubborn cold that seemed determined to take up permanent residence in your sinuses. Seonghwa’s hoodie had become your unofficial uniform, a soft, comforting shield against the persistent chills and the general weariness of being a perpetually tired idol leader. Late-night texts with Seonghwa remained your quiet solace, filled with gentle teasing and the unspoken understanding that bloomed in the digital space.

And then there was Nari. Your seemingly innocent maknae, who possessed the chaotic energy of a sugar-fueled squirrel and a Wi-Fi connection that was clearly a weapon in disguise.

It was a rare, blessedly quiet Sunday afternoon. Your members were out on individual schedules, a small mercy that allowed you to fully indulge in the emotional afterglow of your recent yet not so recent soup-and-softness extravaganza at Seonghwa’s dorm. You were burrowed deep into the comforting embrace of his oversized grey hoodie, a steaming mug of honey and lemon tea clutched in your hands, when your phone buzzed with a notification. Nari had posted a new Instagram story.

You didn’t see it immediately. You were too busy contemplating the profound comfort of stolen hoodies and the surprisingly domestic side of Seonghwa. Seven blissful, oblivious minutes ticked by.

Unfortunately, in the hyper-connected world of K-Pop fandoms, seven minutes was an eternity.

Your phone began to vibrate insistently against the arm of the couch, a relentless barrage of notifications flooding your screen. Confused, you finally unlocked it and tapped on the first notification. It was a screenshot of Nari’s story, reposted by a fan account with multiple wide-eyed emojis.

@ officialnari_ 🎥: [a slightly shaky, endearingly lazy pan of the VYRA dorm living room] 📍: VYRA Dorm 🎶: “Love Me Like That” (a soft, instrumental version playing in the background) 👤: You, curled up on the couch like a sleepy bear in an oversized grey hoodie, occasionally sipping from a mug Caption: “Our tired dad in hibernation mode 🐻💤”

And that was it. Innocent enough, right? Wrong. So, so wrong.

The hoodie? Unmistakably Seonghwa’s. The specific shade of grey, the slightly worn cuffs – eagle-eyed fans had already cross-referenced it with multiple blurry airport photos and behind-the-scenes clips.

The background? A fleeting glimpse of the black beanie perched precariously on your head, the very same beanie that had been a permanent fixture on Seonghwa’s head during the survival show and, more recently, seemed to have migrated to your possession.

And just for good measure, as the camera panned, your delicate silver necklace caught the light – the very same necklace that sharp-eyed ATINYs had recently spotted dangling from Seonghwa’s rearview mirror in a VLIVE, a detail that had already sparked a flurry of speculative tweets.

The fandom? Had officially detonated. It was less a calm discussion and more a full-scale internet meltdown.

@ theatinyspy NOT. HER. IN. THE. HOODIE. I REPEAT. NOT. HER. IN. THE. HOODIE. THIS IS BEYOND A COINCIDENCE. AND THE BEANIE TOO?! NARI YOU LITTLE— NARI JUST SOFT-DROPPED AN ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP LIKE IT WAS A CASUAL TUESDAY. @ vyra_vigilante THEY’RE SHARING CLOTHES. SHARING. CLOTHES. THIS IS BEYOND FRIENDSHIP. THIS IS… THIS IS SHARING INTIMATE APPAREL. I BET THEY’RE SHARING SOULS. AND MAYBE RAMEN. @ seongflirted This isn’t a soft launch, besties. This is a FULL-BLOWN, HIGH-DEFINITION, CINEMATIC ROLLOUT. NARI IS A MENACE AND I AM HERE FOR IT. @ kqtea_anon We. BEEN. Knew. The signs were there. The stolen glances, the shared exhaustion, the way they looked at each other during the emergency. But DAMN. This is blatant.

Your phone continued its relentless buzzing, each notification a fresh wave of internet chaos washing over you.

Your group chat, meanwhile, had also erupted.

nari UNNIE I—I DIDN’T KNOW THAT WAS HIS HOODIE. I SWEAR ON MY ENTIRE K-POP COLLECTION. I HONESTLY THOUGHT IT WAS ONE OF YOUR OVERSIZED ONES??? you Nari. It smells distinctly of Seonghwa’s cologne. HOW did you mistake that? nari YOU… YOU SMELL YOUR HOODIES?? That’s… kinda weird, Unnie. But also… understandable. jinny YOU POSTED UNNIE IN SEONGHWA SUNBAENIM’S CLOTHES ON YOUR PUBLIC INSTAGRAM STORY?? Girl, you just outed the nation’s favorite tired parents to the entire internet. 😭 nari I’M DELETING THE STORY. I’M DEACTIVATING MY ACCOUNT. I’M GOING TO LIVE IN A CAVE WITH NO WIFI. sera Honey, the digital horse has bolted, taken a joyride on TikTok, and is now being dissected frame by frame on Twitter. It’s already on Part 3 of a comprehensive timeline breakdown, complete with zoomed-in screenshots and fan theories.

With a groan, you finally gave in and called Seonghwa.

He picked up on the second ring, his voice carrying a weary sigh. “So, we’re trending again.”

You flopped backwards onto your bed, the soft weight of his hoodie a strange comfort amidst the rising panic. “How mad are you? On a scale of one to ‘I’m going to hide in the practice room until the end of time’?”

“I’m not… mad,” he said slowly, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “Just… processing the fact that my fans now know what my favorite hoodie looks like from approximately three different highly pixelated angles. And they seem to have opinions on how good it looks on you.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips. “Do I… do I need to return it immediately under the cover of darkness?”

“I think I made it pretty clear last time that it’s yours now,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Besides… are you still feeling a bit under the weather?”

“Hmm… a little,” you admitted, sniffling softly.

“Take care, tired dad,” he said, the nickname now carrying a familiar warmth. “Besides… you actually do look better in my clothes.”

A blush crept up your neck. “…Was that… a flirt, Seonghwa?”

“Maybe,” he replied, a definite smirk in his voice now.

“Dangerous,” you murmured, pulling the hoodie further around you.

“You’re worth the risk,” he said, the words hanging in the air between you, a tangible shift in the playful banter.

Later that night, as you and Seonghwa were both navigating the crowded hallways of KQ Entertainment to talk in peace, a familiar staff member walked past. You both instinctively froze, a guilty awareness hanging between you.

She simply smirked, gave you a knowing thumbs up, and continued on her way, leaving you both slightly stunned.

@ vyra_4lyfe: ((groupchat of the 5))

sera: GUYS. Even KQ staff are in on it now. It’s officially OVER. I SAW IT WITH MY OWN TWO EYES. THE THUMBS UP OF CONFIRMATION.

-- 8 months later

If the internet had a collective nervous system, it just experienced a full-blown, system-wide shock. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ignite the online world quite like the potent combination of a man unexpectedly uttering a term of endearment and a tragically forgotten mute button.

The LIVE had started with the casual, comfortable vibe of a late-night dorm chat. Sera and Hana, looking endearingly rumpled in oversized pajamas and sporting the kind of barefaced beauty that only idols could pull off, were sprawled on the living room couch, scrolling through fan comments and answering questions with sleepy honesty.

“Okay,” Sera said, squinting at the rapidly scrolling comments on her phone, “favorite hair colors we’ve had so far—go!”

“Blonde,” Hana answered instantly, stretching languidly. “But only if I’m not the one dealing with the bleach aftermath. My scalp still holds a grudge.”

You, meanwhile, were blissfully and utterly unaware of the impending digital tsunami you were about to unleash. Your arms were straining under the weight of two overflowing grocery bags, a precarious balancing act that required you to nudge the dorm room door open with your foot. Your phone was wedged awkwardly between your shoulder and cheek as you juggled keys and groceries.

“…No, I definitely got the spicy tteokbokki you wanted, and those weirdly addictive yogurt drinks you’re obsessed with,” you mumbled into the phone, finally managing to kick the door open and stumble inside, the keys clattering onto the kitchen counter. “Wait a minute—are these even the right brand of salted caramel chips? You’re very particular about your sodium intake, apparently.”

At the sound of your voice, Sera’s head swiveled around, her eyes widening slightly. Hana, who had been mid-yawn, blinked in your direction, a flicker of curiosity in her sleepy gaze. And then, the live chat started to notice the unexpected guest. The comments began to scroll faster, a flurry of question marks and excited whispers appearing on Sera’s screen.

And then, Hwa’s voice echoed through your phone’s speaker, clear as day in the sudden quiet of the dorm room.

“It’s fine, baby. You always take care of me anyway.”

Silence descended upon the living room. A heavy, pregnant silence that stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You froze mid-step, your eyes widening in dawning horror as you stared at Sera and Hana, who were now staring back at you with expressions of utter, abject shock.

Sera’s jaw literally dropped open, her phone clutched forgotten in her hand.

Hana’s hand flew up to clamp over her mouth, her eyes wide saucers of disbelief.

The live viewers? Had collectively lost their ever-loving minds. The comment section on Sera’s phone transformed into a digital explosion of pure, unadulterated chaos.

🧡 COMMENT SECTION 💬: @ atinybrainrot: BABY?????????????????????? DID I HEAR THAT RIGHT???????? @ vyraxchaos: “YOU ALWAYS TAKE CARE OF ME ANYWAY”?????????? SIR???????? MA’AM???????? WHAT IS GOING ON???????? @ momndadupdates: THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT. THIS. IS. NOT. A. DRILL. CODE ROMANCE. CODE ROMANCE. ALL HANDS ON DECK.

You lunged towards your phone like it was a ticking time bomb about to detonate the last vestiges of your carefully guarded privacy. “I—I gotta call you back—something just came up—”

“Did I say something—?” Hwa’s confused voice echoed from the speaker just as your finger slammed down on the end call button.

Dead silence.

Then—

“BRO.” Sera’s voice was a low, disbelieving whisper.

“YOU JUST SOFT-LAUNCHED YOURSELF,” Hana choked out between suppressed giggles, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement.

“ON LIVE,” Sera added for emphasis, her gaze glued to the rapidly escalating comments on her phone.

Your face flushed a shade of crimson that could rival a summer sunset. “Tell me you weren’t live. Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you accidentally ended the live five minutes ago.”

Sera slowly turned the phone screen towards you, the bright light illuminating her stunned expression.

Hana, unable to contain herself any longer, dissolved into a fit of silent laughter, clutching her stomach as she nearly slid off the couch.

“Not only were we very much live,” Sera wheezed, her voice trembling with suppressed hysteria, “but there were approximately eighty thousand people who just heard your… significant other… affectionately refer to you as ‘baby.’ On speakerphone. For all the world to hear.”

You collapsed onto the floor, the grocery bags thudding softly beside you, your face buried in your hands. The weight of the internet’s collective gasp felt surprisingly heavy.

Within minutes, the inevitable clips began to circulate across all social media platforms, immortalizing your accidental reveal for eternity.

🎥: [a shaky fan recording of Sera and Hana’s live, the audio clipping slightly as Hwa’s voice booms through the speaker

Caption: “POV: you were just trying to hear Sera talk about her questionable hair dye choices and accidentally stumbled upon the biggest K-Pop relationship reveal of the decade.”

🎥: [a cleverly edited video of you walking into the dorm, Hwa’s voice echoing dramatically over slow-motion footage]

🎶: background music = “Can’t Help Falling In Love” (a melancholic lofi version)

Text overlay: “You always take care of me anyway.” The caption simply read: “It was always him.”

You finally managed to peel your face out of your hands long enough to furiously type a message to Seonghwa in all caps.

you YOU CALLED ME BABY. ON A LIVE BROADCAST. IN FRONT OF EIGHTY THOUSAND PEOPLE. ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK? His reply was infuriatingly nonchalant. hwa …did I? 🤔 My memory is a little hazy after practice. you SEONGHWA. YOU KNOW YOU DID. THE ENTIRE INTERNET NOW KNOWS MY PET NAME. MY INTIMATE, EMBARRASSING PET NAME. hwa Oops? 😉 Guess the secret’s officially out of the bag, huh? So… wanna just go official and get it over with? Save us both the future accidental reveals? Your breath hitched in your throat. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, your mind racing. you Seriously? Right now? After I just became the most embarrassing meme on Twitter?

His reply was surprisingly tender, cutting through your panic with a gentle certainty.

hwa Only if you want to, baby. No pressure. But… I kind of like the sound of it.

-

It had been four days of absolute chaos.

Edits. Memes. Fan theories. One 45-minute compilation titled “Evidence That Seonghwa & [Y/N] Have Been Married Since 2019.” Even Dispatch was quiet—probably out of fear.

But you and Hwa? Radio silent.

Until now.

Instagram Post: @ starhwa ➝ 2 photos:

A blurry selfie—both of you wrapped in scarves, smiling like you had a secret. A clearer one—him holding the camera while you lean into his shoulder, warm cheeks, windblown hair, eyes full of something soft. Caption: found comfort in each other. 🫶🏻

Instagram Post: @ yourusername ➝ 3 photos:

Hwa sleeping on the couch hugging your plushie. Two mugs, hands overlapping. A mirror pic with his arm around your waist. Caption: same storm. same shelter.

📢 KQ Entertainment Official Statement: “We kindly ask fans for support and understanding as Seonghwa and [Y/N] build something meaningful while continuing to prioritize their careers and responsibilities. Thank you.”

The internet? SHAKING.

💬 Comment Section Highlights:

@ atinyupdates: WE BEEN KNEW AND WE BEEN ROOTING 😭 @ vyrahearts: ‘same storm, same shelter’???? get out I’m SOBBING @ multi4life: Honestly the healthiest idol couple rollout I’ve seen @ shxxwifeclub: THEY'RE SO SOFT FOR EACH OTHER I CAN’T DO THIS

But of course, haters had to try it.

Didn’t last long.

When a random troll commented, “They’re ruining the group image smh 🙄”

Nari replied: “Ruining what? Love? Couldn’t be me.”

And then reposted one of the photos on her story with the caption:

“We told y’all mom & dad were real.”

Wooyoung went live later that day, cackling. “Y’all mad? Go eat soup or something. Our parents are in love. Let them LIVE.” He zoomed in on his face. “And if you’re pressed about it… maybe ask yourself why your love life is dry and theirs is thriving.”

That night, your phone lit up with a message.

hwa [12:34 AM] People know now. Feels kinda nice. I don’t have to pretend anymore. you [12:35 AM] Pretend what? hwa [12:36 AM] That you’re just someone I see on stage. When really, you’re the one I see in every quiet moment after.

--

Wondering 'OMG WHEN DID HE CONFESS?! NO CONFESSION?! NO DAMN CONFESSION KATHA?!'[I was a bit carried away. Not 'BIT' i was totally carried away. I love y'll!]

Well here's a flash back then ;)

-- 8 months back BEFORE a few week's before the 'sera's live incident' [A music award show]

The music was loud. The lights were blinding. But your heartbeat? That was the loudest of all.

You paced backstage, still in costume, nerves fraying like the hem of your sleeve. Your group had just finished a killer performance, but it didn’t matter—because he hadn’t said more than two words to you all day.

And you didn’t know why.

Well, okay. You thought you knew why.

The stares. The lingering touches. The way he’d gone quiet every time you got too close.

Something had changed. And if you were right, tonight would either fix everything… or break it.

You spun on your heel, ready to storm back into the green room— And slammed straight into Seonghwa.

“Whoa—hey.” His hands caught your arms, steadying you. “Sorry.”

You blinked up at him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His jaw tightened, eyes darting to the hallway like he was making a choice in real-time.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low.

He led you into a quieter corner of the dressing room, near the costume racks. You could still hear the staff moving around, the muffled chaos of two fandoms waiting outside. But here, it was just you and him.

“Seonghwa, what’s going on?”

He hesitated—then exhaled sharply, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his throat for weeks.

“I’ve been trying not to ruin this,” he began.

You stared.

“You’ve always made me feel safe,” he said, softer now. “Even when I’m stressed. Even when I’m overthinking. You—” he laughed, almost bitterly. “You’d crack some joke and I’d remember how to breathe again.”

“Hwa…”

“I didn’t think someone like you would like someone like me,” he admitted, voice wavering. “But I can’t—” He paused, swallowed, then looked you dead in the eye. “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ve been in love with you.”

It was messy. It was rushed. It was everything.

And before you could overthink it, you grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was like a spark finally found the fuse.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw, the kiss deepening as months of tension and late-night messages came crashing together in one perfect, stupid, wonderful moment—

“—OH MY GOD.”

You broke apart.

In the doorway: Two stylists, one manager, and Wooyoung holding a tray of vitamin drinks.

Everyone froze.

Except Wooyoung. Who dropped the tray and screamed, “I KNEW IT!”

You and Seonghwa stared at each other, wide-eyed and breathless.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you whispered back.

“For kissing you in front of our entire tour staff.”

From the hallway came Nari’s voice: “Wait—WHO’S KISSING WHO—”

Seonghwa winced. “Okay. Maybe I am sorry.”

You just laughed, forehead pressed to his.

-- The End <3

[schrodingersbobby]

so much more interesting for his character. to ME. to have had eddie in texas for this arc. cause I genuinely do believe there's such a thing as too many character NDEs at once (like while I loved the bridge collapse none of the NDEs meant much to me cause there was just too much to focus on and not enough time to give it the proper emotional punch. eddie's ribs got crushed. did I give a shit. did it do anything for his character. no) but this absence is Everything for his character. because eddies been so focused on losing christopher and getting him back that he's almost convinced himself he can be fine in Texas. and maybe when it was a competition between Chris and Everyone/Anyone else that could be true but he has chris back in his corner now and he has to choose between continuing this lie to himself that he and chris can be happy in texas or he has to come face to face with the fact that this life he built in los angeles could never be a transient moment in his life. not only has he been immeasurably changed by these people he met at the 118 but he is still and forever bound to them and that's Not Nothing. we saw him acknowledge it but at that point he didn't think he had a choice. now he does and he will be confronted with that in the most devastating way and the impact of his absence will be so much more defining and monumental for him than being just another trapped 118 member

[cei1ne]

—You have Amnesia and it begins taking a toll on you and your husband

༺ღ༒ Summary: You got into a accident which lead to you not remembering your life with your husband. As you arrive and don’t remember a single detail, it slowly begins to burn Bakugou out and in the end, an argument leads into you falling into a coma.

* . : ｡ ✿ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader

˚ ೃ࿔₊•Tags: Angst; Angst with fluff ending; Fluff; married life; Aged!up

*˚⁺‧͙Warnings: Amnesia; Angst; swearing maybe; Coma; Arguments?

•˖*⑅♡Word count: 4.2k

ˏˋ°•*➷A/N: I was feeling sad and thought, why not make a scenario of a tsundere man breaking down and living a miserable life after his wife he adored more than anything can’t remember a single about him? English isn’t my first language! I’m sorry if you shed a tear xx

The hospital smell still lingers on you as you step out of the car, Katsuki’s hand firm yet careful on the small of your back. He walks beside you silently, guiding you up the path to your home—his home. The once-familiar sight of the towering house now feels foreign, even intimidating.

Katsuki hasn’t said much since picking you up. His usual fiery demeanor has been subdued, his sharp tongue dulled into quiet restraint.

“It’s your home,” he mutters, his voice unusually soft, laced with an almost painful longing. “Our home.”

The words hang in the air as you stare at the house, your mind blank. He’s hoping for something—anything—a flicker of recognition in your eyes. But nothing comes.

After the accident, everything changed. The doctors had explained the severity of the head trauma, the memory loss that might be permanent. It wasn’t your fault, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to accept. Katsuki Bakugou, the number one Pro Hero, couldn’t protect the one person who mattered most to him.

He takes a deep breath, opening the door for you. “Go ahead.”

You step inside hesitantly, the space feeling vast and unfamiliar. The faint smell of burnt caramel—a scent that should’ve been comforting—makes you wrinkle your nose instead.

“It’s…nice,” you say after a pause, your voice awkward and distant.

His ruby eyes narrow slightly as he studies you. The words feel hollow, a far cry from the warmth and vibrancy you used to radiate. You weren’t smiling like you used to. You weren’t cracking jokes or teasing him like you used to. And most of all, you weren’t looking at him the way you used to—with love.

“Take your time,” Katsuki says gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for you. “It’ll… come back.” But even he doesn’t sound convinced.

__________________________________________

Weeks after the accident, your condition had not improved much. The bruises on your face, though fading, were stark reminders of what had happened. Bandages still wrapped tightly around your head served as a physical representation of the mental gap that now defined your life. Your movements were slow and cautious, often unsteady. Sometimes you’d pause mid-step, as if unsure where to go or what to do, and Katsuki would rush to steady you, his hands firm but trembling slightly.

Your demeanor had shifted entirely. Where there was once a spark in your eyes, a curiosity and a fire that drew people to you, now there was only a distant emptiness. You spoke softly, often hesitantly, as if the words you were saying didn’t belong to you. Simple things—like recognizing objects around the house or remembering how to make tea—became monumental tasks, and each failure weighed heavily on you.

Katsuki noticed it all. Every stumble, every fleeting expression of frustration that crossed your face when your memory failed you, he took it to heart. At first, he masked his emotions well, trying to be the strong one, as he always had been. But it was impossible to hide the cracks forming beneath the surface. COME BACK GIRL WE NEED YOU

_________________________________

He started skipping meals, spending every waking moment either helping you or drowning himself in work to avoid his thoughts. His patrols as the number one pro hero became a crutch—an escape. But even there, he wasn’t the same. He’d snap at his sidekicks over minor mistakes or growl at reporters asking about your condition.

When he was home, he barely slept. Most nights, he sat by your side, watching you sleep restlessly. Sometimes you’d mutter in your dreams—names of people he didn’t recognize, fragments of a past life that wasn’t tied to him—and it killed him inside. He’d reach out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, hoping that maybe, just maybe, something would change.

But nothing did.

His physical appearance began to reflect his inner turmoil. Dark circles formed under his eyes, and his sharp jawline became slightly hollowed from missed meals. His usual confidence—bordering on arrogance—was nowhere to be found. Even his explosions, once a controlled release of power, became unpredictable and reckless during training sessions. He was pushing himself too hard, too fast, as if trying to outrun the reality of what had happened.

_________________________________

One night, after a particularly grueling day, he came home to find you sitting in the living room, staring blankly at a family photo. It was one of the two of you from a happier time—your arms around each other, your smiles radiant. You turned to him as he entered, your eyes filled with confusion.

“I… I don’t remember this,” you said, your voice trembling. “Was I happy?”

The question shattered him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands cupped your face, his eyes burning with an intensity that only he could possess.

“Of course you were,” he said, his voice breaking. “You were the happiest damn person I knew. You lit up every room you walked into. You made me… you made me better.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. You nodded, as if trying to accept his words, but the doubt in your expression was unmistakable. He felt his chest tighten, the weight of your uncertainty crushing him.

Later that night, after he thought you had fallen asleep, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He didn’t hear you stir, didn’t see the way you watched him through half-lidded eyes as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. NOOO STAY STRONG MY BABY

_________________________________

The days pass in a haze of awkward silences and hesitant conversations. Katsuki tries to act normal, but the cracks in his fiery confidence start to show. Every time you flinch at his touch or hesitate to respond to him, it’s like another stab to the heart.

You spend most of your time wandering the house, unsure of what to do with yourself. Katsuki keeps himself busy training or patrolling as much as possible, but he never strays too far. He’s always home by nightfall, keeping a watchful eye on you from a distance.

One evening, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a plate of food that’s long gone cold. Katsuki sits across from you, arms crossed, his expression tight with frustration.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” he says, his voice low but firm.

“I’m not hungry,” shut your big back ass up girl you murmur, not meeting his eyes.

“Damn it, you’ve got to eat something,” he snaps, the edge in his voice slipping through despite his efforts to keep calm.

You look up at him, frowning. “I said I’m not hungry.” I say as I’m devouring a whole chips bag while writing this

The silence that follows is heavy, the tension between you palpable. Katsuki stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want.” He stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Later that night, you lie in bed, tossing and turning. The bed feels too big, too empty, even though Katsuki is right there beside you. His back is turned to you, his breathing steady but shallow. You can tell he isn’t asleep.

Your eyes drift to the walls, lined with framed photographs. Pictures of the two of you—laughing, kissing, holding each other. There’s even one of you in his hero agency, grinning proudly with your arms around his neck.

You should feel something looking at them. Nostalgia, love, something. But all you feel is emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the darkness.

Katsuki hears you. His fingers twitch, and for a moment, it seems like he might turn over and pull you close. But he doesn’t. Instead, he clenches his fists under the covers and mutters, “It’s not your fault.” MY SHAYLAAA

_________________________________

As the weeks drag on, Katsuki begins to unravel. The fiery determination that once defined him is now replaced by a simmering frustration he can barely contain.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. The news is playing, but you’re not really paying attention. Suddenly, a memory surfaces—a fleeting thought about a song you used to like.

“I remembered something!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter.

Katsuki, who’s just walked in from patrol tired and pissed as always, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What is it?”

“I think I used to like that song… the one that goes, uh…” You hum a few bars, struggling to recall the rest.

His face falls. “That’s it? That’s what you remembered?”

You frown. “Well, yeah. It’s a start, right?”

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A start? That’s useless.” I can’t blame him, I hate this girl even tho I created her

The words hit you like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, his voice rising. “Every time you remember something, it’s something stupid like a song or a movie. What about us? What about the things that actually matter?” Boy it’s not our fault ain’t no way you’re blaming us!?

“I’m trying my hardest!” you shout, standing up to face him. “Do you think I like not remembering? Do you think I chose this?”

The argument escalates quickly, both of you yelling over each other until finally, Katsuki storms out, slamming the door behind him.

_________________________________

You wander aimlessly, tears streaming down your face. Your vision blurs as you make your way to the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest. You don’t see the edge of the counter until it’s too late.

The sharp corner slams into your injured head, and you collapse to the floor. Pain explodes in your skull, and darkness begins to creep into the edges of your vision.

Katsuki hears the loud thud and rushes in, his heart stopping at the sight of you on the floor.

“Shit!” He’s at your side in seconds, his hands trembling as he lifts your head gently. Blood seeps through the bandage on your head, staining his hands and the floor.

“Y/n, stay with me!” he barks, his voice shaking with panic.

You look up at him weakly, your lips trembling. “Katsuki… I’m sorry… I’m sorry for being a horrible wife…” “UNNIE” — “Young-mi! Young-mi!”

“Don’t say that!” he growls, his voice breaking. “You’re not horrible. You’re perfect. You hear me? You’re fucking perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and Katsuki’s heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

_________________________________

The next few weeks are hell. You’re in a coma, and Katsuki is barely holding it together. He spends every waking moment by your side, refusing to leave the hospital even when his friends and colleagues beg him to take care of himself.

His once fiery spirit is now a pale ember. He hasn’t shaved in days, his stubble growing thick along his jaw. Dark circles rim his eyes, and his usual sharp demeanor has dulled into quiet despair.

He talks to you constantly, hoping that somehow, his voice will reach you.

“Wake up, damn it,” he mutters one night, his head resting on the edge of your bed. “You can’t leave me like this. You’re too stubborn to give up, remember?” We love a man that motivates us

But the days pass, and you remain unresponsive.

_________________________________

One evening, Katsuki finally succumbs to exhaustion. He falls asleep with his head resting on your lap, his hand gripping yours loosely. For once, his face is peaceful, the lines of worry softened in sleep.

When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you see is him—your Katsuki. Memories come rushing back in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror slowly coming together.

“Katsuki…”

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, he looks dazed. Then he sees you—really sees you—and his heart nearly stops.

“Y/n?” His voice cracks as he sits up, his hands cupping your face gently. “You’re awake?”

You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I remember… I remember everything.”

The relief that washes over his face is indescribable. He pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly it’s as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he mutters into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I lost you.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, clinging to him. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes red and glassy. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He kisses you, his lips gentle but desperate, as if trying to pour every ounce of his love and relief into that one moment.

For the first time in weeks, the house feels like home again. For the first time in weeks, he feels like life is worth living again. For the first time in weeks…

He feels alive.

[elysianightsss]

Mouth watering sundress

Summary: John gives you a ride home from work, and his phone number…

It was the car ride from hell.

John drove with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the clutch, his truck smelled just like him. Oak wood, cigars and spiced oranges. It had a musky undertone that made you shift in your seat, thighs clenching uncomfortably. The Chevy he drove somehow didn’t surprise you and the country music quietly playing from the radio didn’t surprise you either. 

His plaid button up shirt and loose blue jeans had you staring. You could see where the muscles were too big for his shirt when he changed gears it looked like it was going to rip. You wondered what it would feel like to have those muscular arms wrapped around your body.

You played with the hem of your floral sundress, tracing the little flowers while you scolded yourself for thinking such things about your gorgeous neighbour. 

“How was work?” John asked with gentle curiosity, his big hand moving the clutch to change gear.

“It was okay.” You shrugged glancing out of the window only to look back at him and see a frown on his face.

“Just okay?” His eyebrows rose as he watched little old Doris pull out in front of him in her mini with no indication whatsoever.

“Yeah. I mean my job consists of listening to people complain on the phone and trying to fix their issues. It was pretty boring, only gets good when you get the screamers.” You laugh, watching the forest trees pass by as he drives.

“Screamers?” He asks, a small laugh coming out himself, though you picked up the concern dithering there. Tricks of the trade.

“People who start shouting or screaming down the phone as soon as you answer. Mostly cause they haven’t got they wanted from the company yet.” You explain, saying it so casually.

“That doesn’t sound too fun.”

“Maybe not fun but definitely an interesting change. Gives me something to think about on the weekends too. Maybe if I should have responded differently. How can I better my answers for next time it happens.” Your brows furrow slightly realising how pathetic you just sounded.

“No friends to make your weekends interesting?”he cleared his throat hoping he wasn’t too obvious here, “or boyfriend.” He glanced quickly at you out of the corner of his eyes to catch you cracking a small smile making one grow on his face too. So infectious.

“Some friends but they work on the weekends. And I don’t have a boyfriend.” That had John shifting into the wrong gear the car making a loud scraping noise, he scrambled to quickly rectify the situation before the car stalled.

“Fiance? Husband?” He grimaced saying it, if felt like a dirty word on his tongue, leaving a bitter after taste that quickly disappeared when he spotted no ring on your finger.

“Nope. Completely and pathetically single.” You sighed, not dramatic, but simply a deep breath that showed how tired you were from everything. And boy you were tired. Exhausted from the emotional stress of life.

“Oh?” His interest clear, just as much as his curiosity was.

“Every time I like a guy or even think about entering into a relationship, it always fucks up in a monumental way and I always end up hurt. Every single time.” You let out another tired sigh. It was hard to be single when both your friends had partners, always the third wheel. It made you really hate life at the moment. Though you suppose you’d been in worse positions than in a Chevy with your large, handsome neighbour.

You pulled up to a traffic light, John pulling up the hand break before turning to look at you with a deep seriousness gleaming not only in his eyes but on his face, his body language, his entire demeanour had become the embodiment of seriousness.

“I would never hurt you. Ever.” He was so earnest. It made your heart ache, yearn for the kind of man you’d always wanted but never had. Always boys, never men.

The light turned green just as you let out a shaky breath, fingers lacing together in your lap picking at your nails in nervousness. Heat rising on your cheeks when his hand reached over to lay itself on top of yours for a few moments before pulling your hands apart, “Don’t do that. You’ll ruin those pretty hands.” He lets go just as he looks deep into your eyes, “and we can’t have that can we.”

You didn’t know what to say, the glint in his eyes, the way he tipped his head to the side a bit. Fuck, he looked wonderful. You steeled yourself and consumed every bit of self confidence you had, “You think my hands are pretty?” You stared at him, blinking a few times, definitely not fluttering your lashes. Your eyes flickered to where his jaw seemed to clench tightly for a few moments.

The intensity was building as he leaned in closer to you, it had a burning feeling building in your stomach, a fluttering you’d never experienced before the longer he stared into your eyes

Before he could even open his mouth in reply the beeping of horns from the cars behind started going off. You cleared your throat turning to face the front of the car, “The lights green John.”

“Mhm.” It’s short. Sweet. And so fucking sexy. His voice gravely and low, rumbling in his chest as he hums. Prolonging his gaze upon you just a few more moments before he turns back to the steering wheel and begins driving off.

You quietly let out a breath you hadn’t realised had built up, it did nothing however to ease the fluttering in your stomach. Only seemed to make the nausea worsen. You made a point of not picking at your nails, instead you lay your hands over your thighs, the feeling of your skin and the material of your sundress distracting you enough to not see smirk that graced John’s lips.

John lips, those luscious kissable lips that seemed almost hidden away by the full beard that had grown around his mouth. Like some forbidden fruit hidden just enough in the garden of Eden. He seemed like some forbidden fruit.

He stopped the car just outside your house, getting out to open the car door for you to get out. “Thank you for the ride home.”

“Anytime sweetheart.” He gazed down at you, his height even more daunting now that he was standing. His whole being was just large. That was the best way to describe him.

-

Honestly, you thought about him for the rest of the evening and all night. You thought about his muscles, the way they stretched the fabric of his shirt over the skin. The way his hands seemed to dwarf everything, you wondered how big they would look holding yours. You thought about the way he smirked after calling your hands pretty. You thought about the way his blue eyes glistened when he gave you his phone number.

It was all you thought about. All that was on your mind with no way to get rid of it, no sign that the brazen thoughts would ever leave you. It was like your own personal brand of torture.

Even when you finally managed to drift off, you dreamed of him. Dreamed that he would touch you the way you wanted him to. That he would kiss you desperately, achingly. You were hungry to be touched by him, so hungry that even the very thought of tasting him made you feel nauseous. It had been so long since anything had touched you, that your body had grown accustom to the emptiness that gnawed at you day in, day out.

But maybe it was just what you needed, to push past the sickness. To hold on tight to the warmth that wanted to cover you, that wanted to wrap itself around you. But you couldn’t help but push it away, say no in cruel anticipation of the inevitable. Love is a tender kiss for most people. For you she saves her sharpest axe.

Waking up was humbling, how groggy and unhinged you felt after a night of thinking and dreaming of John. Rolling over in bed you unplugged your phone and began to scroll through your notifications. Your heart jumping in your chest at the sight of a new text; from John.

John: Hey pretty girl. 7:36am. read.

Holy shit, he’d text you this morning. Was it when he first woke up? He was he thinking about you all night too? This man is something else.

John: No reply already? I thought I would’ve had to say something stupid first before you ignored me sweetheart. ;) 9:41am. read.

You: Sorry, got distracted. How’d you sleep? 9:42am. read.

John: Like a log. You? 9:42am. read.

You: Could use a couple more hours honestly. 9:43am. read.

John: What do you have planned today sweetheart? 9:45am. read.

What did you have planned today? Rolling around in bed thinking about a well built beast with thick mutton chops. So enthralled with the simple idea of John.

Fuck you’d never met a man so….well manly. His big muscles and his thick musky scent that screamed masculine in the most primal way possible. In every circumstance, in every part of the world and every century, he would be the ideal mate. To protect and provide-

The ringing makes you jump, the phone vibrating in your hand as you see the unfamiliar number only just added to your phone. You breathe in sharply for a moment, blowing out shakily, hands beginning to sweat. And it’s not even him in person, it’s just a phone call.

“It’s just a phone call. You can press the end button at any time.” You tell yourself, reassuring yourself before sliding your thumb along the screen, the answer swipe turning green. You put the cold screen to your ear. “John?”

“I got impatient.” His voice sounded so low and deep, must be that its first thing in the morning.

“Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts.” You mumble picking at the sheets surrounding you.

“Anything you wanna share? Or is it too soon to be prying into that pretty head of yours.”

“God you’re forward.” You breathe out a little laugh, a hot feeling fluttering in your stomach.

He laughed, heartily. “I’m just wired that way love.”

“I’m not sure if I like it.”

“Oh?” John voice was light and soft, if you were really leaning into it you’d notice the tinge of disappointment in the sound.

“It’s catching me off guard. I like to keep my cards close to my chest.” You swirled your finger along the pattern of the crocheted pillow in front of you.

“I’d happily let you play me.”

“John.” You breathe out another laugh, your heart skipping a beat.

“Like that,” he huffed low and wild, “like when you say my name. Sounds so nice coming from you.”

“It does?”

“Well with a pretty voice like that, I’m sure you can make anything sound nice.” He chuckled. And fuck you had to mute with how you giggled, kicking your feet with giddiness.

“So you want to go for lunch?” The rumbly bearish throaty sexy voice melted your knees until they felt like jelly.

“Again with the forwardness.” Your flushed cheeks hurt, couldn’t wipe the grin off your face, and he could hear it.

“I’m a man who knows what he wants and goes for it.” John answered without so much as a thought, the answer coming so naturally.

“I’ll consider it.” You pressed the red button and jumped in the shower, cold and brisk. It was the only way to bring your burning body temperature down.

John was unlike anybody you’d ever met, definitely better than an of your exs and you hadn’t even gotten to the deep stuff yet.

You wrapped a towel around your body and began to dry your hair with your other towel when you noticed your phone light up, a nervous grin tugging at your lips as you picked up the device and read the text.

John: Considered it yet? 10:02. read.

You shook your head, teeth biting into your smile. He was so unashamed and so bold. It made you question yourself, made you want more than you had once had. Made you want him.

You: I’d love to have lunch with you. 10:04am. read.

John: I’ll pick you up in an hour, wear that mouth watering sundress again ;) 10:04am. delivered.

Mouth watering sundress? Fuck, no one had ever said that to you before. Hell no one had ever offered so many compliments in one conversation before. He was truly a man of different breed. You giggled again falling into your bed and kicking your feet in the air, he was such a flirt. You loved it.

[nicolewritesthings]

Lost Love

Summary: You run into Steve after years of not seeing each other Steve Harrington x fem!reader, 4.3k, angsty, exes, one shot

Read part two here

Series Masterlist

okay, this is angsty, but I recently ran into an ex and for a fleeting moment saw what my life could have been and was inspired by that what if. Instead of acting on these rash feelings, I wrote about it! also, go listen to The Crux!!!!!!!!!!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chicago, Fall 1991

The city bustled around you. A slight chill nipped at your exposed neck as the wind picked up. You walked down the street, heeled boots clicking against the pavement as you made your way to the bar.

You were in town for the weekend on a work trip, accompanying one of the law partners to the Chicago office to oversee a merger. You were not even a year out of college and were already looking into law school, specifically one in Chicago.

While you loved living in New York, you had already spent four years of school there and were looking for a change. Moving closer to home would be nice too—only a short drive to Hawkins from the city. Yeah, you thought, being closer would be nice, which was such an odd sentiment given that just five years ago you couldn't get out of Hawkins fast enough.

Who could blame you though, after everything that happened to your little town and your friends? God, you haven't spoken to anyone in a long time. You saw Nancy up in Boston here and there. Occasionally spoke to Robin on the phone, but that was really it. Even when you came home for holidays, you rarely had time to see anyone besides your family who came out to visit you more than anything.

They knew you didn't love to be home, partly because of what happened and partly because of him. Because of Steve.

You two ended things before they really got started. Two kids way too afraid to really admit how much they felt for each other, too scared to commit to one another.

When you tell new friends about your past relationships, you usually keep it light when it comes to Steve. Chalking it up as a friends-with-benefits type of thing or it was never that serious. But that couldn't be farther from the truth. You two shared an immense amount of trauma that no one could begin to understand, and that ultimately led you two apart.

Steve was a constant reminder of a past you were so ready to let go of. So that's exactly what you did. You let him go. You left Hawkins after graduation, moved to Manhattan early, started school at Columbia, and never looked back.

You've come a long way, graduating with honors and clerking at a prestigious firm. Your boss tells you that getting into law school will be a breeze and that you'd have your pick. Chicago has great schools and is an even better place to practice business law, so it seemed like the obvious choice to explore your options there.

You walked into the dive bar, meeting the other clerks also dressed in business attire, quickly falling into a comfortable stride with them. This was who you were now and this could be your new life here. But something picked at you, like a soft scratch or gentle tug coming from just 200 miles south of here.

The night went on as you learned about the other young people at the firm, where they were attending school or applying. Northwestern sounds great or even the University of Chicago, all great choices really.

It was easy getting along with them. You talked about work, new artists they've listened to, movies they've seen, their love lives. One of them is newly engaged, the other just had a monumental breakup, and then they turn to you.

So you tell them about Peter, your boyfriend of just over a year. How kind and smart he is, how he's a finance guy but not the kind on Wall Street, he's a lot more relaxed than that. He's from Manhattan, his parents come from old money - whatever that means, you always thought. You think of his light blue eyes and his sweet smile, what you'd be giving up if you moved away. Even though he told you there was money to be made in Chicago.

You liked that you could see a future with Peter. That certainty was refreshing, something you never had before.

After everyone insists on another round of drinks, you follow to the bar, slipping onto an empty stool. You lean over to order your drink and turn back to your friends. That's when you see him. Like a ghost at the other end of the bar.

You freeze, it can't be him. It can't be Steve.

But that's his hair, tamer now but still big. Then comes his laugh as he smiles with some people you don't recognize.

The bartender places your drink in front of you, breaking your trance. You quickly look at your drink and pick it up, taking a long sip. What is he doing here? Does he live here now? Does he see you? Oh shit, oh shit.

You look up and he's gone from his place at the bar. Oh no.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this moment before, seeing Steve after years of not speaking. You imagined it quite a bit actually. How you’d tell him about your new life and how happy you were. You thought you’d have more control in this situation, and feel more confident and less like a floundering fish.

Then you feel a warm hand on your shoulder and your body is turning toward Steve before your mind can catch up. You look up at him, his smile wide and eyes happy.

"No fucking way," Steve beams, reaching his arms around you.

You can't even compute what's going on, but again your body moves before you can think and you're hugging him back. His scent hits you like a train, the familiar smell of fresh linens and pine.

You play off his positive, light attitude, "Steve, wow, it's great to see you."

He smiles, "what are you doing here? Did you move?"

"No, no," you shake your head and gesture to the group of business casual people around you, "I'm here for a work thing."

"I thought I spotted a shit ton of lawyers," Steve jokes. He was so good at this, making light of everything. Making every situation comfortable and easy, even when it shouldn't be. You hated that about him and were jealous of that trait too.

"Lawyers to be," you smiled, taking a long sip of your drink. You never needed tequila more than at this moment. You look back up at him, “what about you? What are you in town for?”

“Oh, I live here now,” he smiles widely, “I’m studying to teach while working at a local middle school.”

Well, that hit you like a ton of bricks. Steve Harrington moved? Out of Hawkins? But then the rest of his words register, and you’re overcome with happiness for him.

You clap his shoulder proudly, “that’s amazing! Actually, that’s so perfect for you.”

“Took babysitting those kids to a whole new level,” he laughs.

You nod, “I totally see it though. Really, I’m so happy for you.”

Steve beamed, “look at the two of us. Grown ups now. Who woulda thought.”

You laughed, relaxing a bit. He was always good at that, making a conversation easy and light. Feeling bold, you nod over to the bartender.

“Let me buy you a drink,” you smiled at Steve, “you know, to celebrate.”

He happily obliged, sitting down at the bar next to you, kicking off the start of a long night of catch-up.

It’s funny, how time can feel so irrelevant with the right person. You hadn’t seen Steve in almost four years and yet it was like no time has passed.

But that’s what happens with old friends, former lovers. The connection will always be there if it’s right.

The conversation was polite at first, covering the basics. How were the kids? Your parents? Is Manhattan really that great? Hopper still the Chief? They rebuilt the mall? You two went on and on about your mutual connections. After all, there was a lot to cover in the last few years.

Then your friends started to trickle out and Steve’s too, but you two stayed, moving over to a booth - quieter, more intimate. The conversation became more familiar then. It was like you were back at the diner, gossiping over milkshakes and burgers. Just the two of you and your opinions about anything and everything.

The Terminator sequel was better than the first. You’re into baseball now? The Yankees, really? No way you saw the Stones at an underground show, no way.

Then you were inviting him to New York, telling him there’s so much going on there with its music and art and people. Steve gushed about Chicago and how you were right, that living in the city really was the best thing to do.

So you told him that you were looking at law schools in Chicago, considering moving back to the Midwest for good. And for the first time since he saw you that night, Steve felt those past feelings come up. The ones he tried to repress and put away for the night, for the sake of seeing an old friend. But now you could move here, to his home and that thought scared him.

But Steve didn’t falter, instead, he listened as you told him your plans and how everything was so up in the air. You were excited, he could tell, and it was contagious. So he suggested taking you to his favorite deep dish place a couple blocks away. If you were considering moving to Chicago, you had to try the best pizza the city has to offer.

So of course you went with him, not even considering checking the time. Although you knew it had to be past midnight by now.

The pizza place was packed with late-night eaters, which overwhelmed your senses. Steve grabs your hand as you push past the crowded doorway to the tiny shop, guiding you to the line.

That was the first familiar touch of the night. You two didn’t even realize you were still holding hands in line, distracted by the crowded room.

Then it was swapping pizzas, Steve insisting on you trying his spicy pepperoni slice. You looked up at him and he was already holding up the slice for you to take a bite out of it. The interaction seemed casual to you, but Steve couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker down to your pink lips for just a moment.

After a couple of more hours of catching up over pizza and beer, Steve was walking you back to your hotel. Both of you slightly tipsy, most of the buzz already soaked up by the greasy pizza.

You were freezing, not prepared for the wind chill, and Steve noticed your shivering. Without any hesitation, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you in. His pine scent makes you woozy again.

But you didn’t move. Instead, you leaned further into his side, grateful for his warmth and the familiarity of it all. Another mindless touch, one that you’ve exchanged so many times before. This time, you couldn’t help but feel the pull towards him, the unspoken connection between you two that you had believed ceased to exist.

It’s funny how time doesn’t work like that. Because no matter how many years go by, feelings never really go away. Where would that love go? That lost love. The untested love that never really got a chance to go somewhere. It doesn’t just go away. It lingers and stews until a moment like tonight when two former lovers randomly reunite.

You two walked down the empty street, huddled closely together. From a passerby, you two look like a young couple that’s been together for a long time now. Then came the music blasting from a club a couple of doors down. The line to get in was short, but people were still heading in.

A New Order track hit your ears and you immediately turned to Steve who was already laughing, knowing you loved this song and this band and to dance. So he didn’t even scoff when you pleaded with him, “just one song! Please!” Steve feigned reluctance, as you grabbed his hand and pulled him into the packed dance club.

And there you two were, after five more songs, dancing your hearts out. Like it was prom again and you two were the most embarrassing (and high) students on the dance floor. This time you were two fully grown 20-somethings, mostly sober and having the time of your lives. An unexpected turn of events to say the least.

So you inched closer to Steve as the familiar 80s synth raged on. The disco lights flashed in and out, casting most of the floor in a dark fluorescent purple hue. Steve watched as you swayed your body, noticing your fuller hips and sweet smile. He couldn’t bring himself to look away as you turned around, your ass looking too good in the tight skirt you were wearing. Fuck, you looked good. With your knee-high boots and off-the-shoulder top. For the first time tonight, he realized that you looked older now too, or at least acted like it. You moved your body confidently, knowing exactly what you were doing with those new curves of yours.

Steve cursed himself for missing so much of you.

You caught him staring, of course, you did. You had always known when men looked at you or when a man wanted you. So when you caught a glimpse of Steve’s hooded eyes, you should have suggested calling it a night.

But you didn’t.

You grabbed his hand, pulling him in to close the gap between you, and really danced with him, your body pressed to his. Steve’s hands find your waist as you peer up into his eyes, and he recognizes that cheeky glimmer. Frankly, he missed seeing it. That little look you’d give him when you wanted something from him. But you didn’t even realize you were doing it. You never did. It was a tell only Steve recognized, and that was dangerous.

Steve should have wondered then if you were single and that’s when you should have finally brought up your boyfriend. But the possibility of significant others was so far from your mind the entire night, especially when you were pressed together in a dance club.

It was always like this with you and Steve. Monogamy was never brought up because it was always implied. There was no room for anyone else in your hearts when you were together and honestly, you didn’t want anyone else. Steve tried to date other girls just for the sake of it, but no one ever measured up to you. So he waited patiently for those quiet moments together in his bed or the back seat of his car when you let him in.

Was this one of those moments? Was this always how the night was going to turn out for you two? Under the disco lights, the possibility of reconnecting on a whole other level. Again, this logic was the furthest thing from your mind. All you and Steve wanted to do was be with each other in this moment, this rare moment an unexpected gift from the universe.

The bar flashed its house lights to indicate the night was coming to a close, but neither of you wanted it to end. So Steve enclosed your hand in his and you two stumbled out onto the street again, slowly trekking to your hotel.

Steve wrapped his arm around you again, tighter now, breathing in your scent. The same light floral perfume your mom gifts you. He smiled, remembering the bottle on your nightstand when it almost broke after he pushed you into the dresser during a little more rough and needy hook up. The bottle nearly fell, but he was quick to catch it and yet you didn’t even notice, too busy pulling him onto the bed.

Oh, how he missed you. Your smile, your humor, the way you said all the right things, how you two could talk about anything and everything.

“It’s funny,” Steve pulls you in closer, “how we bumped into each other tonight.”

You nod, “I know. Of all the bars in Chicago, we happened to be in the same one. At the same time.”

“I’d say it’s fate,” he bumps you lightly.

“I agree,” you smile, “it feels like the universe is trying to tell us something.”

Steve bites his lip, nervous to take this step but it just feels natural. He smiles, “maybe it thinks we should be in each other’s lives again. In some way or another.”

It’s music to Steve’s ears when you reply, “I’d like that. To be someone you know again.”

He pauses at this, suddenly saddened by your words. Steve stops walking, pulling you with him, and looks down at you. His eyes fill with sincerity as he shakes his head, “you know me. You know me better than anyone else.”

His words send you reeling. Taken aback, you look up at him, “we haven’t spoken in years. Shit, I didn’t even know you moved, Steve.”

But he doubles down, his hand gripping your arm gently, “sure, but I wouldn’t be who am today without you.”

How could he be so kind, after everything? Maybe he wasn’t angry or upset with you anymore, and maybe you shouldn’t be either. Maybe you two could move forward from this.

Then Steve’s looking at you, really looking. His eyes memorize every feature of your face, noticing how you’ve changed but only slightly. His fingers trail up to your cheek to move the strand of hair behind your ear and you have to steady yourself from this touch. Another familiar and way more intimate touch.

You look over his face too, how there’s a shadow of stubble on his chin that wasn’t there before. How his face is thinner, more mature now. How his eyes are still the same shade of honey brown you loved. Time was a wicked thing, and you’d be damned if you wasted any more of it.

So you pull back, looking over at the doors of your hotel, and taking a step up the stairs toward the lobby. You hold Steve’s hand, enticing him to follow. He stands there, looking up at you, lips turned up into a slight smile.

Then the words spill out of your mouth before logic can stop you, “want to come up?”

Your hand lingers in his as he gazes up at you. Steve’s expression is breathless, eyes soft as he contemplates your question. The insinuation hits a nerve, deep in his chest. He’s not in shock that you’d ask such a thing, honestly, he was expecting the night to end this way. The two of you wrapped up in each other just like old times.

But, instead of accepting your invitation, his first instinct is to pause. His second is anger.

It bubbles up out of nowhere, emotions he’s repressed over the years of not seeing you. How dare you pop back into his life and think it’s this easy to get him in bed again. He has a life now without you in it and here you are steamrolling through like you own the place. Like you’re entitled to him.

Steve recoils, breaking his hand away from yours. His gaze now hardens as he shakes his head, “are you serious right now?”

You shift back, bringing your hand down to your side, it still tingles from his touch. “Steve, I thought-”

He cuts you off, piling on, “you don’t just get to show up here and act like everything’s normal. Like I’m some old fling you screw on vacation.”

You flinch at his version of events. Is that what he thinks he is to you? An old fling?

Now you start to get angry, frustrated at his sudden aggression. You shake your head, “that’s not what’s happening here. I haven’t seen you in years and-”

“Yeah, well whose fault is that,” Steve mutters, bitterness not looking good on him.

You swallow harshly, “it certainly wasn’t just mine. Don’t act like you didn’t have a hand in it.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “You left!” Steve yells, “you made your decision and ran away to New York!”

“It’s not like you tried to stop me!” You’re yelling now too, on the steps of the upscale hotel your company is paying for, but you don’t care. The conversation you’ve envisioned dozens of times is finally coming to fruition and you are losing control.

Steve steps up to your level, the height difference more evident as he looks down at you.

“You said you couldn’t do it anymore, that you needed to move on and that meant from me too,” his eyes narrowed at you.

Your cheeks were hot now and probably red, but you continued on, “I was always going to leave Hawkins, you knew that and still did nothing. I felt like you gave up! Like you were fine just letting me go!”

“What was I supposed to do? Stop you?”

“You could have come with me!”

Steve pauses, hurt flashing across his face. “Now that’s not fair,” he breathes out, “how was I supposed to know you wanted that? You said you wanted a clean break!”

He was right. You hadn’t voiced that desire for him to follow you because you hadn’t known that was what you wanted. But now you knew, you knew that you should have asked him to come with you and start your life together. Frankly, he can’t put this all on you. If he cared so much, he would have tried harder to be with you. Told you to stop being stupid and let him love you.

“I was wrong! I was dumb and angry, but you didn’t even put up a fight!” Your voice still raised.

It’s all out there now and Steve knows it. He shouts, “you expected me to drop everything? After what we just went through?”

“Yes!” You breathe out, exhausted from the vulnerability. But you had to tell him how you felt.

Steve looks at you, his chest rising and falling as he steadies his breathing.

“I was scared,” he states quietly.

You sigh, “yeah, well so was I.”

Now at a stalemate, you look at each other. Not sure what to say or do from here. All that time wasted and for what? If only you had communicated things better, maybe you’d have an entirely different life. One with Steve still in it.

“Look,” he took a step down toward the sidewalk, “maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other.”

Your chest tightens, your stomach dropping at his words. The same way you felt a few years ago when you first broke it off.

So you let your pride get the better of you and nod at his words. Maybe you had been right, maybe you didn’t need each other after all.

“Yeah, maybe,” was all you could say without your emotions overwhelming you. You could feel your throat tightening, your eyes glassy.

Steve of course notices as your eyes redden and your arms cross against your chest, hugging yourself tightly. He hated making you feel this way, but he had to protect himself. Following you up those steps into your hotel room would send him down a path he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

He had felt similarly after you graduated and told him you were moving away for school. Steve wasn’t ready to make such a life-changing decision, not after everything that just happened. He needed normalcy and comfort, not to fall head first for you. So he didn’t protest and he let you leave, brokenhearted and angry.

Steve looks up at you and nods, more at himself than to you, “take care.”

Then he was turning down the street, walking away. Leaving you alone and cold as the city quieted down into the early morning hours. The faint sounds of the train and a garbage truck drown out the thump of your heart beating.

You breathlessly wander into the hotel lobby before you can watch him turn the corner, disappearing forever.

The bright lights of the elevator sober you up a bit, letting your emotions sink in. You were angry, definitely angry. Why was he allowed to be the only victim in this? If he really loved you he would have fought harder. Right?

You push into your quiet hotel room, the bed untouched.

After all these years, he managed to still make you feel so intensely and he clearly harbored the same sentiment toward you.

If this was the universe’s way of giving you closure, it was a fucked up attempt. You were reeling more than ever now.

As you discard your clothes and change into pajamas, you eyed the alarm clock - it was almost 4 am. God, where did the time go?

You notice a flashing red button on the room’s phone. Pressing it to reveal a voicemail, your boyfriend’s voice coming onto the line. Fuck, Peter.

In the chaos of the night, you had forgotten to give him a call. Truthfully, you hadn’t thought about him since the moment you saw Steve.

Then a cold wave of regret hits you as you listen to his message. His sweet tone saying, “hey, it’s not too late here so you’re probably out and about, but I just called to say goodnight and that I love you. Hope you’re having fun! Talk tomorrow, bye.”

You lay back on the bed, throwing your hands over your face as the tears finally come.

You had invited Steve up to your room.

Not even stopping to consider your nice boyfriend back in New York. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Read part two here!

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 19k

Masterlist

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Morning light filtered through the partially drawn curtains, casting soft golden patterns across the bedroom. Y/N drifted slowly toward consciousness, aware first of unusual warmth and weight against her body, different from the normal sensation of Grumps curled at her feet. Her eyes remained closed as her mind processed the feeling. A heavy weight across her midsection, warmth against her side and chest, the subtle rhythm of breathing that wasn't her own.

Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the morning light as the events of the previous night came rushing back. Harry's drunken return, his emotional breakdown, the raw confessions that had surprised them both. She looked down, her breath catching at the sight that greeted her.

Harry was pressed against her, his body curled toward hers in a position of complete vulnerability. One arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her close even in sleep. His head rested on her chest, his cheek against the soft cotton of her sleep shirt, his face relaxed and unguarded. His hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more like the boy she'd once known than the carefully polished celebrity he'd become.

They had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, maintaining the careful distance that had characterized their entire arrangement. Sometime during the night, however, Harry had migrated toward her, seeking her warmth and presence even in unconsciousness. The intimacy of the position, his ear pressed near her heart, his arm holding her as if afraid she might disappear, created a strange tightness in Y/N's chest.

She remained perfectly still, uncertain how to extricate herself without waking him. Given the amount he'd drunk the previous night, he desperately needed the sleep, and she suspected his hangover would be monumental when he finally regained consciousness. Yet remaining in this position felt dangerous, a false intimacy neither of them had consciously chosen.

Harry stirred slightly, making a soft sound in his sleep as his arm tightened around her waist. His stubbled cheek rubbed against her chest, the sensation both foreign and oddly familiar, like the echo of something she'd experienced in another life. His breath was warm even through the fabric of her shirt, creating a small patch of heat against her skin.

Y/N's hand hovered uncertainly above his head, torn between the impulse to stroke his hair as she had during his breakdown and the knowledge that such a gesture crossed boundaries they'd established for their arrangement. 

This wasn't part of their deal.

Before she could decide on a course of action, Harry stirred again, more purposefully this time. His breathing pattern changed, becoming less deep and regular as consciousness began to assert itself. Y/N felt his body tense slightly as awareness returned, felt the exact moment when he realized their position.

For a long moment, neither of them moved or spoke. Harry remained perfectly still against her, his arm still wrapped around her waist, his cheek still pressed to her chest. Y/N held her breath, uncertain what came next

Would he pull away abruptly? Make a cutting remark to reestablish distance? Pretend nothing unusual had happened?

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with sleep and the aftermath of too much whiskey, barely above a whisper.

"My head is fucking killing me," he murmured, the words vibrating slightly against her chest where his cheek still rested.

It wasn't what Y/N had expected, not an acknowledgment of their position, not a reference to the previous night's confessions, just a simple statement of physical discomfort. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed by the mundane nature of the observation.

"There's water and aspirin on your nightstand," she replied softly, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room despite her attempt to keep it gentle.

Harry made a small sound of acknowledgment but didn't immediately move to retrieve them. Instead, he remained where he was, his body warm and heavy against hers, his arm still curved possessively around her waist. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken questions neither seemed prepared to articulate.

"How bad was I last night?" he finally asked, his tone carefully neutral, giving nothing away.

Y/N hesitated, unsure how much he remembered, uncertain how much to reveal. The vulnerability he'd shown felt too raw to simply recount as if discussing the weather.

"You were...pretty drunk," she offered cautiously. "But not out of control. Just...emotional."

At this, Harry finally shifted, lifting his head from her chest to look at her directly. His face was creased with sleep marks, his eyes bloodshot and slightly puffy. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and the stubble along his jaw had darkened overnight, giving him a rougher appearance than his usual carefully maintained look. Despite these signs of disarray, his gaze was sharp, searching her face with an intensity that suggested he was trying to piece together fragments of memory.

"Emotional," he repeated, the word laced with a question he seemed reluctant to voice explicitly.

Despite still being wrapped around her, their faces were now close enough that Y/N could see the flecks of darker green in his irises, could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. The intimacy of the moment created a flutter of something unexpected in her stomach.

"You were upset about the dinner," she explained carefully. "About your mother calling the label executives. About them wanting to change the narrative around our marriage."

A flash of recognition crossed his features, followed by a grimace that might have been pain from his hangover or embarrassment at the memory.

"Right," he muttered, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to her face with renewed intensity. "Did I...say anything else?"

The question hung between them, weighted with implications. Y/N studied his expression, trying to gauge how much he actually remembered, how much he was ready to acknowledge. 

"You talked about being tired," she said softly. "Tired of pretending. Of living up to everyone's expectations. Of...of putting on 'Harry Styles' like a costume every day."

Something shifted in his expression. A flicker of recognition, perhaps even relief that she hadn't mentioned the tears, the clinging, the raw emotional breakdown.

"I remember that part," he admitted, his voice low. "I remember...asking if you knew who I really was. Underneath it all."

His gaze remained fixed on hers, unexpectedly direct given the content of their conversation. There was something almost challenging in his expression, as if daring her to mention the more vulnerable moments, the parts he might prefer to attribute solely to alcohol rather than genuine emotion.

"You did ask that," Y/N confirmed, holding his gaze despite the flutter of uncertainty in her stomach. "And I told you that I believe the boy I knew is still in there somewhere. Under all the fame and success and...and your mother's expectations."

At the mention of his mother, Harry's expression hardened slightly, a familiar wall beginning to reassert itself. He finally released his hold on Y/N's waist, pulling back enough to create some space between their bodies, though he remained propped on one elbow beside her rather than retreating completely to his side of the bed.

"My mother," he said, the words clipped, "has always had very specific ideas about who I should be and how I should live my life."

"So you said last night," Y/N replied quietly. "You mentioned that marrying me was partly a...a 'fuck-you' to her. To everyone controlling your life."

The blunt repetition of his own words seemed to catch Harry off guard. His eyes widened slightly, a flash of something like embarrassment crossing his features before his expression settled into careful neutrality.

"I said that?"

"You did." Y/N paused, weighing her next words carefully. "You also said it might have been a way to make up for breaking your promise that summer. For not coming back."

This was dangerous territory

The suggestion that their arrangement might have roots in their shared past, in emotions and connections that predated contracts and financial agreements. Y/N watched as Harry processed her words, saw the subtle shifts in his expression as memories apparently surfaced through the alcohol-induced haze of the previous night.

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the small space between them on the bed. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, less defensive than she'd expected.

"I do remember that part," he admitted, surprising her with his honesty. "I'm not sure it's something I would have said sober, but...but that doesn't make it less true."

The admission hung in the air between them, creating a shift in the atmosphere that was almost tangible. Y/N felt her heart beat faster, unsure how to respond to this unexpected continuation of the previous night's vulnerability rather than the retreat into coldness she'd anticipated.

Before she could formulate a response, Harry winced, one hand coming up to press against his temple.

"Christ, my head," he muttered, the physical discomfort providing a convenient distraction from the emotional complexity of their conversation. "I haven't been that drunk in...I can't even remember the last time."

Y/N seized the opening, grateful for the shift to more practical matters. "You should take the aspirin. And drink the water. All of it. You're probably dehydrated."

Harry nodded, finally pushing himself up to a sitting position and reaching for the nightstand. The movement caused the bedsheet to fall away, revealing his bare chest and the tapestry of tattoos that covered his skin. Despite their months of marriage, Y/N had seen him shirtless only a handful of times.

She averted her gaze, suddenly acutely aware of her own state of dress. The thin sleep shirt and shorts that left her legs bare, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual neat braid. There was an unexpected intimacy to the moment that went beyond their physical proximity

Harry swallowed the aspirin and drank deeply from the water glass, his throat working as he drained it completely. When he set the empty glass down, he turned back to her, his expression more composed but still lacking the usual cold distance he maintained.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the water and aspirin. And for...for last night. For listening. For not leaving when I asked you to stay."

The gratitude was unexpected, as was the acknowledgment that he remembered asking her to remain with him. Y/N nodded, uncertain how to respond to this version of Harry. It was neither the cold, dismissive husband of their daily interactions nor the emotionally raw, tearful man of the previous night, but something in between, something more genuine than she'd experienced from him since their wedding day.

"You're welcome," she replied simply, deciding that less was more in this delicate moment of recalibration.

Harry ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his gaze direct but no longer challenging. "About what I said last night...about learning to be real again. Together." He hesitated, seeming to choose his words with unusual care. "I meant that part. I'd like to try...if you would."

The offer hung between them, weighted with potential. Y/N studied his face, looking for signs of insincerity or manipulation. But all she found was an unexpected openness, a vulnerability that hadn't disappeared with the alcohol's effects.

"I'd like that too," she said finally, the words emerging soft but clear. "But Harry...this doesn't change our arrangement. The terms we agreed to. The fact that this marriage doesn't have a future beyond the year we signed for."

She needed to establish this boundary, to protect herself from reading too much into what might simply be the lingering effects of emotional catharsis and alcohol. Harry nodded, his expression growing more serious.

"I know," he agreed. "The contract stands. The business arrangement continues. But maybe...maybe we don't have to make each other miserable for the remaining eight months. Maybe we could try being...friends, of a sort."

Friends

The word felt simultaneously inadequate and excessive for what existed between them. Too casual to encompass their complicated history and legal entanglement, yet too intimate given the careful distance they'd maintained.

"Friends," Y/N repeated, testing the concept. "I'm not sure I know how to be friends with my fake husband."

A smile tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth. Not the practiced, camera-ready smile he displayed in public, but something smaller, more genuine. "I'm not sure I know how to be friends with my fake wife either. But I'm willing to figure it out if you are."

The offer was tempting. How can it not be? Eight months without constant tension and antagonism, of discovering whether the connection they'd once shared might still exist in some form. Yet Y/N hesitated, wary of lowering her guards too quickly based on one night of drunken vulnerability.

"Let's start small," she suggested. "Maybe try having breakfast together without arguing. See how that goes before we make any grand declarations of friendship."

Harry's smile widened slightly, a glint of something like appreciation in his eyes. "Always the practical one. Breakfast without arguing. Thats setting the bar nice and low."

"Given our track record," Y/N pointed out dryly, "it's not actually that low a bar."

This drew a soft laugh from Harry, the sound surprisingly genuine. His hand moved as if to reach for hers, then hesitated, hovering in the small space between them on the bed as if uncertain whether such a gesture was permitted under their newly negotiated terms.

"Breakfast without arguing," he agreed, finally completing the movement to briefly squeeze her hand before withdrawing. "I think I can manage that. Though I make no promises about my conversational skills until this hangover subsides."

The touch was brief but electric, sending an unexpected current up Y/N's arm. She nodded, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of his fingers against hers.

"I'll make coffee," she offered, beginning to shift toward the edge of the bed. "Strong coffee...and juice. And maybe some toast. You should really eat something."

Harry's expression softened, something like genuine gratitude flickering across his features. "Thank you, Y/N. For...everything."

Y/N nodded, accepting the gratitude without requiring him to elaborate further.

As she slipped from the bed and reached for her robe, she was acutely aware of Harry's gaze following her movements. There was something different in the way he looked at her now, not the cold assessment or dismissive glance she'd grown accustomed to, but something more attentive, more present. Whether this change would last beyond the aftermath of his emotional catharsis remained to be seen, but for now, the air between them felt clearer than it had since their wedding day.

"I'll be down in the kitchen," she said, tying her robe around her waist. "Take your time."

Harry nodded, making no move to rise yet, likely still battling the effects of his hangover. "I'll join you soon. For our non-argumentative breakfast."

There was a hint of humor in his tone, self-deprecating rather than mocking, that drew a small answering smile from Y/N as she moved toward the door. This tentative truce between them felt fragile, untested, but there was something genuinely hopeful in the prospect of eight months without constant antagonism, of discovering whether the connection they'd once shared might still exist beneath the layers of hurt and pretense they'd both accumulated.

As she closed the bedroom door behind her, Y/N found herself wondering what this new dynamic might mean for their carefully constructed arrangement. "Friends" with Harry Styles hadn't been part of the contract she'd signed, hadn't been something she'd even considered possible given the cold disdain he'd shown her from the beginning. Yet the events of the past twelve hours had revealed cracks in his facade, and perhaps in hers as well, that couldn't simply be plastered over and forgotten.

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The transition from summer to fall had brought changes beyond just the weather. As September gave way to October and then November, the leaves in Hampstead Heath transformed from vibrant greens to fiery oranges and reds before finally drifting to the ground, creating a crackling carpet that announced every footstep. The air grew crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and impending winter, prompting Grumps to seek out sunbeams with increasing determination during his daily explorations of the mansion.

Inside the Styles household, a different kind of transformation had been taking place. One less visible but perhaps more significant than the changing seasons outside.

After that morning four months ago, the hangover breakfast that had somehow ended without a single barbed comment or tense silence, something had shifted between Harry and Y/N. The change hadn't been dramatic or immediate; there had been no grand declarations or sudden revelations. Rather, it had happened gradually, almost imperceptibly, like the slow turning of leaves outside their windows.

First came small adjustments to their daily routines. Breakfasts together became a regular occurrence rather than an exception, with Harry often preparing elaborate avocado toast or fruit-laden yogurt bowls while Y/N handled the coffee/juice. They discovered, somewhat to their mutual surprise, that when they weren't actively trying to antagonize each other, they could maintain civil, and maybe even pleasant, conversation about music, books, current events, or the curious behaviors of Grumps, who had become an unexpectedly neutral topic they could both discuss without tension.

Then came moments of unexpected consideration. 

Harry began to inform Y/N of his schedule without her having to ask, eliminating the unpleasant surprises of press learning about events or appearances only when his team sent last-minute instructions. For her part, Y/N started leaving notes about household matters. A repairman coming, a delivery expected, rather than letting Harry be caught off guard. These small courtesies, unremarkable in most relationships, represented significant progress in theirs.

By the end of September, they had established a tentative friendship that, while cautious, felt genuine in ways neither had anticipated. They still maintained certain boundaries, separate bedrooms after that one night, careful avoidance of topics that might reopen old wounds, a tacit agreement not to discuss what would happen when their contract ended. But within those parameters, they had discovered something surprisingly comfortable.

October had brought public appearances that felt less like performances and more like shared experiences. At charity galas and industry events, their interactions carried a natural ease that hadn't been there before. Harry's hand at the small of Y/N's back as they navigated crowded rooms no longer felt like a calculated gesture for the cameras but something closer to genuine protectiveness. When she made a clever observation or witty comment in conversation with others, his laugh wasn't the practiced chuckle of a dutiful husband but something more authentic, accompanied by glances that conveyed genuine appreciation.

November had introduced new complexities as holiday planning began, bringing inevitable questions about family gatherings and traditions. These conversations had tested their newfound harmony, revealing fault lines that still existed beneath the surface. Harry's relationship with his mother remained fraught, and the prospect of holiday events involving Anne created tension neither was fully prepared to address. They had ultimately reached a compromise. 

Christmas Eve with Harry's family, Christmas Day just the two of them, and no New Year's commitments beyond a small gathering with mutual friends. It wasn't perfect, but the fact that they'd negotiated without reverting to their earlier antagonism felt like its own kind of progress.

Now, on a crisp afternoon in late November, Y/N stood at the kitchen window, watching the last stubborn leaves finally surrender to the wind's persistent tugging. She cradled a mug of chai between her palms, the spicy warmth a perfect complement to the chill that had settled over London in recent days. Behind her, the kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of the beef stew she'd started earlier, comfort food for the increasingly cold evenings.

The sound of the front door opening and closing echoed through the house, followed by the familiar rhythm of Harry's footsteps in the entryway. The thud of boots being removed, the rustle of a coat being hung. Grumps, who had been dozing on his cushion near the radiator, perked up at the sound, ears forward in alert anticipation.

"It's absolutely fucking freezing out there," Harry announced as he entered the kitchen, his cheeks and nose reddened from the cold, hair slightly disheveled from the wind. "The weatherman said it might snow by the weekend."

He crossed to where Y/N stood, peering over her shoulder to look out at the garden before dropping a casual kiss on the top of her head, a gesture that would have been unthinkable four months ago but had somehow become part of their routine, existing in the ambiguous space between their public performance and private relationship.

"Make any progress with the lyrics?" Y/N asked, referring to the new song Harry had been struggling with for the past week, part of the album he was working on with uncharacteristic privacy, sharing bits and pieces with her in a way he'd never done with previous projects.

Harry sighed, moving to the refrigerator and extracting a bottle of sparkling water. "Some. The verses are coming together, but the chorus still feels..." he made a vague gesture with his free hand, "generic. Formulaic."

"Maybe you're overthinking it," Y/N suggested, turning to face him. "You said the song is about feeling caught between what you want and what's expected. That's not a simple emotion so maybe the chorus doesn't need to be simple either."

Harry considered this, taking a long drink before responding. "You might be right. I've been trying to make it catchy and accessible, but that's not really what the song is about." He gave her a small, appreciative smile. "You're good at this, you know. Seeing through to the heart of things."

The compliment, delivered casually but with evident sincerity, created a warm flutter in Y/N's chest. These moments when Harry spoke to her not as his contractual partner but as someone whose perspective he genuinely valued still caught her off guard, even after months of their evolving relationship.

"What's that amazing smell?" Harry asked, his attention shifting to the pot simmering on the stove.

"Beef stew," Y/N replied, moving to stir the contents. "My mother's recipe. I thought it would be good for the cold weather."

Harry approached, peering into the pot with evident interest. "It smells incredible. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You could make the bread to go with it," she suggested. "That quick beer bread recipe you found last week would be perfect."

Harry nodded, already moving to gather ingredients from the pantry. "I'm meeting with the label tomorrow," he mentioned, measuring flour into a bowl with practiced ease. "They want to discuss the direction of the new album."

Y/N leaned against the counter, watching him work. "Are you nervous about it?"

Harry's hands paused briefly before continuing their task. "A bit," he admitted. "This album feels different. More personal. Less...calculated. I'm not sure they'll understand what I'm trying to do."

"But it's important to you," Y/N observed quietly. "To make something that feels authentic."

Harry met her gaze, something vulnerable flickering in his green eyes. "Yes. After our conversation that night...I've been thinking a lot about what music would sound like if I stopped trying to be what everyone expects."

The reference to that night was deliberate, acknowledging the turning point it had represented. They rarely discussed it directly, but its impact had shaped everything that followed.

"They might surprise you," Y/N offered. "Creative authenticity sells too, especially with your established fan base. And even if they push back initially, you have the clout to stand your ground."

Harry added beer to the dry ingredients, a small smile playing at his lips. "Listen to you, talking about market positioning and creative leverage. You've been paying attention to the industry."

"I've been paying attention to you," Y/N corrected softly, the words emerging more earnestly than she'd intended.

There was a momentary softening in Harry’s expression, a flash of something that might have been pleasure or surprise or both. He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary before returning his attention to the bread dough.

A comfortable silence settled between them as they continued their kitchen choreography, Y/N adding final seasoning to the stew, Harry preparing a simple salad to accompany their meal. This routine had become familiar over the past months, a domestic rhythm neither had anticipated when signing their contract.

"I was thinking," Harry said eventually, arranging sliced cucumbers on the salad, "we should do something for Christmas. Just for us, I mean. After we get through the obligation with my family on Christmas Eve."

Y/N looked up, surprised by the suggestion. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Something that could become...ours. A tradition of sorts." He kept his eyes on the salad, his tone deliberately casual despite the weight of what he was proposing, creating something that belonged uniquely to them

Y/N considered this, aware of the implications. Creating traditions implied continuity

"We could do a Christmas morning walk in the Heath," she suggested finally. "Regardless of the weather. Followed by breakfast with those ridiculous waffles you make."

Harry glanced up, a smile spreading across his features, genuine, unguarded in a way his public smiles never were. "I like that. Simple but meaningful. And Grumps would enjoy the walk too."

At the sound of his name, the cat, who was no longer fat from all the walking and proper nutrition,  lifted his head from his cushion, regarding them with sleepy interest before determining that no treats were immediately forthcoming and settling back into his nap.

"So that's settled then," Y/N said, feeling strangely committed to this plan that extended only a month into the future. "Christmas Eve with your family, Christmas morning walk and waffles just for us."

Harry nodded, his expression softening as he looked at her. "Our first real Christmas tradition."

The words carried a weight neither acknowledged directly. An implicit suggestion that there might be more Christmases beyond this one, more opportunities to honor these newly established traditions. It was dangerous territory, a tentative step beyond the careful boundaries they'd established.

Before Y/N could formulate a response, the timer for the bread beeped loudly, breaking the moment. Harry turned to retrieve it from the oven, the rich aroma of freshly baked bread filling the kitchen and complementing the savory scent of the stew.

"Perfect timing," Y/N observed, moving to retrieve bowls from the cabinet. "Dinner's ready too."

As they settled at the kitchen island with their meal, the conversation shifted to safer topics. Harry's upcoming studio sessions, a book Y/N had recently finished, speculation about whether the predicted snow would actually materialize. The moment of potential complication passed, subsumed by the comfortable routine they'd established.

Yet as they ate and talked, Y/N found herself occasionally catching Harry watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher, something thoughtful, almost wistful, that disappeared whenever she tried to examine it directly. It reminded her of the way he sometimes looked at her during public events, when he thought her attention was elsewhere, a gaze that suggested complications neither of them was prepared to address.

In four months, their contract would end. The comfortable domesticity they'd established, the tentative friendship that had evolved into something surprisingly genuine, the small traditions and shared jokes and casual intimacies, all of it had an expiration date. Soon enough, Y/N would return to her own life, her own plans, her own future separate from Harry Styles and the mansion in Hampstead and these quiet evenings cooking together.

It was what they had agreed to, what they had planned for from the beginning. Yet as Harry laughed at something she'd said, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way they only did when his amusement was genuine, Y/N felt an unexpected pang at the thought of these moments coming to an end. A sentiment that had no place in their carefully negotiated arrangement, yet seemed to be taking root despite her best efforts to prevent it.

The kitchen had fallen into a comfortable silence as they finished their meal, broken only by the occasional scrape of spoons against bowls and the persistent patter of rain that had started falling outside. Harry had already gone back for seconds, a silent compliment to Y/N's cooking that she'd acknowledged with a small smile.

As they ate, however, Harry had noticed a subtle shift in Y/N's demeanor. The easy conversation that had flowed between them while cooking had given way to something more hesitant. Several times, he caught her looking at him as if on the verge of speaking, only to redirect her attention to her food or make some inconsequential observation about the weather instead.

The behavior was unusual given how their communication had evolved over the past months. While they still maintained certain boundaries, they'd largely moved beyond the awkward hesitations that had characterized their earlier interactions. This reversion to uncertainty piqued Harry's curiosity and, if he was honest with himself, a touch of concern.

He finished the last bite of his stew, set down his spoon, and regarded her directly across the kitchen island where they sat.

"Out with it," he said, his tone gentle despite the directness of the words. "What's on your mind?"

Y/N looked up, momentarily startled by the direct question. He watched as she considered deflecting before apparently deciding against it. She set her own spoon down and took a small breath, her fingers fidgeting slightly with her napkin, a nervous habit he'd come to recognize over their months together.

She sighed, meeting his gaze with a mix of determination and uncertainty. "Can I...visit my family?" The question came out in a rush, followed immediately by qualifications. "I'm not changing any of our plans but maybe the day after Christmas I can go and I'll be back right after New Year's. I haven't seen them since...Please?"

In their eight months of marriage, Y/N hadn't once visited her family. Partly due to the busy schedule Harry's team had created for them, partly due to the distance, but mostly because such a visit had never been explicitly discussed or planned for in their arrangement.

Harry felt a complex wave of emotions at the request. First came surprise. Not at the desire itself, which was entirely reasonable, but at the way she'd framed it as a permission-seeking question rather than a simple notification of her plans. This was followed quickly by a twinge of guilt as he realized that despite their evolving relationship, Y/N still positioned herself as needing his approval for something as basic as visiting her own family.

Behind these immediate reactions lurked something else. A vague discomfort at the prospect of nearly two weeks without her presence in the house. He'd grown accustomed to their shared routines, to knowing she would be there in the kitchen in the mornings, to the sound of her voice calling to Grumps in the garden, to the quiet companionship of evenings spent reading in the same room even when they barely spoke. The thought of the house without these elements felt unexpectedly hollow.

He was careful to keep these complicated reactions from showing on his face as he processed her request. Instead, he schooled his expression into one of casual consideration, aware that his response would reveal much about how he truly viewed their relationship despite the careful boundaries they maintained.

"Of course you can visit your family," he said finally, his voice deliberately even. "You don't need my permission for that, Y/N."

He watched as relief flickered across her features, followed immediately by something more complex.

"I know I don't need permission, exactly," she clarified, her fingers still worrying the edge of her napkin. "It's just...with all the appearances and events your team has scheduled, and the narrative they're trying to maintain about us...I didn't want to disrupt anything important."

Harry felt a renewed pang of guilt at the explanation. Despite their improved communication, Y/N still clearly felt the weight of the contract that had brought them together. She still positioned her own needs and desires as secondary to the performance they were obligated to maintain.

"There's nothing scheduled that can't be handled," he assured her, reaching across the island to briefly touch the back of her hand, stilling the nervous movement of her fingers. "The team will just have to work around it. Your family is important."

Y/N's expression softened at this, genuine gratitude replacing the tension that had been evident in the set of her shoulders. "Thank you, Harry. I've been wanting to see them for so long, but it never seemed like the right time to bring it up."

Harry withdrew his hand, using the motion of picking up his water glass to mask a moment of discomfort at her gratitude. 

Gratitude that shouldn't have been necessary for something so fundamental.

"Have you made any arrangements yet?" he asked, redirecting the conversation to practicalities. "Flights and such?"

Y/N shook her head. "No, I wanted to discuss it with you first. I was thinking of flying out on the morning of the 26th and returning on the 2nd or 3rd of January."

Harry nodded, taking a sip of water as he considered this timeline. "That works. I'll have a car take you to the airport." 

"I'll book the flights tomorrow," she said, shifting back to practicalities. "And I'll make sure to be back in time for any events in early January."

"Take whatever time you need," Harry countered, surprising himself again with the generosity of the offer. "The team can work around your schedule for once, instead of the other way around."

Y/N's smile widened slightly at this, genuine appreciation evident in her expression. "Thank you, Harry. That...means a lot."

There was a moment of quiet between them, filled with things neither quite knew how to express, gratitude, understanding, the subtle acknowledgment of how far they had come from the cold antagonism that had characterized their early interactions.

As they moved around the kitchen together, loading the dishwasher and storing leftovers with the easy coordination that had developed between them over months of shared domesticity, Harry found himself considering Y/N's request and his own reaction to it.

The fact that she had felt the need to ask his permission revealed much about the power dynamics that still existed between them despite their improved relationship.

As he wiped down the kitchen counter, watching Y/N arrange the remaining bread in a container for tomorrow, Harry found himself wondering what would happen when their contract ended. The question had begun to surface with increasing frequency in recent weeks, though he had carefully avoided examining it directly.

"I was thinking of watching that film you mentioned yesterday," he said, changing the subject to something lighter. "The one about the lighthouse keepers. Want to join me?"

Y/N looked up from where she was wiping the stove, a small smile playing at her lips. "You mean the extremely depressing psychological horror film that I specifically said would probably give you nightmares?"

Harry grinned, the tension of the earlier conversation dissipating in the face of their easy banter. "That's the one. I figure if I'm going to have nightmares, I might as well have company for the experience that causes them."

Y/N laughed, the sound genuine and unguarded in a way that still caught Harry by surprise sometimes, a reminder of the girl he had known years ago, before complications and contracts had entered their relationship.

"Fine," she agreed, hanging the dishcloth to dry. "But don't come knocking on my door at three in the morning when you're too scared to sleep."

"No promises," Harry replied lightly, leading the way toward the media room.

As they settled onto opposite ends of the sofa, Grumps immediately claiming the space between them as his rightful domain, Harry found himself glancing at Y/N's profile in the dim light as the movie began. The hesitation and nervousness that had marked her expression earlier had eased, replaced by the more relaxed countenance he had grown accustomed to in their private moments together.

Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, and within the warmth of their shared space, two people who had begun as adversaries continued their cautious exploration of what they might become to each other, a question with no simple answer, but perhaps one worth the complicated journey of discovering.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The drive to Holmes Chapel had been largely silent, the atmosphere in the car growing increasingly tense as they neared their destination. Harry had been unusually quiet, his attention seemingly focused on the passing countryside while his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the steering wheel. Y/N had respected his need for mental preparation, occupying herself with watching the winter landscape unfold outside her window, bare trees stretching toward a steel-gray sky, occasional flurries of snow dancing in the wind before disappearing.

They'd left London early that morning, Harry insisting on driving himself rather than using a car service. "Gives us more control," he'd explained while loading their overnight bags into the Range Rover. "We can leave whenever we need to." The comment had been delivered casually, but its implication was clear, he was already anticipating the potential need for a hasty retreat from his mother's holiday gathering.

Now, standing on the doorstep, Y/N smoothed down the front of her outfit for what felt like the hundredth time. A forest green cashmere sweater dress that hugged her curves without being provocative, paired with sheer black tights and modest heels. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and she'd kept her makeup subtle but flawless. The ensemble struck the perfect balance between festive, sophisticated, and appropriate for a family Christmas gathering.

Yet despite her careful preparation, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of being fundamentally unsuitable. Every interaction with Harry's mother left her feeling slightly off-balance, as if no matter how she presented herself, she would inevitably fall short of some unspoken standard.

"How do I look?" she asked Harry as they stood at the front door, snowflakes beginning to drift more steadily from the darkening sky. The question contained layers of meaning beyond the simple request for reassurance about her appearance, was she presentable enough, appropriate enough, good enough to survive the scrutiny that awaited them inside?

Harry turned to her, his attention shifting from the imposing door of his childhood home to take in her appearance fully. Something in his expression softened as he looked at her, the tension that had characterized him throughout the drive momentarily easing.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice low and sincere. "–Wait no. You don't look beautiful."

“Thanks” she says Dryly

He reached out, adjusting the delicate gold necklace she wore so that it lay perfectly centered against her collarbone, “you don't look beautiful. You are beautiful” 

 The gesture was intimate, proprietary in a way that might have bothered her months ago but now felt comforting, a silent affirmation of their united front.

"Remember what we agreed," he continued, his hand moving to rest lightly at the small of her back. "We stay close, we don't let her isolate either of us, and we use the code word if things get too intense."

The "code word" had been Harry's idea, a seemingly innocuous mention of needing to check on Grumps (safely ensconced with a pet sitter back in London) that would signal to the other that it was time for a strategic retreat, whether to another room or, if necessary, from the gathering entirely.

"I remember," Y/N assured him, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. "I can handle Anne. She's just one woman with an impressive talent for making people feel inadequate."

Harry's mouth quirked in a small, appreciative smile at her characterization. "That should be on her business cards. 'Anne Styles: Making People Feel Inadequate Since 1967.'"

The joke lightened the moment, drawing a genuine laugh from Y/N despite her nervousness. Harry's smile widened at the sound, and he leaned in to press a quick, unexpected kiss to the corner of her lips, brief but firm, a gesture that felt less like part of their public performance and more like genuine affection.

"For luck," he explained as he pulled back, though there was something in his eyes that suggested more complex motivations than mere superstition.

Before Y/N could respond, the door swung open, revealing Anne Styles in all her intimidating glory, wearing a perfectly tailored burgundy dress that Y/N suspected cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her makeup was impeccable, her posture regal, and her smile contained all the warmth of an arctic winter.

"Harry, darling," she greeted, her arms extending toward her son even as her gaze slid critically over Y/N. "You've finally arrived. We were beginning to worry."

Harry accepted his mother's embrace, though Y/N noted the stiffness in his shoulders as he did so. "Traffic was heavier than expected," he explained, though they had actually arrived precisely at the time they had stated they would.

"Well, you're here now," Anne said, releasing him and turning her attention to Y/N with visible reluctance. "And you've brought...your wife."

The slight pause before "wife" was subtle but unmistakable, a tiny linguistic indicator of Anne's persistent refusal to fully acknowledge their marriage as legitimate.

"Hello, Anne," Y/N greeted with deliberate warmth, refusing to be baited into defensiveness so early in the evening. "Thank you for having us. The house looks beautiful."

She gestured to the elegant Christmas decorations visible in the foyer behind Anne, tasteful greenery accented with silver and crystal rather than the more traditional red and gold, creating an effect that was undeniably stunning if somewhat lacking in festive warmth.

"Yes, well," Anne replied, accepting the compliment as her due, "I've always believed that Christmas decorations should enhance one's home rather than overwhelm it. So many people opt for...garish displays." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to the small, wrapped package in Y/N's hands, a hostess gift they had selected with painstaking care.

"Come in, then," she continued, stepping back from the doorway. "Everyone's already here."

The words landed like a subtle reprimand, they were the last to arrive, keeping others waiting despite their punctuality. Y/N felt Harry's hand press slightly more firmly against her back as they crossed the threshold, a silent reminder of their agreement to present a united front.

The foyer opened into a spacious living area where several people were gathered, conversations pausing as Harry and Y/N entered. Y/N recognized most of them from photographs or previous encounters.

What followed was a carefully choreographed social dance: greetings exchanged, coats taken, drinks offered and accepted.

Y/N found herself momentarily separated from Harry as his sister pulled him aside for a private conversation, leaving her to navigate a brief but excruciating exchange with Anne about the hostess gift (a rare vintage wine that Anne deemed "interesting" with a tone suggesting it was anything but).

Throughout it all, Y/N maintained the poised, charming demeanor that had become second nature during her months as Harry Styles' wife. She smiled at the right moments, laughed appropriately at attempted humor, and deflected subtle probing questions about her family background with practiced ease. Yet beneath the performance, she remained acutely aware of the undercurrents, the evaluating glances, the subtle exchanges between Anne and her closest friends, the way conversations shifted when she approached.

Harry, to his credit, made his way back to her side as quickly as politeness allowed, his hand finding hers with a squeeze that conveyed both apology and solidarity. They moved through the pre-dinner socializing as a unit after that, Harry steering them toward his stepfather, who had always been considerably warmer toward Y/N.

"You're looking well, both of you," He commented after they had exchanged pleasantries. "Married life must be agreeing with you."

There was no irony or hidden meaning in his statement, unlike Anne, he seemed to have accepted their marriage at face value, treating Y/N with consistent kindness from the beginning.

"It has its moments," Harry replied, his arm sliding around Y/N's waist in a gesture that had become increasingly natural over the months. "We're still figuring things out, but overall..." he glanced at Y/N, something unexpectedly genuine in his expression, "it's been better than I anticipated."

The comment surprised Y/N, not because it contradicted their agreed-upon narrative of marital contentment, but because it contained a ring of truth that went beyond their public performance. There was an honesty in his tone that hadn't been rehearsed, suggesting he was expressing a genuine sentiment rather than merely maintaining their facade.

Before she could dwell on this, Anne's voice cut through the ambient conversation, announcing that dinner was ready to be served. The group began moving toward the formal dining room, where the table had been set with Anne's signature fastidious attention to detail, fine china, crystal glassware, silver that gleamed under the chandelier's light, and an elaborate centerpiece of white amaryllis, silver-sprayed branches, and carefully arranged pine boughs.

Harry pulled out Y/N's chair for her, a courtesy that had once been part of their performance but had evolved into habit, before taking his own seat beside her. She noted with resignation that Anne had positioned them directly across from herself, maximizing her ability to observe and critique throughout the meal.

The dinner itself was a masterpiece of culinary execution, each course perfectly prepared and elegantly presented. Yet despite the excellence of the food, the atmosphere remained charged with tension. Anne directed most of the conversation, skillfully maneuvering topics toward areas that highlighted Y/N's outsider status or lack of shared history with the family.

"Do you remember that Christmas when Harry was about twelve?" she asked the table at large during the main course. "When he performed that adorable little song he'd written for everyone?" Her gaze settled on Y/N across the table. "Of course, you wouldn't know about that, would you, dear? Being from...where was it again?"

"Cornwall," Y/N supplied evenly, refusing to be baited. "Though we moved around a bit when I was younger."

"Yes, Cornwall," Anne repeated, as if the name itself was somehow indicative of questionable origins. "So different from Holmes Chapel. Much less...established."

Harry's hand found Y/N's knee under the table, a silent gesture of support. "Y/N's family has deep roots in their community," he interjected, his tone pleasant but firm. "Her father's shop was a local institution."

"Was?" Anne inquired with feigned innocence, though Y/N was certain she already knew the answer.

"He passed away," Y/N stated simply, maintaining her composure. "Almost seven years now."

"How unfortunate," Anne murmured, her expression arranged into a semblance of sympathy that didn't reach her eyes. "And your mother? Is she...managing on her own?"

The question carried implications about her family's financial situation that were both accurate and deliberately unkind. Y/N felt Harry's fingers tighten slightly on her knee.

"She's doing well," Y/N responded with deliberate brightness. "In fact, I'm visiting her and my siblings the day after tomorrow. We're all looking forward to it."

Anne's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Oh? You're not spending the holidays together, then?" She glanced between Y/N and Harry, her expression suggesting she had identified a weakness in their marital facade.

"We're spending Christmas Day together," Harry clarified before Y/N could respond. "Just the two of us. Then Y/N will visit her family while I catch up on some studio work."

He delivered this information casually, as if their arrangement was perfectly conventional and not worthy of comment. Y/N felt a surge of gratitude for his smooth handling of what could have become an awkward moment.

"How...modern," Anne commented with a thin smile.

Gemma, apparently sensing the tension, deftly changed the subject to upcoming family travel plans, drawing Anne's attention away from Y/N for the remainder of the main course. Harry used the respite to lean closer to Y/N, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"You're doing great," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "She's trying extra hard tonight because you're not giving her anything to work with."

Y/N turned her head slightly toward him, their faces now close enough that an observer might think they were sharing a private, romantic moment rather than strategizing against his mother's psychological warfare.

"I had eight months of practice with you," she whispered back, allowing a small smile to play at her lips. "She's an amateur compared to how you were in the beginning."

Harry's eyes crinkled with genuine amusement at this, and he pressed a quick kiss to her temple before straightening, another gesture that blurred the line between performance and genuine affection.

The rest of the dinner proceeded in similar fashion, Anne making occasional probing comments or subtle digs, Y/N deflecting them with calm dignity, and Harry providing backup as needed. By the time dessert was served, an elaborate Bûche de Noël that Anne made sure everyone knew she had commissioned from a renowned London patisserie, Y/N felt emotionally drained from maintaining her composed facade but satisfied that she had not given Anne the satisfaction of seeing her rattled.

After dinner, the party moved back to the living room for coffee and after-dinner drinks. Harry kept Y/N close, his arm around her waist or his hand at the small of her back, physical contact that served both their public narrative and Y/N's need for moral support. As the evening wore on, however, Anne finally found her opportunity when Harry was momentarily cornered by an elderly family friend who had questions about his music career.

"Would you mind helping me in the kitchen for a moment, dear?" Anne asked Y/N with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just to check on the coffee service."

It was a transparent attempt to isolate her, but refusing would appear rude to the other guests. Y/N caught Harry's eye across the room, giving him a small nod to indicate she could handle this, before following Anne toward the kitchen.

The kitchen, like the rest of Anne's home, was a showcase of expensive taste and careful curation, all marble surfaces, high-end appliances, and strategically placed copper accents. Anne closed the door behind them with a soft click that somehow managed to sound ominous despite its gentleness.

"I thought we might have a moment to speak privately," Anne said, turning to face Y/N with the smile of a predator who had successfully separated a target from the herd. "Woman to woman."

"Of course," Y/N replied evenly, maintaining her polite expression while mentally preparing for whatever Anne had been waiting all evening to deliver.

Anne leaned against the counter, studying Y/N with undisguised critical assessment. "You've surprised me," she admitted finally. "You've lasted longer than I expected."

"In what way?" Y/N asked, though she understood perfectly well what Anne meant.

"This...arrangement with my son." Anne waved a manicured hand dismissively. "I assumed it would have run its course by now. Harry has never been one for...extended commitments to women from your...background."

The statement was deliberately insulting, designed to emphasize class differences and imply Y/N's fundamental unsuitability. Rather than showing offense, Y/N maintained her composed expression, refusing to give Anne the reaction she clearly desired.

"Harry and I understand each other," she said simply. "Perhaps better than you might think."

Anne's eyes narrowed slightly at this non-committal response. "Let me be direct, then. Whatever financial arrangement you've made with my son, whatever you think you're getting out of this...situation, you should know it has an expiration date."

Y/N felt a chill at the accuracy of Anne's assessment, the "expiration date" was indeed built into their contract, set to conclude in just under four months. But Anne couldn't possibly know the details of their private arrangement, which meant she was simply expressing her confidence that Harry would eventually tire of the marriage.

"Harry is at a crucial point in his career," Anne continued, her voice carrying absolute certainty. "This...phase with you has served its purpose, garnering the publicity his team wanted. But soon he'll need to move forward, align himself with connections that can actually advance his position in the industry. You may have been an interesting diversion, but you must realize you're not a suitable long-term partner for someone of Harry's stature."

The words were cruel in their calculated precision, targeting insecurities that Y/N hadn't even fully acknowledged to herself, the growing sense that what had developed between her and Harry might be something she would miss when their contract ended, the fear that despite their improved relationship, she remained fundamentally temporary in his life.

She drew a steady breath, refusing to let these doubts show on her face. "I appreciate your concern for Harry's welfare," she replied, her tone measured. "But I think he's perfectly capable of determining what and who is suitable for his life and career."

Anne's smile tightened. "Of course he is. And he will. I'm simply suggesting you prepare yourself for the inevitable conclusion. It would be...unfortunate if you developed genuine expectations beyond whatever arrangement initially brought you together."

The statement hit uncomfortably close to Y/N's private concerns, concerns she had been carefully avoiding examining too closely as her relationship with Harry evolved beyond their contractual parameters.

"I think we understand each other perfectly, Anne," she said after a moment, her voice quiet but firm. "Now, wasn't there something about coffee service we needed to check on?"

Anne's expression flickered with momentary surprise at Y/N's composed response, perhaps she had expected tears, anger, or defensive protests. After a brief pause, she turned toward the elaborate coffee setup on the counter, her movements precise and controlled.

"Yes, the coffee," she confirmed, her tone suggesting the matter was of little importance compared to the message she had delivered. "Would you mind taking this tray to the living room? I'll bring the cream and sugar."

Y/N accepted the tray without comment, maintaining her dignity as she carried it back to the living room. Harry looked up as she entered, his expression immediately alert as he registered something in her demeanor that suggested all was not well. He extracted himself from his conversation and moved to her side as she set the tray on the coffee table.

"Everything alright?" he asked quietly, his hand finding the small of her back in what had become a familiar gesture of support.

"Grumps might need checking on soon," she replied softly, invoking their agreed-upon code word with a small, tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Harry's expression hardened momentarily before he schooled it back into social pleasantry. "What did she say to you?" he murmured, his voice low enough that the nearby guests couldn't hear.

Y/N shook her head slightly. "Nothing I couldn't handle. Just...being Anne." She forced a more convincing smile as Anne emerged from the kitchen with the cream and sugar. "Later."

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of polite social interaction, with Harry remaining protectively close to Y/N's side. When they finally retired to the guest room Anne had prepared for them, a tastefully appointed space that, like the rest of the house, prioritized aesthetic perfection over comfort, Y/N felt the careful composure she had maintained all evening begin to crumble.

She sat on the edge of the bed, removing her earrings with hands that weren't quite steady, while Harry closed and locked the door behind them with deliberate firmness.

"What did she say to you in the kitchen?" he asked without preamble, his expression serious as he crossed to stand before her.

Y/N sighed, setting her earrings on the nightstand. "Just the usual Anne special. Reminding me of my proper place in the social hierarchy and how I'm fundamentally unsuitable for someone of your status." She attempted a light tone, but the hurt Anne had inflicted was evident beneath the surface.

Harry's jaw tightened, anger flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough with genuine emotion. "I shouldn't have let her get you alone."

"It's not your fault," Y/N assured him, reaching out to touch his hand briefly. "And honestly, it wasn't anything I didn't expect. She just..." she hesitated, unsure how to express the particular effectiveness of Anne's comments without revealing too much of her own emotional vulnerability.

Harry sat beside her on the bed, close enough that their shoulders touched, a gesture of solidarity rather than romantic intent. "She just what?"

Y/N considered deflecting, maintaining the careful emotional distance they had established despite their improved relationship. But something about the genuine concern in Harry's expression, combined with the emotional exhaustion of the evening, made her opt for honesty instead.

"She talked about our arrangement having an 'expiration date,'" she admitted quietly, staring at her hands in her lap. "About how I should prepare myself for the 'inevitable conclusion' and not develop 'genuine expectations' beyond our original arrangement."

She glanced up to find Harry watching her with an unreadable expression, something complex moving behind his eyes.

"She doesn't know anything about our arrangement," he said 

“I know that Harry. It just…the way she said it made it sound like…like these last four months have meant nothing. That the friendship we’ve developed is nothing more than a a…simple tolerance of each other. Like you couldn’t wait for these next four months so you could go on with your life” 

Her throat was closing up and tears started to well in her eyes, “I don’t even know why it’s affecting me. I know all of what she said is right. I’m being dramatic” 

Harry stared at Y/N, momentarily stunned by the raw emotion breaking through her usually composed facade. For months, they'd maintained a careful balance, antagonism gradually giving way to tolerance, then to something like friendship, all while keeping certain boundaries firmly in place. But now, watching tears well in her hazel eyes, those boundaries seemed suddenly fragile and arbitrary.

He ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture of frustration that mussed the careful styling he'd maintained throughout the evening. "She has no fucking idea what she's talking about," he said, his voice low and intense. "None. She sees what she wants to see."

Harry moved closer, hesitating only briefly before reaching out to brush away a tear that had escaped to trail down Y/N's cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent, so at odds with the dismissive coldness that had characterized their early interactions.

"You're not being dramatic," he continued, his accent becoming more pronounced as it always did when his emotions ran high. "She deliberately went after what she thought were your insecurities. That's what she does, identifies weaknesses and exploits them. She's been doing it my entire life."

He paused, seeming to struggle with what to say next, his green eyes searching Y/N's face as if looking for something he wasn't entirely sure how to find.

"Look, these past four months..." he began, then stopped, frustrated by his own inability to articulate something he hadn't fully processed himself. "They haven't been what either of us expected, have they?"

Y/N shook her head slightly, more tears spilling over despite her obvious attempt to regain control. The vulnerability in her expression struck something deep in Harry.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. "I'm shit at this."

Then, with a decisiveness that seemed to surprise even him, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as her tears came in earnest now. His hand moved to stroke her hair, fingers threading through the waves with a tenderness that belied the months of calculated distance he'd maintained.

"Listen to me," he said against her hair, his voice rough with emotion. "What my mother said about you being unsuitable, about this having an expiration date, that's her projecting her own classist bullshit onto us. It has nothing to do with reality."

Y/N's body shuddered against his as she tried to regain control, her hands clutching the front of his sweater. "But she's right about some of it," she managed between shaky breaths. "Our contract does have an expiration date. Four more months and we go our separate ways. that was the deal."

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression intense as he cupped her face between his hands, thumbs gently wiping at the tears on her cheeks.

"Is that what you want?" he asked, the question carrying more weight than either of them had anticipated when this evening began. "To just...fulfill the contract and walk away like none of this happened? Like we haven't..." he hesitated, seeming to search for words that wouldn't come easily "...changed?"

The question hung between them, charged with implications neither had openly acknowledged until now. Y/N looked up at him, her tear-stained face vulnerable in a way that made his chest ache with an unfamiliar tenderness.

"I don't know what I want anymore," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "When we started this, it seemed so straightforward. A business arrangement. Mutual benefits. Clear boundaries."

She drew a shaky breath, her eyes never leaving his. "But now...I don't know where the performance ends and reality begins. Sometimes when you touch me in public, I can't tell if it's for show or because you want to. Sometimes when you look at me like...like you're looking at me right now..." her voice faltered "...I don't know what's real."

Harry's thumbs continued their gentle movement against her cheekbones, his expression shifting into something more open than she'd ever seen from him. 

"I don't know either," he confessed, the admission clearly costing him. "I spent so much time convincing myself that this was just a necessary business move, that you were...convenient. Someone my mother would hate, someone who needed what I could provide, someone I could keep at a safe distance while getting what I needed from the arrangement."

His hands slid from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms to capture her hands in his. "But you got under my skin somehow. The way you stand up to me, the way you handle my mother without breaking, the way you..." he shook his head slightly "...the way you see through the bullshit version of me that everyone else buys into."

Y/N stared at him, her tears slowing as surprise replaced distress. "Harry..."

"No, let me finish," he insisted, his grip on her hands tightening slightly. "I've been fighting this for months now. Whatever this is between us. I've been telling myself it's just familiarity, just convenience, just two people making the best of a situation neither of us really wanted."

He released one of her hands to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture achingly tender. "But the truth is, I look forward to coming home to you. Even when we're arguing, maybe especially when we're arguing, there's something about you that makes me feel...I don't know...awake. Present in a way I haven't been in years."

He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Christ, I sound like a bad song lyric."

Despite herself, Y/N felt a small smile form through her tears. "Maybe there's a reason clichés become clichés," she suggested softly. "Because sometimes they're the only way to express something complicated."

Harry's answering smile was tentative but genuine, creating the dimple that she'd secretly found endearing since the earliest days of their arrangement. "Maybe," he acknowledged. "Or maybe I've just spent too much time writing love songs about feelings I didn't actually understand until now."

The implication of his words hung in the air between them, neither quite ready to directly address what he was suggesting. Instead, Harry gently tugged her back into his embrace, his chin resting on top of her head as he held her close.

"I don't want you to cry because of something my mother said," he murmured against her hair. "She doesn't get to have that power over you. Over us."

Y/N relaxed against him, allowing herself to be held in a way that had nothing to do with their public performance and everything to do with the complex, evolving reality of their relationship.

"Us," she repeated softly, testing the word. "Is there an us, Harry? Beyond the contract? Beyond what we agreed to?"

Harry's arms tightened around her, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. "I think there is," he admitted, the words seeming to surprise him as much as her. "I think there has been for a while now. I've just been too stubborn or too scared to acknowledge it."

He pulled back slightly, needing to see her face. "What about you? Is there an us for you?"

Y/N looked up at him, her expression open and unguarded in a way it rarely was. In that moment, all the careful defenses they'd built against each other, walls constructed of pride, prejudice, and self-protection, seemed to fall away, leaving only the raw, unvarnished truth of what had developed between them despite their best efforts to prevent it.

"Yes," she whispered, the single word carrying the weight of months of unacknowledged feelings. "There's an us for me too."

Something in Harry's expression shifted at her admission, relief and wonder and an unmistakable heat that had nothing to do with their contractual obligations and everything to do with genuine desire. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there with obvious intent.

"I want to kiss you," he said, his voice lower and rougher than before. "Not for show. Not because someone's watching. Just because I want to. Because I've been wanting to for longer than I've been willing to admit."

Y/N felt her breath catch, her heart racing at the naked honesty in his words and expression. "Then kiss me," she invited softly.

Harry needed no further encouragement. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he drew her toward him. The kiss began gently, a tentative exploration unlike the performative displays of affection they'd shared in public, but quickly deepened as months of suppressed longing broke through the last of their restraint. Y/N's arms wound around his neck, her body arching into his as his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her closer until she was practically in his lap. 

The kiss turned hungry. Desperate. Harry's tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her whimper, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as if afraid he might somehow disappear if she didn't hold tight enough.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Harry pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as if overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened.

"Christ," he muttered, his accent thick with emotion. "We could have been doing that for months instead of arguing."

Y/N laughed softly, the sound slightly breathless. "We'd have still argued. It's apparently what we do."

Harry grinned, his eyes opening to meet hers with a warmth she'd rarely seen directed at her. "True. But the making up would have been a lot more interesting."

His expression sobered slightly, one hand coming up to trace the curve of her cheek. "I'm sorry for how I treated you in the beginning," he said, the apology clearly difficult for him but no less sincere for that. "The things I said, the way I acted...it was cruel and you didn't deserve it."

Y/N leaned into his touch, her own expression growing serious. "I wasn't exactly pleasant either," she admitted. "I came in with my own prejudices about you, the spoiled rich boy who'd never had to work for anything."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the truth in her assessment. "We were both working from my mother's script, weren't we? Me channeling all of Anne's classist bullshit, you defending yourself with the armor you built growing up around people like us."

"Like you used to be," Y/N corrected gently. "You're not that person anymore. At least, not with me."

Something in Harry's expression softened at her words, a vulnerability showing through that he rarely allowed anyone to see. "No, not with you," he agreed quietly. "You make it impossible to maintain the façade. You always have, right from the start. It's one of the things that drove me crazy about you at first. How you could see through me when I was trying so hard to be untouchable."

He paused, his thumb tracing her lower lip with a tenderness that made her heart race. "Now it's one of the things I...one of the things that matters most to me about you."

He stopped short of saying the words that hung unspoken between them, too soon, too fragile, too much potential for misunderstanding or regret. But Y/N could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the way he touched her, something profound had shifted between them tonight, something neither had anticipated when they'd arrived at Anne's home.

"We should get some sleep," Harry suggested reluctantly, glancing at the elegant clock on the bedside table. "Tomorrow's going to be another long day of dealing with my mother."

Y/N nodded, equally reluctant to end this moment but aware of the practical realities. "You're right," she agreed, moving to stand. "I should get ready for bed."

Harry caught her hand before she could move away, his expression serious. "One more thing," he said, his voice low and intent. "Whatever happens tomorrow with my mother, whatever she says or does...remember it's you and me now. Us. The real us, not the version we've been performing."

Y/N felt warmth spread through her at his words, at the certainty in his expression. "You and me," she echoed, squeezing his hand. "I won't forget."

A  genuine smile transformed his face, softening the sharp edges of his carefully maintained public persona. "Good," he said simply.

As they prepared for bed, moving around each other with a new awareness, stealing glances and small touches that carried none of the performance quality of their public interactions

They climbed into bed, the initial awkwardness of their new understanding quickly giving way as Harry drew her against him, her back to his chest, his arm around her waist in a gesture that felt protective rather than possessive. His breath warmed the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine as he pressed a gentle kiss just below her ear.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he murmured, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

Her breath hitches at the kiss, closing her eyes, "Don't..." she whispers in the dark. "Don't start something you won't finish"

Harry's breath catches at her words, his body going completely still against hers. For a moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing, his suddenly deeper, hers slightly uneven. The arm around her waist tightens almost imperceptibly, his fingers flexing against the soft material of her nightgown.

When he speaks, his voice has dropped to a rough whisper directly against her ear, sending another shiver cascading down her spine.

"What makes you think I won't finish it?"

The question hangs in the darkness between them, loaded with intention. His lips brush against the sensitive skin just below her ear again, more deliberately this time, no longer the innocent goodnight gesture it had pretended to be.

Y/N feels heat bloom low in her belly, spreading outward until her skin seems to tingle with awareness of every point where their bodies connect. She can feel the solid warmth of his chest against her back, the weight of his arm across her waist, the slight scratch of stubble as his mouth continues its exploration of the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

"Harry..." she breathes, uncertainty and desire mingling in her voice. They've crossed so many lines tonight already, moving from reluctant partners to something far more complex and meaningful. This would be another threshold entirely, one that would fundamentally change what exists between them.

He seems to understand her hesitation, pausing in his attentions to prop himself up on one elbow, gently turning her to face him in the darkness. The moonlight filtering through the curtains casts his features in silver and shadow, but she can see the intensity in his eyes clearly enough.

"If you don't want this, say the word and I'll stop," he tells her, his voice low and serious despite the obvious desire darkening his gaze. "But don't think for a second I wouldn't follow through."

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing her lower lip with exquisite gentleness that contrasts with the heat in his expression. "I've thought about this, about you, for longer than I've been willing to admit, even to myself. How you would feel. How you would taste."

The raw honesty in his admission steals Y/N's breath. This is Harry stripped of pretense, of the careful performance they've maintained for months, of the defensive arrogance he's used as armor since the day they met. This is Harry vulnerable and open in a way she's never seen him.

She reaches up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of evening stubble beneath her fingertips. "I've thought about it too," she confesses, her voice barely audible despite the silence surrounding them. "Even when I couldn't stand you."

A smile curves his mouth at that, not the practiced, camera-ready smile he shows the world, but something genuine and almost boyish in its pleasure at her admission. "Especially when you couldn't stand me," he suggests, a hint of his usual cockiness returning.

Y/N rolls her eyes, but can't suppress an answering smile. "Your ego is still intact, I see."

"You like my ego," he murmurs, leaning closer until his lips are just a breath away from hers. "Gives you something to push against."

Before she can formulate a suitably cutting response, he closes the remaining distance between them, capturing her mouth in a kiss that immediately obliterates any thought of verbal sparring. Unlike their earlier kiss, tentative at first, then increasingly desperate, this one begins with absolute certainty, as if he's claiming something that has always belonged to him.

His hand slides from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue tracing the seam of her lips in a silent request she grants without hesitation. The taste of him, minty toothpaste undercut with something darker and essentially Harry, makes her head swim, a small sound of need escaping her throat as his tongue slides against hers.

Harry responds to that sound with one of his own, a low growl that she feels more than hears as he shifts their positions, rolling her onto her back and settling his weight partially over her. The solid heat of him pressing her into the mattress sends a bolt of pure desire through her core, her body arching up instinctively to seek more contact.

His mouth leaves hers to trail kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, lingering at the pulse point that hammers beneath his lips. One hand slides down her side, tracing the curve of her waist, her hip, before slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown to find bare skin.

"Christ, you're soft," he murmurs against her collarbone, his voice rough with desire as his fingers trace patterns on her thigh, each touch moving slightly higher than the last. "Been driving me mad wondering how you'd feel under my hands."

Y/N gasps as those clever fingers finally reach the edge of her underwear, tracing the elastic with deliberate teasing slowness. "Harry," she breathes, her hands clutching at his shoulders, uncertain whether she's asking him to stop or begging him to continue.

He raises his head to look at her, his expression serious despite the desire darkening his eyes to forest green in the dim light. "Still want me to stop?" he asks, his fingers pausing in their exploration.

Y/N looks up at him, this man who has transformed from reluctant partner to something far more complicated and compelling, this man whose touch sets her body alight with sensation she's never experienced with anyone else, this man who is offering her a chance to retreat even as his body thrums with obvious desire for her.

"No," she says, her voice soft but certain. "Don't stop."

Something flares in Harry's eyes at her words, relief, triumph, and a hunger that makes her breath catch. He captures her mouth again, the kiss deeper and more demanding than before, as his hand resumes its exploration, fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric of her underwear to find her already slick with want.

"Fuck," he groans against her mouth as his fingers slide through her folds, discovering just how ready she is for him. "Already so wet for me."

Y/N would be embarrassed by how quickly and thoroughly her body has responded to his touch if she weren't so consumed by sensation, the gentle pressure of his fingers circling her clit, the heat of his mouth as it moves down her throat, the weight of him partially covering her, surrounding her with his scent and warmth.

Harry shifts, using his free hand to push her nightgown up, exposing her stomach and the underside of her breasts. His mouth follows the path of revealed skin, lips trailing fire across her abdomen as his fingers continue their maddening circles between her thighs. When he reaches the soft swell of her breast, he glances up at her, a silent question in his eyes.

Y/N nods, lifting herself slightly to allow him to push the nightgown higher, baring her breasts to his heated gaze. The cool air of the room makes her nipples tighten, or perhaps it's the naked appreciation in Harry's expression as he looks at her.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, lowering his head to take one peaked nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as his fingers press more firmly against her clit.

Y/N arches into the dual sensation, a moan escaping her that seems too loud in the quiet room. She bites her lip, suddenly remembering where they are, in his mother's home, with other guests just down the hall.

Harry lifts his head, a wicked smile curving his lips as he registers her attempt to stay quiet. "Gonna have to be very quiet for me, aren't you?" he says, his voice a low rumble that she feels against her skin. "Think you can do that when I make you come on my fingers? When I'm inside you?"

The crude words, delivered in his refined accent, send a fresh wave of heat through her. She's never heard him speak this way, raw and unfiltered, his usual careful articulation giving way to something primal and honest.

"Harry," she gasps as he slides one long finger inside her, curling it to find a spot that makes her vision blur with pleasure. "Oh god, "

He silences her with another kiss, swallowing her moans as he adds a second finger, stretching her deliciously as his thumb continues to circle her clit with maddening precision. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing her rapidly toward a peak she can feel building with startling speed.

"That's it," he murmurs against her lips, his voice rough with his own arousal. "Let go for me, love. Want to feel you come around my fingers."

His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his skilled fingers and the weight of his body partially covering hers, send her tumbling over the edge. Her back arches, her body clenching around his intrusion as waves of pleasure crash through her. Harry captures her cry with his mouth, kissing her deeply as he works her through the climax, his fingers slowing but not stopping until the last tremor subsides.

When she finally relaxes back into the mattress, boneless and dazed from the intensity of her orgasm, Harry withdraws his hand from between her thighs, his eyes never leaving hers as he deliberately brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting her essence with obvious appreciation.

"Fuck," he groans, the crude word somehow elegant in his accent. "Need to be inside you."

Y/N reaches for him, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt to feel the warm skin and defined muscles beneath. Harry helps her, yanking the shirt over his head to reveal the tattoos scattered across his torso, designs she's glimpsed before but never been free to touch as she is now, her fingers tracing the inked lines with fascination.

He allows her exploration for a moment before capturing her wrists, pressing them gently to the mattress above her head. "If you keep touching me like that, this will be over embarrassingly quickly," he admits, his voice strained with the effort of control.

Y/N feels a surge of feminine power at his admission, that she affects him as strongly as he affects her, that the desire consuming her is equally matched in him. She lifts her hips, deliberately pressing against the obvious hardness straining against his pajama pants.

Harry's eyes darken further, his grip on her wrists tightening briefly before he releases them to reach for the waistband of his pants. "Nightgown off," he instructs, his voice rough with need as he pushes his pants and underwear down his hips in one efficient movement.

Y/N complies, pulling the nightgown over her head and tossing it aside, leaving her in only the thin panties that Harry had pushed aside rather than removed. His gaze rakes over her newly bared body with such heat that she can almost feel it like a physical touch.

"These too," he says, fingers hooking into the sides of her underwear, pulling them down her legs with deliberate slowness that has her squirming with renewed desire despite her recent climax.

When they're both finally naked, Harry pauses, hovering over her with an expression that contains more than just lust, there's wonder there too, and something deeper that neither of them is quite ready to name.

"You're sure about this?" he asks, his voice gentle despite the tension evident in every line of his body. "Because once I'm inside you, there's no going back to how things were."

The question carries weight beyond the immediate physical act, he's asking if she's ready for everything this means for them, for the fundamental shift in their relationship that crossing this line will create.

Y/N reaches up to cup his face between her palms, drawing him down for a kiss that's surprisingly tender given the heat building between them. "I'm sure," she whispers against his lips. "I want this. I want you but…you don't happen to have a condom, do you?"  

Harry freezes above her, his expression shifting from intense desire to something like chagrin. "Fuck," he mutters, dropping his forehead to rest against hers for a moment. "I don't. I wasn't exactly planning for this to happen."

Y/N can't help the small laugh that escapes her. "Neither was I," she admits, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. "I guess we've both been pretending this wasn't inevitable."

Harry lifts his head to look at her, a rueful smile playing at his lips despite the obvious frustration of their situation. "Inevitable, was it?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in that way that used to irritate her but now sends a flutter through her stomach.

"You know it was," she replies, boldness coming more easily in the darkness, with his body warm and solid above hers. "All that arguing had to lead somewhere."

His smile deepens, creating the dimple she's secretly always found disarming. "That somewhere being my bed?" He shifts, settling more fully between her thighs, his hardness pressing insistently against her core even as he maintains the small distance necessary to continue their conversation.

"Our bed," she corrects, the possessive pronoun slipping out before she can consider its implications.

Something flashes in Harry's eyes at her words, pleasure mixed with a deeper emotion she's not quite ready to identify. "Our bed," he agrees, voice dropping to a lower register that sends shivers down her spine. "But now we have a problem to solve, don't we?"

His hand slides down her side, tracing the curve of her waist, her hip, before dipping between their bodies to find her still slick and sensitive from her earlier climax. Y/N gasps as his fingers resume their exploration, circling her clit with deliberate pressure that has her arching into his touch.

"I can think of a few ways to take care of each other without risking any...complications," he murmurs, his mouth dropping to her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his fingers continue their maddening circles.

Y/N's hands clutch at his shoulders, her body already responding eagerly to his skilled touch despite having climaxed just minutes ago. "Such as?" she manages, her voice breathier than she intends.

Harry lifts his head, a wicked smile curving his lips as he shifts down her body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach. "Let me show you," he says, his voice a low rumble against her skin as he settles between her thighs, looking up the length of her body with unmistakable intent.

The first touch of his tongue against her core has Y/N gasping, her hands flying to tangle in his hair as pleasure shoots through her with startling intensity. Harry groans against her, the vibration adding another layer of sensation as he explores her with obvious enthusiasm, his hands gripping her thighs to keep them spread wide for his attentions.

"Harry," she moans, forgetting to keep her voice down as he sucks her clit between his lips, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her see stars. "Oh god, "

He lifts his head briefly, his lips glistening with her arousal in the dim light. "Quiet, remember?" he reminds her, his voice rough with his own desire. "Unless you want my mother to hear exactly what I'm doing to you."

The reminder of where they are, and the illicit thrill of it, sends another wave of heat through Y/N. She bites her lip, nodding her understanding as Harry returns to his task with renewed determination, his tongue delving inside her before returning to circle her clit with maddening precision.

It doesn't take long before she's trembling on the edge again, her thighs tensing around his head as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak. When Harry slides two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that makes her vision blur while his tongue continues its relentless attention to her clit, she shatters completely, her back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash through her.

Harry works her through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks subside, before pressing a final kiss to her inner thigh and moving back up her body. The smug satisfaction in his expression would be irritating if she weren't so thoroughly boneless with pleasure.

"You look entirely too pleased with yourself," she manages once she's caught her breath, reaching up to trace the curve of his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of stubble beneath her fingertips.

Harry turns his head to press a kiss to her palm, his eyes dark with undiminished desire despite the amusement in his expression. "Can you blame me?" he asks, voice rough with arousal. "Making you fall apart like that...Christ, I could get addicted to the sounds you make."

Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks at his words, but the embarrassment is quickly overwhelmed by a different kind of warmth as she realizes how much she wants to make him lose control the way she just did. With newfound boldness, she pushes against his chest, urging him onto his back.

Harry allows himself to be moved, eyebrows rising in surprise as she follows, straddling his thighs with a confidence she doesn't entirely feel but is determined to project. "My turn," she says simply, enjoying the way his pupils dilate at her words.

She takes her time exploring him, the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the scattering of tattoos that she traces with fingertips and then lips, learning the geography of his body with the same thoroughness he'd shown hers. By the time her hand wraps around his length, Harry is breathing heavily, his hands fisted in the sheets as if to keep himself from touching her.

"Y/N," he groans as she strokes him, her grip firm but gentle, learning what makes his breath catch and his hips thrust upward seeking more. "Fuck, that feels, "

His words cut off on a strangled moan as she lowers her head, taking him into her mouth with more confidence than experience, driven by the desire to make him feel as good as he made her feel. The sound he makes, part surprise, part desperate pleasure, sends a thrill through her, encouraging her to continue despite her relative inexperience.

Harry's hand comes to rest on her head, not pushing or guiding, just tangling in her hair as if needing to anchor himself as she explores what makes him respond most intensely. When she takes him deeper, hollowing her cheeks as she pulls back, his hips buck upward involuntarily, a stream of muttered curses falling from his lips.

"Stop," he finally gasps, gently tugging her hair to pull her away. "Need to be inside you, don't want to come like this."

Y/N releases him, looking up the length of his body with a mixture of satisfaction at his obvious struggle for control and nervousness about what comes next. "But we don't have, "

Harry sits up, pulling her into a kiss that steals her breath with its intensity, his hands cupping her face with surprising tenderness given the desperation evident in every line of his body. "I'll pull out," he promises against her lips. "If you trust me. If you want this as much as I do."

Y/N hesitates only briefly, weighing the risk against the overwhelming need coursing through her. She trusts him, a realization that would have shocked her just weeks ago but now feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"I trust you," she whispers, the words carrying more weight than just the immediate context. "I want this. I want you."

The raw honesty in her voice seems to affect Harry deeply, something shifting in his expression as he kisses her again, more gently this time, before maneuvering them until she's beneath him once more. He positions himself at her entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her slick folds without pushing inside.

"Look at me," he commands softly, waiting until her eyes meet his before continuing. "I want to see you when I'm finally inside you."

Y/N nods, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders as he begins to push forward, stretching her in a way that has her gasping at the exquisite pressure. Harry moves slowly, giving her time to adjust to his size, his eyes never leaving hers as he gradually fills her completely.

"Fuck," he breathes when he's fully seated, his forehead dropping to rest against hers, body trembling with the effort of remaining still. "You feel even better than I imagined."

Y/N can only whimper in response, overwhelmed by the fullness, the connection, the intensity of having him inside her after months of denial and tension. She shifts her hips experimentally, drawing a groan from Harry as he pulls back slightly before pushing forward again, establishing a rhythm that has them both panting.

What begins as slow and careful quickly evolves into something more urgent as their bodies demand more, faster, harder, deeper. Harry hooks one of her legs over his arm, changing the angle to hit spots inside her that have her seeing stars, her nails digging into his back as pleasure builds once more.

"Touch yourself," Harry urges, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Want to feel you come around my cock."

Y/N complies, slipping a hand between their bodies to circle her clit in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation rapidly pushing her toward another peak. When she falls over the edge, it's with an intensity that has her crying out despite her best efforts to stay quiet, her inner walls clenching around Harry in rhythmic pulses that have him cursing under his breath.

A few more powerful thrusts and he's pulling out, his hand replacing her as he strokes himself to completion, hot spurts landing on her stomach as he groans her name, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a long moment, they stay frozen like that, both breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat and other evidence of their passion. Then Harry leans down, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to her lips before moving away briefly, returning with tissues from the bedside table to clean them both up.

Once they've settled back into bed, Y/N curled against his chest with his arm wrapped securely around her, a bubble of laughter suddenly rises in her throat, escaping before she can contain it.

Harry looks down at her, eyebrow raised in curious amusement. "Something funny?" he asks, his finger tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder.

Y/N lifts her head, grinning up at him with mischievous delight. "Your mother would get a heart attack if she saw us," she says, another giggle escaping at the thought of Anne's horrified expression if she could see them now, naked, satisfied, and tangled together in the very bed she'd provided for her despised daughter-in-law.

Harry's surprised laugh joins hers, his eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement. "Christ, she absolutely would," he agrees, his arm tightening around Y/N. "Probably serve her right, the old bat."

His expression softens as he looks down at her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness. "Though to be fair, I might have had one myself if you'd told me four months ago that I'd end up here with you."

As they settle back into each other's arms, the weight of sleep beginning to pull at them both after the emotional and physical intensity of the night, Y/N finds herself believing him. Whatever comes tomorrow, Anne's disapproval, the public scrutiny, the complications of transforming their arrangement into something genuine, they'll navigate it side by side.

For the first time since this arrangement began, the future doesn't feel like a countdown to an inevitable ending but rather the beginning of something neither of them expected but both now desperately want to explore.

Harry's breathing eventually deepens into sleep, his arm still wrapped protectively around her as if unwilling to let her go even in unconsciousness. Y/N allows herself to follow him into slumber, a smile curving her lips at the thought of Anne's face when she realizes that her scheming has backfired completely, instead of driving them apart, her cruelty has only served to bring them closer together in a way neither of them could have anticipated when this all began.

Morning light filters through the curtains, casting a gentle golden glow across the bedroom. Harry lies on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting where Y/N had been curled against him through the night. His breathing is deep and even, his expression relaxed in sleep in a way it rarely is when he's awake, all the sharp edges and careful defenses momentarily abandoned.

Y/N watches him for a moment, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him unobserved. The strong line of his jaw, softened slightly by sleep and morning stubble. The fan of his lashes against his cheeks. The scatter of tattoos across his chest and arms that she'd explored with fingers and lips just hours ago.

The memory of the night before sends a flush of heat through her body, the passion they'd shared, yes, but more importantly the vulnerability in his voice when he'd admitted he wanted something real with her. Something beyond the contract that had brought them together.

Acting on impulse, she leans forward, pressing her lips gently to one of the swallow tattoos on his chest. His skin is warm beneath her mouth, the steady thump of his heart a reassuring rhythm. She moves to another tattoo, then another, dropping soft kisses across his torso with unhurried deliberation.

Beneath her attentions, Harry begins to stir. His breathing changes subtly, becoming less deep and regular. His hand twitches where it rests on the mattress. But his eyes remain closed, and Y/N suspects he's awake now, simply enjoying her exploration without alerting her to his consciousness.

She smiles against his skin, deciding to play along with his pretense. Her kisses become more purposeful, her tongue darting out to trace the lines of the butterfly tattoo spanning his abdomen. Her hand slides up his arm, feeling the definition of muscle beneath warm skin.

A small sound escapes Harry then, something between a sigh and a groan, betraying his awareness. His hand moves to her hair, fingers tangling in the golden-brown strands but not directing her movements, simply establishing contact.

"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something warmer. When Y/N glances up, his eyes are open, watching her with a mixture of drowsy contentment and growing desire that sends a flutter through her stomach.

"Morning," she replies, pressing another kiss to his chest before resting her chin there to look up at him. "Sleep well?"

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face, creating the dimple she's still getting used to seeing directed at her with genuine warmth rather than practiced charm. "Better than I have in months," he admits, his hand moving from her hair to trace the curve of her cheek with gentle fingers. "Though someone did thoroughly exhaust me first."

Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks at the reminder, but she doesn't look away from his teasing gaze. "I don't recall hearing any complaints," she points out, arching an eyebrow in challenge.

Harry's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Nor will you," he assures her, his hand sliding to the back of her neck to draw her up for a proper kiss.

She goes willingly, shifting to lie more fully on top of him as their mouths meet. The kiss is softer than those they shared last night, less desperate but no less meaningful, a good morning rather than a frantic exploration, but with an underlying current of desire that suggests it could easily become more.

When they part, Harry tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, studying her face with an intensity that might have made her uncomfortable before but now only makes her feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.

"No regrets?" he asks quietly, a hint of vulnerability beneath the question despite the confidence he typically projects.

Y/N shakes her head without hesitation. "None," she assures him, pressing another quick kiss to his lips to emphasize her point. "You?"

"Not a single one," he replies, his arms tightening around her waist as if to physically reinforce his words. "Except perhaps that we didn't figure this out sooner. Could have saved ourselves a lot of arguing."

Y/N laughs softly, settling more comfortably against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "I don't know. The arguing was kind of fun sometimes. And apparently quite effective as foreplay."

Harry's chest rumbles with his answering laugh, the vibration pleasant against her cheek. "Is that what it was? And here I thought you genuinely couldn't stand me."

"Oh, I couldn't," she confirms, lifting her head to meet his gaze with a mischievous smile. "Still can't sometimes. You can be incredibly irritating when you want to be."

"Part of my charm," he counters, not looking remotely offended by her assessment.

"Is that what they call it?" Y/N teases, enjoying this new dynamic between them, the same verbal sparring they've always engaged in, but without the genuine anger that used to fuel it, replaced instead by something that feels dangerously close to affection.

Harry's response is to roll them suddenly, reversing their positions so she's pinned beneath him, his weight a pleasant pressure as he looks down at her with mock severity. "Careful, love," he warns, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I might have to remind you of all the other aspects of my charm you seemed to appreciate last night."

His words send a flare of heat through Y/N, her body responding immediately to the memory and the promise in his voice. She shifts beneath him, deliberately pressing against the hardness she can feel growing against her thigh.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" she asks innocently, wrapping her arms around his neck to draw him closer. "Because it sounds more like a promise."

Harry's eyes darken at her boldness, desire replacing amusement in his expression. "Definitely a promise," he murmurs, lowering his head to capture her mouth in a kiss that's considerably less gentle than the one they shared moments ago.

Y/N responds eagerly, her hands sliding down his back to urge him closer, all thoughts of morning breath or the day ahead temporarily forgotten

“One more go before facing your mother?” She murmured against his lips

Harry groans against her mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against hers. His hand slides up her side to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that makes her arch into his touch.

"God, yes," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at her, his green eyes dark with renewed desire despite their activities just hours ago. "Need something good to get me through breakfast with the old bat."

Y/N laughs, the sound quickly transforming into a gasp as Harry's mouth replaces his hand, tongue swirling around her nipple before he sucks it between his lips. Her hands tangle in his hair, holding him to her as pleasure radiates outward from his attentions.

"She'll know," Y/N manages to say, her voice breathy as Harry switches to her other breast, giving it the same thorough attention. "She always seems to know everything."

Harry lifts his head, a wicked smile curving his lips as he shifts lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. "Good," he says, his breath hot against her skin. "Let her know. Let her see exactly how wrong she was about us."

The thought sends a complicated thrill through Y/N, part apprehension at facing Anne's inevitable disapproval, part satisfaction at the idea of proving her wrong. But all coherent thought scatters as Harry settles between her thighs, his intentions clear in the heated look he gives her before lowering his head.

The first touch of his tongue against her core has Y/N gasping, her hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure shoots through her with startling intensity. Harry groans against her, the vibration adding another layer of sensation as he explores her with obvious enthusiasm, his hands gripping her thighs to keep them spread wide for his attentions.

"Harry," she moans, forgetting to keep her voice down as he sucks her clit between his lips, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her see stars. "Oh god, "

He lifts his head briefly, his lips glistening with evidence of her arousal, his expression a blend of desire and that cocky self-assurance she once found so irritating but now sends heat pooling low in her belly.

"Quiet, remember?" he reminds her, his voice rough with his own desire. "Unless you want to give my mother a preview of what she'll be interrupting when she inevitably barges in here later."

The reminder sends another flush of heat through Y/N, partly embarrassment but mostly a strange thrill at the forbidden nature of what they're doing, finding pleasure in each other right under the nose of a woman who would be horrified if she knew.

Harry returns to his task with renewed determination, his tongue circling her clit with maddening precision while one hand slides up to cup her breast, pinching her nipple in time with the movements of his mouth. The dual sensation has Y/N biting her lip to hold back the sounds threatening to escape, her hips moving of their own accord to press more firmly against his mouth.

When he slides two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that makes her vision blur while his tongue continues its relentless attention to her clit, she shatters completely, her back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash through her.

Harry works her through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks subside before pressing a final kiss to her inner thigh and moving back up her body. The self-satisfied expression on his face would be irritating if she weren't so thoroughly boneless with pleasure.

"My turn," he murmurs against her lips, positioning himself between her thighs, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her still-sensitive core.

Just as Y/N reaches for him, expecting him to settle between her thighs, Harry surprises her by grasping her hips and flipping her onto her stomach in one fluid motion. The unexpectedness of it draws a startled gasp from her, quickly followed by a shiver of anticipation as his strong hands lift her hips, positioning her on her knees while her upper body remains pressed against the mattress.

"Harry?" she questions, turning her head to look back at him over her shoulder, a mixture of curiosity and desire in her gaze.

The sight that greets her sends heat flooding through her body. Harry kneels behind her, his muscled torso gleaming in the morning light, his hair tousled from sleep and her fingers. His eyes are dark with hunger as they rake over her exposed position, his hand stroking his length with slow, deliberate movements that make her mouth go dry.

"Want to try something different," he explains, his voice a low rumble that she feels as much as hears. "If you're okay with this."

Y/N considers for only a moment before nodding, a new thrill coursing through her at the raw desire in his expression. "Yes," she breathes, arching her back slightly in invitation, feeling bolder than she ever has before.

A satisfied smile curves Harry's lips as he moves closer, one hand gripping her hip while the other guides himself to her entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against her, teasing through her slick folds but not yet pushing inside.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he murmurs, his free hand sliding up her spine before tangling in her hair, not pulling but establishing a gentle hold that sends another shiver of anticipation through her. "Spread out for me, waiting for my cock."

The crude words in his cultured accent make Y/N whimper, pressing back against him in wordless encouragement. Harry responds by finally pushing forward, entering her with one slow, deliberate thrust that has them both groaning at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, his grip on her hip tightening as he seats himself fully inside her. "You feel even tighter like this."

Y/N can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the fullness, the new angle allowing him to reach depths that have her gasping into the pillow. Harry holds still for a moment, giving her time to adjust before he begins to move, establishing a rhythm that has the headboard tapping lightly against the wall with each thrust.

The sound seems to amuse him, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he leans forward, his chest pressing against her back as he murmurs in her ear, "Think my mother will hear that? Wonder what we're doing in here?"

The thought should be mortifying, but in the haze of pleasure enveloping Y/N, it only adds to the illicit thrill of their coupling. She turns her head, seeking his mouth in a kiss that's all heat and desperation, swallowing the groan that escapes him when she deliberately tightens around him.

"Minx," he accuses when they break apart, nipping at her earlobe in playful retaliation before straightening up again, his hands gripping her hips to hold her steady as he increases his pace.

Each thrust drives Y/N further into the mattress, the new angle hitting spots inside her that have her seeing stars. She buries her face in the pillow to muffle her cries, her hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure builds with each powerful movement of Harry's hips.

One of his hands slides from her hip around to her front, fingers finding her clit with unerring accuracy. The added stimulation has her trembling on the edge almost immediately, her inner walls clenching around him as she hovers on the precipice of release.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control as he feels her tightening around him. "Come for me, Y/N. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His words combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers against her clit send Y/N tumbling over the edge, her climax crashing through her with an intensity that has her crying out into the pillow, her body shuddering with the force of it.

Harry follows her moments later, his rhythm faltering as he pulls out just in time, his release spilling hot across her lower back as he groans her name, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.

For a long moment, they stay frozen like that, both breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat and other evidence of their passion. Then Harry leans down, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss between her shoulder blades before moving away briefly, returning with tissues to clean them both up with gentle care.

Once they're both clean, he helps her roll onto her back, surprising her by pulling her into his arms rather than putting distance between them as she half-expected. The tenderness in the gesture makes something warm unfurl in Y/N's chest, a feeling she's not quite ready to name but can no longer deny.

"We should probably shower before breakfast," Harry murmurs against her hair, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder. "Separately," he adds with a rueful smile when she tilts her head to look at him. "Otherwise we'll never make it downstairs."

Y/N laughs softly, pressing a kiss to his chest before reluctantly extracting herself from his embrace. "Your mother would definitely come looking for us then," she points out, reaching for her robe that had been discarded on a nearby chair the night before.

Harry's expression shifts at the mention of Anne, a mixture of resignation and determination crossing his features. "Let her," he says, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. "She's had her way long enough. Time she learned I make my own decisions now."

The conviction in his voice sends a flutter of hope through Y/N, even as apprehension coils in her stomach at the thought of facing Anne at breakfast after everything that's changed between them. Not just the physical intimacy, but the emotional shift that feels both terrifying and exhilarating in its newness.

"She won't make it easy," Y/N warns, tying her robe securely around her waist as she moves toward the bathroom. "She never does."

Harry's expression hardens slightly, but when he looks at Y/N, his eyes soften in a way that makes her breath catch. "Nothing worth having ever comes easy," he says simply. "And you, Y/N...you're definitely worth it."

The sincerity in his voice leaves her momentarily speechless, emotion tightening her throat as she absorbs the magnitude of the shift between them, from reluctant spouses forced together by circumstance to...whatever they're becoming now.

"I'll see you downstairs," she finally manages, offering him a small smile before disappearing into the bathroom, needing a moment alone to process everything that's happened and prepare herself for the confrontation that surely awaits them at breakfast.

As the shower water cascades over her, Y/N allows herself to acknowledge the hope blossoming in her chest. Whatever comes next, Anne's disapproval, the complications of transforming their arrangement into something genuine, the inevitable scrutiny of the public when they realize the change in Harry and Y/N's relationship, they'll face it together.

For the first time since this arrangement began, that thought brings comfort rather than dread. The path ahead won't be easy, but as Harry said, nothing worth having ever is. And what's growing between them, unexpected and fragile as it may be, is definitely worth fighting for.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: you guys…just one more part left :’).

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