#however they need to make that happen I'm down

[reverieblondie]

Bad Dream

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: Nightmares, Mysterious passes, Breaking and entering, Panic attack, Breaking washers, Bucky touches your underwear (whoops...)

Summary: You and Bucky are not only neighbors but friends for months now. You two are close... but are still finding out new things about each other...

Word Count: 2,613

A/N: This was inspired by an amazing request got from an anon. I loved the idea so much that I can see this being turned into a full series if enough people like it! Just let me know! I look forward to feedback like always! and request are always open!

"So... What am I eating?"  

Bucky says almost suspiciously as he looks at the macaroni noodle on his fork.

"I can not believe you are so picky," you say, rolling your eyes before taking a delightful bite of the casserole dish you made. Once swallowed, you point your fork accusingly toward Bucky. "It's called tuna mac. It's cheap to make but delicious. Now you can either eat it, or I will stop being such a friendly neighbor and stop sharing my dinners with you."

Bucky chuckles before giving you his signature smirk, "If that's the case, don't come knocking on my door when something of yours breaks again." 

You huff, he doesn't play fair. 

He watches as you pout and sigh before he takes the macaroni and tuna mix into his mouth. When he eats it, his eyes bulge slightly. "That's actually really good?"

"See, you just need to trust me, neighbor. It's something my mom used to make. Boil noodles, mix up the sauce, and top with cheese. It tastes better than it sounds." 

Bucky smiles as you ramble on. When you look over at him, he looks back to his plate, mixing it around as he makes a face before eating more. "That's true. This is way better than that chicken we had last Thursday."  

"Hey! We agreed to forget that monstrosity!"

Of course, Bucky laughs at your dramatics, and you can't help but echo it back. Thursday night dinners have become your favorite tradition since moving in; no matter how shitty your week could have been, this always lifts up your spirits, even just a little bit. Most people in your building seem to avoid Bucky; they won't join him in the elevator or even greet him in the mailboxes. They judge his past... but who are you to judge? Though getting to know him didn't happen instantly, it happened because of an accident you might have caused…

You have been fighting with these washers and dryers since you moved in. And now here you are fighting again with the washer. The stupid thing won't spin, and it's starting to flood with water. You paused the cycle and knew that you should just ask the maintenance guy for help, but that has the risk of being blamed for it being broken.

Distracted, you don't notice someone walking in to use the other machines. Honestly, it's surprising someone else is up this late just to do their laundry. So much for not running into anyone while you're dressed in your lazy day pajamas—no bra just to add to the pending embarrassment… Trying your best to keep your head down and fix the machine as silently as possible, you didn't realize that your rattling around has definitely drawn attention. 

Until a shadow is cast over you. Turning slightly, you look up at the imposing figure and see your next-door neighbor. James Barnes... Ex Winter soldier and a current Avenger... 

His head tilts as he stares down at you, "Problem?" 

This is the first time you have really seen him up close… he's much taller than you thought, and his eyes are the clearest shade of blue… While you're silently coking, Bucky shifts on his feet, his scowl deepening as he continues to stare. Mentally, you chastise yourself for being rude and pull your hand from the filled drum to offer him a handshake, stumbling out your name in the process. This was a mistake, however, because you ended up splashing the super soldier with washer water… -Shit… 

"I'm sorry, and yeah, I'm just trying to get this washer to work… they never want to act right… old machines acting wonky, what's new?" You huff a laugh, but Bucky keeps looking at you unamused… ah yes… he's an old machine, you idiot… 

You quickly take another step closer in panic mode, "Oh! But not all old machines! My grandma had a vacuum for like 20 years, and it never crapped out on her!" -what are you even saying? 

Buck just further scoles you, keeping his eyes locked on yours. Honestly, it's a bit intimidating—his intense stare locked onto you. Then there's the fact that his glare doesn't roam—it's just set on your eyes. Plus, you're just rambling on, and he's just watching you like you have lost your mind! You can't afford to move again… 

"Why don't you just call for maintenance?" he says in a confused tone, his brows knitting together.  

You give him a gentle smile, "I don't want to be blamed for breaking it…" 

He doesn't seem too impressed with your excuse as he rolls his eyes, but to your surprise, instead of walking away, leaving you to struggle, he places his laundry down and begins to investigate the machine. 

You step closer to him, "So you're going to help me?" you chirp.

"I'm going to try, but if it breaks further, that's on you…" -Okay can't really blame him for that..

"Fair enough, neighbor." he only seems to hum at that before continuing his investigation. 

He does his diligence checking everything out; while he does that, you're doing your own checking out. It's not like you're trying to be a perv.... but curiosity always gets the cat in the end, so you allow yourself to check him out a little. His back faces you, and it's incredible how sturdy it appears; you can even see how the muscles ripple with every move despite it being hidden underneath his t-shirt. Then his narrow waist that draws your attention down the length of him, and his arms bulging with every move as it roots around on the inside of the drum. The dark metal arm is so eye-catching you can't help but stare even though you know you shouldn't... If you were caught, you would be modified by how rude it would be. But you can't help yourself from admiring how pretty it truly is… and the craftsmanship is impeccable… 

"I think something is just caught if I can unwrap it…" With another pull and a slight groan, he rips out what was caught. Surprisingly, it's Small... red and- 

Bucky holds up the dripping wet material, and now that he has it unscrambled, you are mortified... Of course, out of everything to get tangled up and caught, it had to be your thong. Turning it about, Bucky looks at the material confused, unsure, until he meets your mortified eyes and flushed face. It must suddenly click for the man that he's holding a stranger's underwear because, with the inhuman speed, he's met with realization and he's practically throwing your underwear at you like it would bite him. 

The flush of his neck and the way he suddenly does not meet your eyes tells you he's thoroughly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, ma'am…" Ma'am? Wow, now he's talking to you properly; he really is embarrassed...

It's quiet for a moment as Bucky awkwardly shifts on his feet. Then you can't help yourself any longer, and you laugh. You laugh so hard you all but fall over yourself, and to your shock, Bucky breaks from his mortification and joins in on your laughter.

The moment lasted for a while until you were both on the verge of tears. As you wipe away your tears, you catch him smiling, and it's like looking at a completely different guy. If people saw this, they wouldn't be avoiding him, that's for sure. 

With the washer fixed, you could finish your laundry cycle as Bucky moved to start his. As you're turning to thank your helpful neighbor, he is gone? Scanning the room, you see him leaving, shit! 

"James!" You shout without thinking. He pauses before turning back with a small smirk. 

"Don't tell me you broke something else." 

He's… teasing you? A grin spreads to your face, "I wanted to thank you for helping me out." 

He shrugged, "It's no problem. But call me Bucky; when you say James, it makes me feel old." With that, he walked off. 

Days later, you were still troubled by the feeling you didn't get to properly thank your neighbor for saving your panties from doom. So you did the only thing you could think of. Making him food. Make sure debts and gratitude are always paid... it's something you picked up from both your parents, but where your dad made sure to do it with favors and money, your mom would always pay by making desserts and meals. So, in your situation, you decided on a platter of brownies.

The look on his face when you knocked on his door was priceless. Of course, he accepted, and thus, the cycle between you two started. You would have a favor, Bucky would help, and then you would make him a meal or dessert. Over time, Bucky's grumpiness was replaced with friendliness, and your friendship got stronger. Even though you had fewer favors, you two continued the tradition of eating a home-cooked meal together once a week until suddenly, it was odd if you were not seeing him.

Like now...

It's been three weeks since you last saw him. It's honestly so lonely in the building without him around. Sure, he's not talkative all the time, and there are still things you know you two have not shared, but it's undeniable this closeness you feel to him.

You just hope you get to see him soon, or you will be forced to break something and force him to come back…

It's another quiet night. It should be a night that you rest easy, drifting far off into dreamland. But you just can't seem to fall asleep. Perhaps it's the fault of a certain super soldier's absence. As you lay pondering whether you should just force yourself to rest or get up and do something until you're tired…

Then, loud bangs from the neighboring wall interrupted the stillness. On instinct, you freeze and try to listen to where the crashing is coming from. 

Bucky's place... but that's odd; he's not home. Or did you just miss him? Another crash makes you second guess that it could be a break in… 

But who would be dumb enough to break into a super soldier's apartment?

Apparently, you are...

It is technically breaking and entering, but is it bad if you do it for a good reason? What if someone is wreaking his place? What if he's in danger? What will you do if you actually run into someone? You will deal with that once you encounter it…

You ignore that for now as you concentrate on picking the lock... You hated it then, but you're now thankful for the skill at times like this. It clicks with a few more twists, and you're now sneaking through the threshold.

It's the same place you have been in multiple times, but tonight, you see the crumble of blankets on the living room floor, the flipped furniture, the mess of wreckage. Then you see the more heart-aching sight in the room's darkness. 

Bucky usually stands tall and has that sly smirk for you with some greeting. Now, he is crouched so small, disheveled, and trembling. Those ocean-blue eyes clenched tightly...

A step towards him immediately has him on the defense, ready to pounce.

But he pauses at the sight of you, confused, rightly so. But you're more distracted by how the outside lights reflect on the streams down his cheeks.

You're about to say something, but his hoarse voice cuts you off before you can, "Get out!".

You should really listen, but as he sinks back to the floor, your feet feel like lead. With a swallow and a steadying breath, you step closer. He should understand by now that you're not one for listening. 

Closer now, you can take in his sweat-drenched body and matted hair and how he tries to stop shaking... Thousands of questions flock to you; you just swallow them down. Slowly, you sit close enough to be noticed but not enough to touch him…

Settled beside him, you hold your hand towards him on the floor, making a silent offer. "I'll stay for as long as it takes..." 

It could take minutes or hours. There is also the chance of him lashing out, but you will just be silent and patient and let him feel your presence and hear your calm breaths.

You're there for a couple of minutes until a clammy warmth touches your hand. Looking down, you can tell the shaking has stopped a little. You spread your fingers and let him lace them with his own. 

"I... don't know what to say..." he mumbles, but you shake your head before meeting his eyes.

"You don't have to explain... We all have scars... Bad dreams. "

"Every night I have bad dreams... Sometimes, I just randomly shake awake."

"Other times, you just lay there waiting for the sun to rise."

The look he gives you tells you he's shared the experience. You shrug and look out the window, "Like I said... bad dreams."

As you two sit there, his shaking slowly stills, but your hand's grip only tightens. 

"I'm sorry..." It was such a silent whisper that you almost didn't hear it. Bucky, tired, and a wreck, brought back memories you thought were packed away. 

"Don't be sorry. Let's just work on getting you cleaned up. Are you good enough to rinse off?"

Bucky nods before standing up... He walks towards his bathroom but pauses just short... He has his own set of questions he wants to ask... One of them is clear to you... are you going to stay... 

"I'll clean for a bit and will brew some tea for, when you get out. Okay?" 

He gives a short nod before disappearing. You start placing what you can remember being placed before. It takes you a minute to get everything back in its place. Sure, this place was a mess, but you have had to fix the fallout of worse. Once done, you move on to the kitchen to brew the tea. As the water heats, you just listen to the muffled sound of the shower. Does this happen often? And if so, how have you never noticed before?

Bucky takes longer to wash off than you expected, but ultimately, it's a good thing he took the time for himself. When he finally comes out of the bathroom, he's only in pajama bottoms, a towel resting on his shoulder, and fixing his metal arm back into place. His hair is still dripping wet when he finally plops down on the couch. For a long moment, he's still thinking of what to say, but you just slide the peppermint tea over to him.

Bucky gives a small thank you before he lifts the cup, letting the smell waft to his nose and the cup warm his hand. When he finally takes a sip, you feel like you can breathe again. While he works on his tea, you notice the drops falling from his hair and landing on his skin, causing him to shiver. He didn't even bother to dry his hair, huh? Carefully, you take the towel from his shoulder and softly start to dry his wet hair away. Bucky looks at you curiously as you focus on the task before you. 

"Why are you so good at this?" 

"Like I said, everyone gets bad dreams. Some worse than others." 

He hums before slightly chuckling, "Is that also why you know how to break into apartments?"

The playful tone in his voice makes your heart squeeze, and you can't help but grin, "You're not the only one with secrets, soldier boy." 

[avionvadion]

Saw that one post about Malleus being punished last night. I'm somewhere in the middle.

On one hand, the game never dished out harsh punishments to the other characters. That includes a literal human child trafficker. Yes, I wish the game was more realistic and held the characters more accountable for their actions in the same fashion as what happened in Six of Crows. Hell, that's one of the goals of my own fic rewrite. But since the game never did that before, suddenly severely punishing Malleus would be ill fitting and cruel, especially since he had good intentions unlike the others.

Having said that, I wish that he took more steps to amends for the people he affected besides the NRC boys. The people of Sage's Island seemed too unrealistically forgiving over what Malleus did. He imposed his will and magic on people who did not ask for it because his emotions got out of control. If I were one of them, I would be very pissed off at him, because his magic being tied to his emotions doesn't excuse that. Same goes for all the trouble he caused for STYKS and RSA. I don't think that Malleus should be sent to the Shadow Realm or something, especially since no one else received a harsh punishment like that, but him issuing an apology to those people and inviting them all to the party at the end would've been nice.

As a side unrelated side note, from what I heard I like how you are handling the Fellow Honest shit better than the game. I always found it stupid and even OOC that the characters are completely cool with him at the end. Kalim I understand. But the others? Really!? They are based on villains, shouldn't they be trying to beat his ass for trying to subject them to a fate worse than death? Whereas in yours, he is the lacky of someone who is the head of the operation (yes, that's true in the canon as well, but that never popped up until the end, so it doesn't count) and does try to set things right after Gidel is affected. Kalim gets him out of serving a huge sentence by making him do community service instead. That is a lot more realistic.

Malleus DID apologize. That’s the big thing. He’s one of the only THREE PEOPLE who apologized for the trouble that’s been caused. Him, Riddle, and Vil. Malleus publicly apologized. Plus I wouldn’t say they were unrealistically forgiving. A lot of them were hypocrites and were against Malleus returning to NRC, and Crowley was like, “Oh? Need I remind you of the trouble YOU ALL caused?” In order to get them to shut up.

As for the rest of the island- they explains it as Malleus being a natural disaster. You can’t stop it. You can only take preventative measures. Like getting rid of the Senate. The reason other students aren’t mad? They weren’t involved in the fighting, so they were still dreaming blissful dreams. They found it fun. Were they shocked when they woke up and had to evacuate? Yeah but again- they weren’t involved in the fighting. It’s hardly the first time shit’s gone down at the school either. They’re essentially used to chaos at this point. As long as they aren’t involved in the chaos they don’t really care.

And the fault of Malleus Overblotting is not his own.

It is never that person’s fault for Overblotting. Overblotting is the result of extreme negative emotions/trauma over maaaaaany years. For one to reach such a state, it is because of the failings of those around them. (In this case, the Senate and Maleficia.) When a child is hurt, they should be allowed to cry and wail until they feel better. Most of the Overblotted weren’t able. Malleus literally couldn’t. His magic being tied to his emotions (after the Senate cursed him) means he would have likely KILLED anyone who heard him wailing as a child- so he shut it all down instead, so as to AVOID hurting anyone.

(Added note: I am saying the Overblotting is not their fault. Any cruel actions leading UP to said moment that causes them to finally Overblot, however, is entirely on them, as they are still of sound mind until they hit that breaking point.)

This man was 178 years into a panic attack he never realized he was having because he was never allowed to express and regulate his emotions in fear of hurting and potentially killing those around him, and in that fear of hurting others, in repressing himself and his emotions to the point he no longer knew how to properly express himself, because he is inherently kind and so very gentle- something that only makes his curse all that much more worse, that when he finally gained his unique magic- it was extremely powerful, but very explicitly non-lethal, made with the intent of giving happy dreams, superficial though those dreams may be. Even when transformed as a massive dragon in his Berserker Overblot state, there were so few injuries because Malleus never wished to hurt anyone.

Malleus has faced more consequences than any other Overblotter, but also holds no grudges over it. And, considering everyone watched Lilia DIE- and Malleus having an absolute breakdown over it- would kill most of one’s initial anger, me thinks, unless one lacks a heart.

The staff and workers and all the other adults took the professional route of handling Malleus, discussing things through and coming to a group conclusion.

Malleus has already done more in lieu of apologizing than any others. Why, I don’t recall Leona ever apologizing to all the students whose BONES GOT BROKE from his scheme, or Azul apologizing to all the students he took advantage of, or etc.

And… I think he DID invite everyone to the party?? We just don’t see all of them because that’s WAAAAAAAY too many chibi sprites to animate in a single twst tune.

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 21K

Masterlist

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Y/N moved with deliberate grace across the living room, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. The silk pajamas caught the low light as she settled onto the sofa across from him, tucking one leg beneath her.

Harry noted the careful distance she maintained, positioning hrself at the far end of the sofa rather than the center.

Everything about her posture, spine straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in her lap, spoke of boundaries being established.

"I think we should set some ground rules," she said, her voice steady and measured. Professional. As though they were discussing a business contract rather than the boundaries of a fake marriage.

Harry took another sip of his whisky, using the gesture to mask his appraisal of her. The shower had washed away her makeup, revealing a faint scatter of freckles across her nose that he hadn't noticed in years. Her hair, still damp, was several shades darker than its usual color, framing her face in loose waves that would dry into the soft curls he remembered from their youth.

He set his glass down on the side table with deliberate care. "I thought we already had rules."

"Clearly they weren't specific enough," Y/N replied, a hint of sharpness breaking through her composed facade. "Otherwise tonight wouldn't have happened."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately relaxed in contrast to her tension. "Alright. What did you have in mind?"

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly, as though she'd been expecting more resistance. "First, no physical contact beyond what we've already established without prior discussion and agreement. That means hand holding, arms around waists or shoulders, and brief, closed mouth kisses on cheeks or foreheads are acceptable. Anything beyond that requires explicit consent beforehand."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's going to be difficult to maintain if we're trying to appear convincingly married. Spontaneity is part of authenticity."

"Spontaneity doesn't mean surprise make-out sessions," Y/N countered. "It means natural-looking interactions within agreed-upon boundaries."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her expression intensifying. "I'm not asking for the impossible. I'm asking for basic respect. If you think we need to change our approach to physical interactions in public, we discuss it first. Not in the car on the way to an event, not five seconds before it happens. Properly discuss it, when we're both clear-headed and have time to set parameters."

Harry considered her words, turning his glass slowly between his fingers. "And if something unexpected happens? If the situation calls for a response we haven't specifically outlined?"

"Then you follow the spirit of our agreement rather than looking for loopholes," she replied without hesitation. "You're not stupid, Harry. You know the difference between an arm around my shoulders during a photo and what you did tonight."

The accusation hung between them, sharp-edged and undeniable. Harry fought the instinct to defend himself, to justify actions they both knew had crossed a line.

"Fine," he conceded after a moment. "No physical escalation without prior agreement. What else?"

Y/N seemed momentarily surprised by his easy surrender, her prepared arguments faltering. She recovered quickly, however, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

"Second, we need better communication about our schedules and public appearances. I shouldn't be blindsided by auction bids or impromptu interviews. Your team sends you daily briefings and I think I should be included in those emails."

This request was entirely reasonable, which somehow made it more irritating. Harry had deliberately kept her out of certain loops, maintaining whatever small advantages he could in their power dynamic.

"That can be arranged," he agreed, his tone carefully neutral. "Though some matters are confidential like new music, potential collaborations, that sort of thing."

"I'm not asking for creative access," Y/N clarified. "Just information about events, interviews, and public appearances that might affect me or require my participation."

She paused, then added with pointed emphasis, "And advance notice of any narrative changes you or your team are planning to push."

Harry understood the subtext immediately. The auction's implication of family planning had been a calculated move by his publicity team, designed to generate positive speculation and soften his image further. She'd been ambushed with it, expected to play along without preparation.

"My team can be... overzealous," he acknowledged, offering the closest thing to an apology he could manage. "I'll make it clear that any narrative developments need to be run by both of us."

Y/N nodded, some of the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Thank you."

The simple expression of gratitude felt strange between them, a momentary deviation from their usual pattern of barbed exchanges and cold silences.

"Is that all?" Harry asked, reaching for his whisky again.

She uncurled from her position on the sofa, rising to her feet with fluid grace. "I think that covers the essentials. We can revisit if other issues arise."

Harry nodded, watching as she prepared to leave the room. Something compelled him to speak again before she disappeared.

"Y/N."

She paused, turning back with a questioning look.

For a moment, he considered apologizing properly for the kiss, for the auction, for all of it. The words rose in his throat, then faltered and died before reaching his lips.

"Goodnight," he said instead, raising his glass in a small, sardonic toast.

Y/N studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Goodnight, Harry."

She turned and left, her silk-clad form disappearing into the shadowed hallway, leaving Harry alone with his whisky, his memories, and the uncomfortable realization that their little war had become as much a habit as a genuine expression of antipathy.

He drained his glass, the peaty warmth of the scotch doing nothing to ease the hollow feeling that had settled in his chest. Setting the empty tumbler aside, Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering when exactly maintaining his hatred for Y/N had become more effort than simply letting it go.

Perhaps he could just…let it go. Not friendship—never that—but something less actively hostile. Perhaps a  neutral space where they could both catch their breath before returning to their performances.

The thought was still circling his mind as he finally rose and headed upstairs toward their shared bedroom. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom, momentarily arrested by the sight of Y/N seated at the ornate vanity across from their king-sized bed.

She was brushing her hair with methodical strokes, the damp strands catching the warm light from the bedside lamps. In the mirror's reflection, he could see her expression—distant and thoughtful, with none of the guarded tension she typically wore in his presence.

She noticed him in the mirror and their eyes met briefly before she returned her attention to her hair, the brush moving in long, smooth strokes from crown to ends. The domesticity of the scene struck him with unexpected force. This quiet, intimate moment at the end of a day that had been anything but quiet or intimate.

Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the charged silence between them.

He moved to his side of the room, unbuttoning his shirt with mechanical efficiency. Each movement was precise, controlled, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling beneath his composed exterior. He slipped the white dress shirt from his shoulders, revealing the tapestry of tattoos across his chest and arms, before hanging it carefully in the section of the walk-in closet designated as his.

The silence between them felt loaded with unspoken tensions and not just from tonight's events, but from years of accumulated grievances and misunderstandings.

"Grumpus," Y/N's voice cut through the quiet, the seemingly random word landing between them. "Is there a reason that's what you're naming this cat we're supposedly getting?"

Harry turned to find her watching him through the mirror, her brush suspended mid-stroke. He could see her grip on the handle tightening, her knuckles whitening slightly against the silver handle.

The question caught him off-guard. 

Had he chosen the name deliberately? Or had it surfaced from some buried corner of his memory without conscious intention?

Harry reached for a plain white t-shirt, pulling it over his head before responding. "The shelter's sending one over tomorrow. I’m told it’s grumpy. The name seemed... fitting."

It wasn't quite an answer, and they both knew it. He watched her reflection as she processed his words, trying to discern whether he was acknowledging their shared history or simply offering a convenient explanation.

"Fitting," she repeated, the single word carrying a weight of skepticism. "And you just happened to mention this cat during your interview today without bothering to tell me first."

Harry shrugged, moving to unbutton his trousers. "It was a spontaneous response. The interviewer asked about pets, and I thought it might add a nice domestic touch to our narrative. My assistant arranged it this afternoon."

Y/N resumed brushing her hair, though her movements were now sharper, less fluid. "So we're getting a cat. A grumpy cat named Grumpus. Because you thought it would make a good story."

The accusation in her tone was unmistakable. Once again, he'd made a unilateral decision that affected them both, barely hours after agreeing not to do exactly that.

"We don't have to keep the name," he offered, stepping out of his trousers and folding them neatly. "It was just the first thing that came to mind."

Y/N set the brush down with deliberate care, turning on the vanity stool to face him directly rather than continue the conversation through their reflections.

"That's not the point, Harry. The point is that once again, you've made a decision that affects our daily lives without even mentioning it to me. Now we'll have a living creature to care for, one that needs food, attention, veterinary appointments, and you didn't think that was worth discussing first?"

Harry paused, one hand on the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. There was a strange vulnerability in standing before her in his underwear while having this particular conversation. A physical exposure that mirrored the emotional exposure of acknowledging he'd been thoughtless.

"I didn't think—" he began.

"Clearly," she cut him off, though without the sharp edge her interruptions usually carried. "Harry, a pet is a long-term commitment. What happens to this cat when our arrangement ends? Have you thought about that?"

The question hung between them, unexpectedly weighty. Their arrangement had an expiration date. A fact they both acknowledged but rarely discussed directly. In eight months, their contractual marriage would conclude, and they would go their separate ways, their paths likely never to cross again.

Harry hadn't considered the cat beyond its immediate PR value. The thought of what would happen to it after their separation hadn't occurred to him.

"I'll keep it," he said finally, the solution seeming obvious now that he thought about it. "After we... after the year is up. It can stay with me."

Y/N studied him, skepticism evident in her expression. "You travel constantly. You're on tour half the year. When exactly will you have time to care for a pet?"

"I have staff," Harry replied, defensive now. "People who can look after it when I'm away."

"So you're getting a cat that you'll barely see, to be cared for by employees," Y/N summarized, shaking her head slightly. "That poor animal."

Her genuine concern for a cat they hadn't even met yet caught Harry by surprise. It shouldn't have. Y/N had always had a soft spot for strays, even as a child. He remembered her coaxing a half-feral kitten from under a garden shed one summer, spending days earning its trust with patience and bits of canned tuna.

The memory surfaced unbidden, another unwelcome intrusion from a past he'd worked hard to forget.

"If you're so concerned, you can take it when we're done," he offered, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression closed off immediately, her momentary openness vanishing behind the familiar mask of cool detachment. "That's not the point either. The point is that you made this decision unilaterally, without considering the long-term implications."

She turned away from him, moving toward the bed. "But what's done is done. We'll figure out the logistics later."

"You're right."

Y/N froze, then slowly turned back to face him, genuine confusion evident in her expression.

"I should have discussed it first," Harry continued, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the unfamiliar territory of admitting fault. "It was impulsive, and I didn't think through the consequences."

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised by his easy agreement. "Yes. You should have."

A beat of silence passed between them, neither quite sure how to proceed in the face of his unexpected acquiescence.

"For what it's worth," he added, moving toward the en-suite bathroom, "I did think you might like having a cat around. You always seemed fond of them."

The statement hovered in the air between them. A small acknowledgment of their shared past, an admission that he remembered details about her preferences. It was dangerously close to kindness, and they both seemed equally unsettled by the implication.

Y/N's expression softened slightly, a complex emotion flickering across her features. "I do like cats. But that's not—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, sparing them both the repetition of her point. "It should have been a conversation. It will be, next time."

He disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for her response, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Leaning against the marble counter, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror, confronting the uncomfortable truth that had been needling at him all evening.

The name hadn't been a coincidence. Some part of him had remembered Grumpus, had remembered the fierce way Y/N had defended her beloved pet, the way her eyes had flashed with indignation at his casual cruelty. Some part of him had wanted to see if she remembered too. If their shared history still registered for her the way it occasionally, inconveniently did for him.

And now he had his answer. She remembered.

Harry turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face as if it might wash away the complications of the past that kept seeping into their present. When he reemerged from the bathroom several minutes later, teeth brushed and face washed, Y/N had already settled on her side of the bed, her back to his empty half, a clear physical boundary established despite their shared mattress.

He slipped under the covers on his side, maintaining the careful distance that had become their nightly ritual. The king-sized bed allowed them to sleep without risk of accidental contact, a neutral zone of several feet separating their bodies even in unconsciousness.

As he reached to turn off his bedside lamp, Harry found himself speaking into the dimness, his voice low and unexpectedly sincere.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about the kiss tonight. You were right, it crossed a line."

In the soft glow of her reading lamp, he saw Y/N's shoulders tense slightly, though she didn't turn to face him.

"Thank you for acknowledging that," she replied after a moment, her voice carefully neutral.

Another silence stretched between them, this one less hostile than those that usually punctuated their interactions.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said finally, reaching to switch off her own lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

"Goodnight," he echoed, settling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see.

In the darkness, with Y/N's measured breathing the only sound breaking the silence, Harry found himself wondering how many more nights they would spend like this. Physically close yet emotionally distant, separated by years of hurt and misunderstanding that neither was willing to address.

Eight more months of their arrangement stretched ahead of them. The prospect felt simultaneously endless and strangely insufficient, as though a single year could never be enough time to untangle the knots they'd tied in each other's lives.

Harry closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and silence the uncomfortable thoughts circling his mind. Across the expanse of sheets that separated them, Y/N shifted slightly, a small reminder of her presence that followed him down into uneasy dreams.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Twelve years earlier

In sleep, Harry's mind drifted backward through time, peeling away the layers of adulthood, fame, and cultivated disdain until he found himself standing once more at the edge of the woods that separated his family's summer estate from the small town where Y/N had grown up.

The dream-memory came with startling clarity. the humid summer air heavy against his skin, the mixed scent of pine and wildflowers, the particular quality of afternoon light filtering through the leaves overhead.

He was thirteen again, gangly and uncertain in his still-growing body, wearing expensive shorts and a polo shirt that his mother had insisted upon despite the impracticality for woodland exploration. The clothes were a constant reminder of the world he belonged to, the expectations he carried, even here in this secret place where he came to escape them.

In the dream, he waited at their usual meeting spot, a fallen oak that created a natural bridge across the small creek that marked the unofficial boundary between their worlds. 

He was early. 

He was always early, though he'd never have admitted how eagerly he anticipated these meetings, how they formed the bright center of his otherwise regimented summer days.

When Y/N appeared through the trees on the opposite bank, his dream-self felt that familiar leap of excitement, followed immediately by the practiced suppression of it. Even at thirteen, he'd been learning to hide his genuine reactions, to maintain the careful distance his mother had taught him was necessary with people "like them."

The Y/N of his memory-dream crossed the log bridge with practiced ease, her movements confident in a way his never quite managed to be in these woods that were more her territory than his. She wore denim shorts with frayed edges and a faded t-shirt, her long hair caught up in a messy ponytail, her skin sun-kissed in a way his mother would have considered common.

She was beautiful in the unself-conscious way of the young with all bright eyes and quick smiles, unaware yet of how the world would try to dim both.

"You're late," his thirteen-year-old self said, the words coming out more accusatory than he'd intended.

"By like two minutes," dream-Y/N replied with an easy grin, dropping her backpack onto the soft ground. "And only because Grumpus followed me halfway here. I had to keep stopping to make sure he went home."

"That ugly cat is still alive? Figured it would've wandered into traffic by now."

The words had been calculated to provoke, and they'd succeeded. Y/N's expression shifted instantly from warmth to anger.

"Don't call him ugly! He's beautiful, and he's smart, and he's the best cat in the world!"

"He's got one eye and he's fat," Harry had countered, the cruel words spilling from him with practiced ease, an echo of his mother's dismissive tone. "And that orange tabby fur makes him look like someone spilled cheap juice on a dirty carpet."

In the dream, as in the memory, Y/N's eyes flashed with a fury that transformed her, no longer just the carefree girl from town, but something fiercer, a defender of all things loved and vulnerable.

"Take that back," she'd demanded, stepping closer, her hands curling into small fists at her sides.

"Why should I? It's true. That cat is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

The lie had tasted sour even as he'd spoken it. In truth, he'd found Grumpus rather charming in his battered, one-eyed dignity. But something in him had needed to push, to test, to see if Y/N would accept his cruelty the way so many others did, intimidated by his family name and wealth.

She hadn't.

"You're just like your mother," she'd spat, the words landing like a physical blow. "Pretty on the outside, mean on the inside. And for your information, Grumpus lost his eye defending me from a dog that was three times his size. He's brave and loyal, which is more than I can say for you, Harry Styles."

In the dream, as in the memory, his name in her mouth had felt like an indictment and a reminder of all he represented. All he was expected to be.

"At least I'm not poor," he'd retorted, falling back on the most obvious difference between them, the one his mother emphasized most often. "At least my dad can afford a proper house instead of that tiny shop your family lives above."

The moment the words left his mouth, he'd wanted to recall them. Y/N had gone very still, her expression shifting from anger to something worse—disappointment, as though she'd finally seen him clearly

"My dad works hard," she'd said quietly, her voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "Every day, with his hands, making things people need. What does your dad do, Harry? Besides count money other people earned for him?"

The question had pierced straight through his practiced arrogance, touching on insecurities he hadn't known how to articulate at thirteen. What did his father do, really? What value did the Styles family add to the world beyond accumulating wealth and influence?

Unable to answer, he'd lashed out again.

"At least my father isn't one bad season away from bankruptcy," he'd sneered, parroting phrases he'd overheard from his parents' discussions about the "quaint local businesses" they occasionally deigned to patronize.

Y/N had looked at him then with such raw hurt that even in sleep, decades later, Harry felt the shame of it burning through him. She'd picked up her backpack with deliberate calm, slung it over one shoulder, and turned to leave.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," she'd declared, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Not tomorrow, not ever. Find someone else to spend your summer with, Harry Styles."

"Fine!" he'd shouted at her retreating back. "I don't need you anyway! There are plenty of other kids around here who'd love to hang out with me!"

She hadn't turned around, hadn't acknowledged his words at all, just continued walking away until she disappeared among the trees, leaving him alone with the hollow victory of having the last word.

He'd meant it, in that moment. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't seek her out again, wouldn't return to their meeting spot, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him waiting for her.

Yet the very next day, he'd found himself at the fallen log, arriving even earlier than usual, his heart racing every time a bird startled from the underbrush or a branch cracked in the distance. He'd waited for over an hour, telling himself with each passing minute that this would be the last one, that he was only staying to prove he could, that he didn't care if she came or not.

When she'd finally appeared on the opposite bank, her expression guarded but her presence an undeniable olive branch, the relief had been so overwhelming he'd had to disguise it as annoyance.

"Took you long enough," he'd said by way of greeting.

"I wasn't going to come at all," she'd admitted, crossing the log bridge with less confidence than usual. "But then I thought maybe you'd apologize."

He'd scoffed, thirteen and foolish and desperately afraid of revealing how much her friendship meant to him. "Apologize for what? Telling the truth about your weird cat?"

Y/N had studied him for a long moment, something older and wiser than her years in her gaze. Then, remarkably, she'd smiled. A small, knowing thing that suggested she saw through him in ways he wasn't comfortable being seen.

"You're right. Grumpus is kind of funny-looking," she'd conceded, dropping down to sit on the fallen log. "But he's still the best cat in the world, and I won't let anyone say otherwise, not even you."

It had been a peace offering of sorts. An acknowledgment of his perspective without surrendering her own. More generosity than he'd deserved, even then.

"I guess he's not the ugliest," Harry had mumbled, the closest thing to an apology he could manage at thirteen. "Maybe the second ugliest."

Y/N had laughed, the sound breaking the tension between them. "You're impossible," she'd said, but there had been fondness in it, forgiveness he hadn't earned but desperately wanted.

They'd spent the rest of that afternoon exploring the creek, searching for unusual stones and competing to see who could skip rocks the furthest across the wider pools. Neither had mentioned their fight again, but something had shifted between them. A sort of recognition that their friendship could withstand storms, that they would fight and make up and continue finding their way back to each other despite the worlds that sought to separate them.

In the dream, as the memory began to fade, adult Harry found himself trying to hold onto it, to preserve the simple clarity of that reconciliation, the unspoken promise it had contained. They'd been so young then, unburdened by the weight of adult expectations, unaware of how completely their paths would diverge, how thoroughly his mother's influence would eventually poison what had once been pure.

He stirred in his sleep, his adult body shifting restlessly beneath the expensive sheets of the bed he now shared with the woman who had once been that fierce, forgiving girl. The Y/N who slept beside him now carried the same spirit within her, though life had taught her to guard it more carefully, to be less free with her forgiveness, her trust.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · · 

 “What do you mean she’s crying?”

Harry was seated at the head of a long glass conference table in the sleek downtown offices of his record label, half-listening to his manager's breakdown of potential brand partnerships for the upcoming quarter. The room was a study in minimalist luxury. Clean lines, muted grays, and strategically placed greenery designed to convey both success and artistic sensibility.

Around him, the members of his team, his publicist, manager, lawyer, and two label executives, were engaged in the familiar dance of pretending his opinions mattered while subtly steering him toward decisions they'd already made. It was a dynamic he'd grown accustomed to over the years, occasionally asserting his preferences forcefully enough to remind them who ultimately paid their salaries.

When his phone vibrated against the table, Harry glanced down to see his assistant's name flashing on the screen. Normally, she wouldn't interrupt a scheduled meeting unless it was urgent.

"Excuse me," he murmured, rising from his chair with the practiced smoothness of someone accustomed to his movements being observed. "I need to take this."

His manager paused mid-sentence, clearly annoyed but too professional to show it beyond a tightening around his eyes. The others at the table shifted in their seats, using the interruption to check their own phones or refill water glasses.

Harry stepped into an adjacent empty office, closing the door behind him before answering the call.

"Anna, what is it?" he asked, his tone clipped with the irritation of being pulled away from business matters, no matter how tedious they might be.

His assistant's voice came through with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, Mr. Styles, but there's a situation at the house with Mrs. Styles."

Harry tensed, an unexpected jolt of concern catching him off-guard. "What kind of situation?"

"It's about the cat." Anna's voice grew more hesitant. "The shelter delivered it this morning as arranged, but when Mrs. Styles saw it, she... well, she became upset."

Harry frowned, moving further into the empty office. "What do you mean, 'upset'?"

There was a pause on the line, then Anna admitted, "She's crying, sir. Quite a lot, actually."

"What do you mean she's crying?" Harry demanded, the volume of his voice rising enough that he glanced toward the door, concerned about being overheard.

"I don't know exactly," Anna continued, her words coming faster now. "It was the only tabby available on short notice. Orange, one-eyed, missing the right eye, actually, and yes, it's a bit overweight. I didn't think it was that ugly. But when she saw it, she just... started crying. Should I get another one? I can call around to other shelters—"

Harry cut her off, his mind racing to process what he was hearing. "Wait. You're telling me the cat is orange, one-eyed, and overweight?"

"Yes, sir. The shelter said he's about seven years old, very sweet-tempered despite his appearance. I thought that matched what you were looking for. A tabby with some character. Was I mistaken?"

Harry leaned against the edge of the desk, suddenly needing the support. The coincidence was too precise to be accidental. This cat was essentially Grumpus reincarnated, down to the missing eye. No wonder Y/N had broken down. To her, it wouldn't seem like coincidence at all, but rather a deliberate cruelty, a calculated reminder of their past designed to wound her.

"Mr. Styles? Are you still there? Should I return the cat?"

Harry dragged a hand down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "No, don't return it. I'll... I'll handle this. Is Y/N still at the house?"

"Yes, sir. She's in the library with the cat. She actually seems quite attached to it already, despite her emotional reaction. She was crying but also... petting it? Talking to it? It was a bit confusing, to be honest."

Of course she was attached already, Harry thought. For all her carefully constructed defenses around him, Y/N had always had an almost immediate capacity for connection with animals, a genuine warmth and empathy that extended to creatures most people overlooked or dismissed.

"I'm on my way," Harry said, making a decision that would surprise his team in the next room. "Tell her I'll be home in thirty minutes."

"But sir, your meeting—"

"Reschedule it," he instructed, already moving toward the door. "Something's come up at home that requires my immediate attention."

Ending the call, Harry returned to the conference room, where six expectant faces turned toward him.

"I need to cut this short," he announced, gathering his things with efficient movements that discouraged questions. "Family matter. My assistant will be in touch to reschedule."

His manager started to protest, but Harry silenced him with a raised hand. "It's not negotiable, Mark. The partnerships will still be there tomorrow."

Without waiting for further discussion, Harry strode from the room, texting his driver as he made his way to the elevator. The twenty-minute drive from downtown to their Hampstead Heath mansion would give him time to figure out what exactly he was going to say when he arrived home. What explanation he could possibly offer that wouldn't sound like either a cruel joke or an uncharacteristic sentimentality?

The truth was, he hadn't specified any particular appearance for the cat beyond "tabby." The one-eyed, orange, overweight reality was pure coincidence. The kind of cosmic joke that might seem amusing if it weren't causing Y/N genuine distress.

As his car navigated through midday London traffic, Harry stared out the window, remembering the fierce way twelve-year-old Y/N had defended her beloved pet against his casual cruelty. The memory brought with it a familiar discomfort and the recognition of how easily he'd adopted his mother's disdain, how readily he'd leveraged his position of privilege to wound.

Now, years later, he'd unintentionally recreated the exact circumstances that had triggered their first real fight. A  fight that, in his dream-memory last night, he'd recognized as a turning point in their relationship, the moment he'd first understood that Y/N wouldn't simply accept his cruelty because of who he was.

When the car finally pulled through the gates of their estate, Harry found himself unusually anxious about what awaited him inside. He'd seen Y/N angry, frustrated, resigned, and coldly polite, but he hadn't seen her cry since they were teenagers. Hadn't been confronted with the raw vulnerability that tears represented.

He entered the house quietly, nodding to the housekeeper who appeared briefly in the hallway before tactfully withdrawing. Following his assistant's information, Harry made his way to the library, a room Y/N had claimed as her primary retreat within the sprawling mansion, filling it with books that reflected her eclectic interests rather than the carefully curated literary selections his interior designer had originally installed for show.

Pausing outside the closed door, Harry took a deep breath, still unsure exactly what he planned to say. Then, with a decisive motion, he knocked lightly and entered without waiting for a response.

The library was bathed in the soft natural light that streamed through its tall windows, illuminating the comfortable reading nook Y/N had created in one corner. She was curled in the oversized armchair, her legs tucked beneath her, a small orange bundle of fur nestled in her lap. At Harry's entrance, she looked up, and he was struck by the evidence of recent tears. Her eyes slightly reddened, her cheeks still bearing faint tracks of moisture.

The cat—an uncanny echo of the long-ago Grumpus—lifted its head from her lap, regarding Harry with a single yellow eye that seemed to hold judgment beyond its feline capacity. The right eye socket was scarred but well-healed, suggesting the injury had happened years ago.

"Harry," Y/N said, clearly surprised by his unexpected appearance. "What are you doing home? I thought you had meetings all day."

Her fingers continued to stroke the cat's fur as she spoke, an unconscious gesture of comfort. 

Though whether for herself or the animal, Harry couldn't tell.

He remained near the doorway, suddenly uncertain of his welcome in this space that had become distinctly hers within their shared home. "Anna called. She was concerned about... your reaction to the cat."

Y/N's hand stilled momentarily on the orange fur, then resumed its gentle motion. "I see. And that was enough to pull you away from your important business meetings? I'm fine, Harry. You can go back to work."

There was a brittle quality to her composure that suggested it might crack with the slightest pressure. Harry took a few steps further into the room, moving cautiously, as though approaching a wild creature that might bolt.

"She said you were crying," he said quietly, watching Y/N's face for her reaction.

A flash of embarrassment crossed her features, quickly replaced by a defensive lift of her chin. "I was surprised, that's all. It was...an emotional coincidence."

Harry moved closer still, until he stood just a few feet from her chair. From this distance, the cat's resemblance to the long-ago Grumpus was even more striking. The same broad face, the same slightly matted orange fur, the same air of dignified resignation to the indignities of existence.

"I didn't ask for a one-eyed cat," he said, the words emerging more abruptly than he'd intended. "I just told Anna to get a tabby. The rest was... coincidence."

Y/N met his gaze directly, a hint of her earlier vulnerability still visible beneath her composed exterior. "A very specific coincidence, don't you think? Orange, overweight, one-eyed. just like the cat you once called 'the ugliest thing you'd ever seen.'"

The quotation of his teenage self's cruel words hung in the air between them, a reminder of how long she had carried them, how precisely she remembered the hurt he'd caused.

"I didn't plan this, Y/N," Harry said, finding himself in the unusual position of needing her to believe him. "I wouldn't... I'm not that cruel."

Something in his tone must have convinced her, because after studying his face for a long moment, Y/N's expression softened slightly.

"No," she agreed quietly, "I don't think even you would go that far. It's just... seeing him, it brought everything back so vividly. Not just Grumpus, but... that summer. Who we were then."

The cat chose that moment to stretch languidly in her lap, pressing its head against her hand in a silent demand for continued attention. Y/N obliged automatically, her fingers resuming their gentle stroking.

Harry found himself moving to sit on the ottoman near her chair, close enough to reach out and touch the cat if he wanted to, though he kept his hands to himself.

"I remember," he admitted, the words feeling like a concession of territory he'd been determined to defend. "I dreamed about it last night, actually. About our fight over Grumpus."

Y/N looked up sharply, surprise evident in her expression. "You did?"

Harry nodded, uncomfortable with the admission but unwilling to retract it. "About how I said he was ugly, and you told me I was just like my mother."

A faint flush colored Y/N's cheeks. "I was angry. Children say hurtful things when they're angry."

"You weren't wrong, though," Harry said, the honesty surprising them both. "I was becoming exactly what she wanted me to be. Sometimes I think I still am."

The statement hung between them, more vulnerable than anything he'd allowed himself to express since their arrangement began. Y/N regarded him with a mixture of surprise and something that might have been understanding.

"What do you want to do about this cat?" she asked after a moment, steering them back to the immediate issue. "I assume you didn't actually want a pet, given how rarely you're even home."

Harry glanced at the animal, which had settled more comfortably in Y/N's lap, its single eye already drooping with contentment.

"We can keep him," he said, surprising himself with the decisiveness of it. "He seems to have chosen his person already."

Y/N's fingers paused in their stroking of the orange fur. "Are you sure? A pet is a long-term commitment, beyond our... arrangement."

"We can determine custody arrangements when the time comes," Harry replied, matching her tone. "For now, he's here, and he seems comfortable. Unless you'd prefer we find him another home?"

Y/N looked down at the cat, now purring audibly in her lap. "No," she said softly. "I'd like to keep him."

A moment of accord stretched between them. Rare enough in their contentious relationship to feel significant. Harry found himself reluctant to break it by rising to leave, by returning to the polished professional persona waiting for him back at the office.

"Have you named him yet?" he asked instead, settling more comfortably on the ottoman.

Y/N's lips curved in a small smile, the first genuine one he'd seen directed at him in longer than he could remember. "I was thinking of calling him Grumps. In honor of the original, but... his own identity."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the gesture for what it was. A bridge between past and present, a recognition of history without being bound by it. "Grumps it is, then."

The cat opened its single eye at the sound of its new name, regarding them both with what Harry could have sworn was approval before settling back into Y/N's lap, clearly having found its home.

In the quiet of the library, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the gentle sound of purring filling the space between them, Harry and Y/N had reached an unexpected cease-fire—a fragile peace built on the foundation of a shared memory and the unexpected arrival of a one-eyed cat that bridged the years between who they had been and who they had become.

The peaceful moment in the library was interrupted by the sharp buzz of Harry's phone. He glanced down to see his mother's name illuminated on the screen, and a familiar tension immediately settled across his shoulders.

Y/N noticed the change in his demeanor, her own expression shifting from open to guarded as she recognized the caller without needing to be told. She had developed a sixth sense for detecting when Anne was about to intrude on their lives.

 It wasn't hard considering Harry's entire bearing changed, a subtle straightening of his spine and tightening around his eyes that spoke volumes about the complex dynamics between mother and son.

"I should take this," Harry said, already rising from the ottoman, creating physical distance as if preparing for battle. "It's my mother."

Y/N nodded, her fingers continuing their rhythmic stroking of Grumps' fur. A self-soothing gesture as much as comfort for the cat. "Of course."

Harry moved toward the window, putting several feet between them before answering the call, though not leaving the room entirely. Perhaps he was unwilling to completely break their momentary truce, or perhaps he simply didn't want to grant his mother the privacy such distance would afford.

"Mother," he greeted, his voice sliding into the polished, slightly detached tone he reserved for his most important business contacts—and for Anne. "This is unexpected."

Y/N couldn't hear Anne's side of the conversation, but she could track its content through Harry's responses and the subtle shifts in his expression. A muscle working in his jaw, a tightening around his eyes, the slight straightening of his already perfect posture.

"Tonight?" Harry's voice carried a note of surprise, though not outright objection. "That's very short notice."

Another pause as Anne presumably continued speaking, Harry's eyes briefly meeting Y/N's across the room before darting away.

"Yes, I understand you're my mother," he said, a hint of the exasperation he usually kept carefully contained bleeding into his tone. "But we do have schedules, and—"

He was cut off, listening for several long moments before responding with a resigned, "Of course. We'll expect you at seven, then."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries that sounded hollow even from Y/N's position across the room, Harry ended the call and turned to face her, his expression a complex mixture of annoyance and resignation.

"My mother has decided to grace us with her presence for dinner tonight," he announced, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Apparently, she's heard some concerning rumors about us 'starting a family' and feels the need to investigate in person."

The phrase hung in the air between them, laden with implications. They both knew what Anne really meant. she'd gotten wind of their cat adoption through her extensive network of informants (likely one of the household staff who reported to her on the side), and had interpreted it as a sign they might be taking steps toward a real marriage rather than the arrangement they'd agreed upon.

Y/N stroked Grumps' fur thoughtfully, her expression carefully neutral. "Let me guess. she didn't phrase it as a request."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Anne Styles doesn't make requests. She makes pronouncements that we're expected to accommodate."

He moved back toward the seating area, though he didn't resume his place on the ottoman, choosing instead to lean against one of the bookshelves. "I'm sorry about this. I know how she can be, especially toward you."

The apology was unexpected. a deviation from their usual script where Harry either ignored his mother's rudeness toward Y/N or tacitly supported it through his silence.

Y/N looked up at him with mild surprise. "It's fine. I've survived Anne Styles before; I can do it again for one dinner."

"She'll likely be at her worst tonight," Harry warned, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of genuine agitation. "The idea of us becoming more... permanent... is exactly what she's been dreading since this arrangement began."

Y/N set her jaw, a flash of determination crossing her features. "Well, she'll just have to be disappointed, won't she? Both about our supposed 'family planning' and about getting a rise out of me. I can play the dutiful daughter-in-law for one evening."

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You shouldn't have to."

"We both do things we'd rather not as part of this arrangement," Y/N reminded him, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "One dinner with your mother hardly compares to some of the public appearances I've endured."

Harry acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head, then glanced at his watch. "I'll have Mrs. Patterson prepare something suitable for dinner. Mother will find fault regardless, but at least we can avoid giving her obvious targets."

"I should probably change," Y/N said, gently relocating Grumps from her lap to the cushion beside her as she stood. "Your mother has strong opinions about what counts as appropriate attire for a Styles family dinner."

The cat made a small sound of protest at being moved, then promptly resettled, curling into a tight orange ball against the arm of the chair.

Harry's eyes tracked the movement, then returned to Y/N's face. "Wear whatever you want. It's your house too, at least for now."

The qualification "at least for now" was unnecessary but typical of Harry, a reminder of the temporary nature of their arrangement that he seemed compelled to insert into any moment that might suggest otherwise.

Y/N chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the practical matters at hand. "Should I tell Maria to set up the formal dining room? Or would you prefer the smaller one?"

"The formal dining room," Harry decided after a moment's consideration. "Mother expects a certain level of... performance. Best to give her the full spectacle she's anticipating."

Y/N nodded, already mentally cataloging the preparations that would need to be made. 

The specific china Anne preferred, the floral arrangements that would meet her exacting standards, the precise positioning of the silver that would avoid her criticism.

"I'll speak with Maria," she said, moving toward the door. "And have Thomas bring up a bottle of that Bordeaux your mother pretends not to enjoy but always finishes."

Harry's mouth twitched in something close to genuine amusement. "Good call."

As Y/N reached the doorway, she paused, turning back to face him. "Do you think we should hide Grumps for the evening? Your mother isn't exactly... kind... about things she finds aesthetically displeasing."

Harry glanced at the sleeping cat, something hardening in his expression. "No. Let her see him. If she has something to say about his appearance, she can say it to me."

The protectiveness in his tone was surprising. Another deviation from their established patterns. Y/N studied him for a moment, trying to reconcile this Harry with the man who had spent the last four months maintaining careful emotional distance from both her and anything that might suggest genuine investment in their shared life.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Dinners with Anne were exercises in restraint and strategic diplomacy, with Y/N constantly navigating a minefield of subtle insults and pointed questions designed to expose her as unworthy.

Tonight would be no different. 

Except perhaps that for the first time since their arrangement began, there was a possibility, however small, that Harry might actually stand beside her rather than allowing her to weather his mother's disdain alone.

As Y/N made her way upstairs to change, she reminded herself not to read too much into one afternoon's unexpected ceasefire. Their marriage remained what it had always been: a business arrangement with a defined expiration date. Getting attached—to Harry, to this life, or even to the one-eyed cat currently sleeping in the library—would only make the inevitable ending more painful.

Still, as she opened her closet to select an outfit that would armor her against Anne's critical gaze, Y/N couldn't entirely suppress the small, treacherous spark of hope that had ignited in her chest. Hope that perhaps, in some small way, the dynamics between them were beginning to shift.

Several hours later, with the house prepared to Anne's exacting standards and both Harry and Y/N dressed for the occasion, the doorbell rang precisely at seven o'clock. Anne Styles was nothing if not punctual, particularly when punctuality could be wielded as another measure of superiority.

Harry had changed from his earlier business attire into a more casual but equally expensive ensemble. Dark trousers and a cashmere sweater in a shade of green that emphasized his eyes. He stood in the entryway as their housekeeper moved to answer the door, his posture alert but outwardly relaxed, like a fighter preparing for a bout he's confident of winning but knows will be grueling nonetheless.

Y/N descended the stairs just as the door opened, revealing Anne Styles in all her intimidating glory. At fifty-six, Anne was a striking woman—tall and slender, with expertly colored hair cut in a sleek bob that framed a face maintained through the most exclusive cosmetic procedures available. She was dressed impeccably in a tailored ivory suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, accessorized with a signature pearl necklace and subtle but unmistakably real diamonds at her ears.

Her gaze swept the entryway critically before landing on Harry, her expression softening marginally as she extended her cheek for his dutiful kiss.

"Darling," she greeted, her voice carrying that particular upper-class British inflection that suggested generations of privilege. "How lovely to see you, though I wish it hadn't been so long. A son should visit his mother more regularly, don't you think?"

Before Harry could respond, Anne's attention shifted to Y/N, who had reached the bottom of the stairs. Her expression cooled noticeably, the smile becoming fixed and considerably less warm.

"Y/N," she acknowledged with a slight nod, not offering the cheek kiss she had given Harry. "I see married life agrees with you."

The comment was delivered with just enough emphasis to suggest the opposite. That Y/N was somehow failing to meet the standards expected of a Styles wife, despite her efforts to present an appropriately polished appearance in a simple but elegant navy dress that highlighted her figure without being provocative.

"Anne," Y/N returned with a practiced smile, refusing to rise to the bait. "What a pleasant surprise. We're so glad you could join us for dinner on such short notice."

Anne's eyebrow arched slightly at the implied criticism of her last-minute arrival, but she moved past it with practiced social grace. "Well, when one hears rumors about one's only son, one naturally wishes to investigate personally rather than relying on secondhand accounts."

Harry stepped forward, placing a hand at the small of Y/N's back in what might have appeared to an observer as a gesture of marital solidarity, though Y/N felt the slight tension in his fingers that betrayed his own discomfort.

"What rumors would those be, Mother?" he asked, guiding both women toward the formal living room where drinks had been arranged. "I wasn't aware we'd been doing anything newsworthy lately."

Anne settled gracefully onto one of the pristine cream sofas, arranging herself with the precision of someone accustomed to being photographed from every angle. "Oh, just whispers here and there about you two... nesting. First a cat, I'm told, and who knows what might follow. I thought it prudent to check whether congratulations might soon be in order."

The implication was clear. Anne was concerned they might be considering children, a development that would complicate the clean break planned at the end of their contract year.

Y/N felt Harry's hand tense against her back before he removed it to pour drinks at the sidebar. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Mother," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "Y/N has indeed adopted a cat, but that hardly constitutes 'nesting.'"

"A cat?" Anne repeated, accepting the glass of chilled white wine Harry offered her with a slight moue of distaste. "How... domestic. Though I suppose it's less commitment than other options."

Her gaze slid meaningfully to Y/N's midsection before returning to her face with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It was a somewhat impulsive decision," Y/N admitted, accepting her own wine from Harry with a grateful nod. "But he needed a home, and we have plenty of space."

"He?" Anne inquired, clearly fishing for details.

As if on cue, a distinctive orange shape appeared in the doorway of the living room. Grumps, apparently having awakened from his nap and decided to investigate the new voice, sauntered into the room with the unhurried confidence of a creature who considered the entire house his domain.

Anne's eyes widened slightly as she took in the cat's appearance—the missing eye, the slightly matted orange fur, the overall impression of an animal that had seen better days despite clearly being well-fed.

"Good lord," she exclaimed, making no attempt to disguise her revulsion. "What on earth is that? It looks positively...feral."

Harry, who had been raising his own glass to his lips, set it down with a deliberate motion that caused both women to look at him.

"That," he said with a calmness that didn't quite mask the edge beneath, "is Grumps. Our cat. Who has had a difficult life but is now part of this household."

Anne's eyebrows rose at his tone. "Really, Harry, there's no need to be defensive. I was merely expressing surprise. If you wanted a pet, I would have thought you'd select something more...suitable. Perhaps a purebred of some sort."

Grumps, oblivious to the discussion of his merits, proceeded to leap gracefully onto the sofa beside Y/N, who automatically stroked his fur, drawing a loud purr that seemed to fill the tense silence.

"Grumps chose us," Y/N said quietly. "Sometimes the best things in life aren't what we'd have selected if left entirely to our own devices."

The comment could have been harmless, but there was an undercurrent that suggested Y/N might be referring to more than just the cat. Anne clearly caught it, her lips thinning slightly as she took a deliberate sip of her wine.

"How philosophical," she remarked dryly. "Though I've always found that careful selection according to appropriate criteria yields far better results than...impulse adoptions."

Harry cleared his throat, clearly recognizing the brewing tension. "Dinner should be ready soon. Mother, I believe Mrs. Patterson has prepared that salmon you enjoyed last time."

The attempted change of subject was transparent but effective. Anne allowed herself to be led into a discussion of the menu, though her gaze kept returning to Grumps with barely disguised distaste, particularly when the cat settled more comfortably against Y/N's thigh, his single eye regarding Anne with what could almost be described as disdain.

As they made their way into the dining room a short time later, Harry leaned close to Y/N, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Round one to us," he murmured, a hint of unexpected humor in his tone. "Though I expect she's just warming up."

Us

Y/N glanced at him in surprise, taken aback by the casual use of "us" that positioned them as a united front rather than adversaries. Harry didn't meet her eyes, already moving ahead to hold Anne's chair, but the moment of alliance hung between them.

Another small crack in the wall they'd so carefully constructed.

As they took their seats at the impeccably set table, Y/N couldn't help but feel that this dinner, unlike previous encounters with Anne, might represent something of a turning point. 

The dining room had fallen into a familiar rhythm

Anne's crisp voice dominated the conversation while servants moved silently around them, replacing courses and refilling wine glasses with practiced efficiency. The tension that had briefly lifted in the library earlier that day had settled back around Harry and Y/N's shoulders like a well-worn coat, each of them retreating to their practiced roles in this recurring performance.

Y/N kept her eyes on her plate, cutting a perfect bite of the expertly prepared salmon as Anne continued her seemingly endless monologue about the latest scandals and triumphs among London's elite circles. Her fork moved mechanically between plate and mouth, the food—despite Mrs. Patterson's considerable culinary skill—tasting like little more than texture against her tongue.

"...and then Caroline Whitmore-Hayes had the audacity to suggest that her daughter's debut should precede the Westfield girl's, despite the Westfields' significantly superior connections," Anne was saying, her voice carrying the particular blend of amusement and disdain she reserved for recounting the social missteps of those she considered beneath her. "I told Judith Westfield not to concern herself. No one of consequence would attend the Whitmore-Hayes affair regardless of timing."

Harry made an appropriate noise of acknowledgment without actually commenting, a skill he had perfected over years of these dinners. His posture remained impeccable, one hand occasionally reaching for his wine glass in what Y/N had come to recognize as his subtle method of self-medication during his mother's visits.

"The entire affair reminded me of that unfortunate garden party the Hendersons hosted last summer," Anne continued, her gaze sliding briefly to Y/N. "You remember, Harry. The one where they invited that woman who claimed to be some sort of 'influencer.' As if social media popularity could ever substitute for proper breeding and connections."

The comment was clearly aimed at Y/N, a reminder of her status as an outsider to Anne's world despite the wedding ring on her finger. Four months into their marriage, and Anne had yet to miss an opportunity to emphasize Y/N's supposed unsuitability.

Y/N took another bite of her salmon, chewing deliberately as she maintained her composure. She had learned early in their arrangement that responding to Anne's barbs only provided the woman with more ammunition. Silence was her most effective weapon as it meant denying Anne the satisfaction of visible discomfort.

Harry cleared his throat, setting down his fork with deliberate precision. "Speaking of social media, the new campaign images for Burberry were released today. My team tells me the response has been exceptionally positive."

It was a clumsy attempt at changing the subject, but Y/N appreciated the effort nevertheless. 

Anne's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, I saw them. You looked quite handsome, darling. Though I did wonder about the styling choices. That particular shade of blue doesn't do your complexion any favors. I've always told you that deeper tones bring out your eyes more effectively."

Harry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The creative director felt it complemented the overall aesthetic of the campaign."

"Of course, dear," Anne conceded with the air of someone humoring a child's mistake. "I'm sure they know best, though I can't help but feel that my son deserves to be presented in the most flattering light possible. Perhaps next time you might suggest they consult with someone more experienced."

Before Harry could respond, Anne turned her attention to Y/N, her expression shifting into the particular blend of polite interest and underlying judgment she reserved for her daughter-in-law.

"And what about you, Y/N? Have you found anything productive to occupy your time lately? It must be terribly dull for you, rattling around this enormous house while Harry is working."

The question carried its own set of barbs. The implication that Y/N was useless, idle, merely decorative. 

Y/N set down her fork, meeting Anne's gaze directly for the first time since they'd sat down to dinner. "Actually, I've been quite busy. The children's literacy foundation asked me to chair their fundraising committee for the spring gala. It's an important cause. Bringing books and educational resources to underserved communities."

Anne's expression remained pleasant, though her eyes narrowed slightly. "How... charitable. Though I would have thought the Styles Family Foundation might be a more appropriate channel for your energies, given your position. The literacy foundation is rather... small, isn't it?"

"Small but impactful," Y/N responded, keeping her tone light despite the familiar frustration building in her chest. "They've helped establish libraries in over fifty schools across the country in the past year alone."

"Hmm," Anne hummed noncommittally, taking a delicate sip of her wine. "Well, I suppose it's good for you to have some project to keep yourself occupied. Though do be careful about overcommitting the Styles name. There are considerations beyond your personal interests."

Harry set down his wine glass with slightly more force than necessary, drawing both women's attention. "Y/N's work with the literacy foundation has my full support, Mother. In fact, we've discussed making it one of our primary charitable focuses moving forward."

we

The "we" hung in the air. A small but significant deviation from Harry's usual careful language that maintained separation between them. Y/N glanced at him in surprise, finding his expression unreadable as he returned to his meal.

Anne, however, didn't miss the implication. Her gaze sharpened, moving between them with renewed assessment.

 "How unusual," she remarked after a moment. "You've never shown particular interest in literacy charities before, Harry."

"Perhaps my interests are evolving," he replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. 

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against fine china. Y/N found herself oddly unable to continue eating, her appetite diminished by the strange undercurrents between mother and son.

 Something had shifted in the dynamic, though she couldn't quite identify what—or why.

After a moment, Anne deliberately changed tactics, her smile brightening with artificial warmth. "I ran into Camilla Fairchild at the Harrington's benefit last week. She asked after you quite specifically, Harry."

The name was clearly meant to provoke a reaction. Y/N didn't recognize it, but from the subtle tightening around Harry's eyes, she gathered this Camilla was someone from his past. 

Likely someone Anne considered a more suitable match than Y/N.

"Did she," Harry responded flatly, not phrasing it as a question. "How is Camilla these days?"

"Absolutely thriving," Anne enthused, warming to her topic. "She's just returned from overseeing the Paris office of her father's company. Made quite a splash in the international business community, from what I hear. And of course, she's as lovely as ever."

Anne turned to Y/N with a smile that was all teeth. "Camilla and Harry were quite close for a time, you know. Everyone expected them to announce an engagement eventually. Two perfectly matched young people from excellent families. It was such a disappointment when their schedules pulled them in different directions."

The meaning was clear: Camilla had been the appropriate choice, the woman Anne had selected for her son. Y/N was the mistake, the temporary diversion that would eventually be corrected.

Y/N maintained her neutral expression with effort, refusing to give Anne the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. "How fortunate for Camilla to have found such success in her career," she replied evenly. "Paris is a beautiful city."

Harry's hand moved suddenly across the table, covering Y/N's in a gesture that appeared spontaneous but felt calculated for his mother's benefit. "Camilla and I wanted very different things," he said, his eyes meeting Y/N's with an intensity that seemed performative yet somehow genuine. "It became clear we weren't compatible."

The touch of his hand was warm against hers, his palm slightly calloused in a way that surprised her. For someone who lived such a privileged life, Harry's hands bore the evidence of real work. Perhaps from his music, or from the fitness regimen he maintained with religious dedication.

Anne watched the gesture with poorly disguised disapproval. "People's needs and desires change over time, darling. What seems incompatible at twenty-five might make perfect sense at thirty."

The implication hung in the air: Harry's marriage to Y/N was the youthful mistake; reconciliation with someone like Camilla would be the mature correction.

Harry's fingers tightened slightly around Y/N's before he released her hand, his expression cooling as he turned back to his mother. "I'm quite satisfied with my current situation, Mother."

The statement was perfectly calibrated. It is supportive enough of their marriage to rebuff Anne's meddling, yet ambiguous enough that it could refer merely to the business arrangement rather than any genuine emotional attachment. It was exactly the sort of careful linguistic navigation Harry had perfected in their months together.

Anne's smile thinned, but before she could respond, a distinctive thump followed by the padding of paws announced Grumps' arrival in the dining room. The orange cat sauntered in with his characteristic confidence, tail held high as he surveyed the gathering with his single eye.

Anne visibly recoiled as Grumps approached the table, fixing her with what could only be described as feline contempt. "Really, must that creature be allowed at the table? It's hardly hygienic."

Grumps, as if understanding the criticism, chose that moment to leap gracefully onto the empty chair beside Y/N, settling himself with regal dignity. A one-eyed, battle-scarred monarch surveying his domain.

Harry's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Grumps appears to have decided he's part of the family dinner, Mother. I'm afraid we've been rather permissive with his boundaries."

"Clearly," Anne replied, her distaste evident as she deliberately shifted her chair away from the cat's line of sight. "When I had pets as a child, they understood their place in the household hierarchy."

"Times change," Y/N murmured, reaching over to stroke Grumps' fur. The cat responded with a rumbling purr that seemed deliberately provocative in the tense atmosphere.

Anne's eyes narrowed at Y/N's subtle defiance. "Some standards should remain constant, regardless of changing fashions. Discipline and proper order have always been the foundation of well-run households. And successful marriages, for that matter."

The server entered with the dessert course, momentarily disrupting the brewing tension. As delicate plates of panna cotta were placed before each of them, Anne returned her attention to Harry, her expression softening into something almost wistful.

"Your father always said that the true measure of a man was his ability to maintain order in his own home," she remarked, the invocation of Harry's deceased father clearly calculated for maximum impact.

Harry's expression tightened, as it always did at the mention of his father. "Dad had many opinions about how others should live their lives," he responded, his tone deliberately neutral. "Not all of which I share."

Anne's lips pressed together in disapproval. "Your father built everything we have, Harry. His wisdom deserves more respect than that."

"I respected my father," Harry replied, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "But respect doesn't require blind adherence to outdated values."

Y/N remained silent, watching the familiar dynamic unfold. Anne's most effective weapon had always been Harry's complicated relationship with his father

 In their four months of marriage, Y/N had learned to recognize the signs of Anne deploying this particular strategy when other approaches failed.

Anne set down her spoon, her expression a perfect blend of disappointment and concern. "I worry about you, darling. Your father had such hopes for your future. For the Styles legacy. He would be concerned about the direction your life has taken recently."

The "direction" was clearly meant to encompass everything from Harry's marriage to Y/N to the adoption of a one-eyed rescue cat. all deviations from the carefully plotted course Anne and her late husband had envisioned for their son.

Harry's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Y/N surprised both of them by speaking.

"With all due respect, Anne," she said quietly, "I think a father's greatest hope would be for his son's happiness, not adherence to a specific blueprint for his life."

Both Harry and Anne turned to her with matching expressions of surprise, though for entirely different reasons. 

Harry appeared startled by her willingness to enter a conversation that had previously been strictly between mother and son, while Anne seemed genuinely shocked by Y/N's audacity.

"I hardly think you're qualified to speculate on what Desmond Styles would have wanted for his only son," Anne replied, her tone glacial. "You never even met the man."

"No, I didn't," Y/N acknowledged, maintaining her composure despite the chill emanating from her mother-in-law. "But I've heard Harry speak of him often enough to understand he was a man who valued determination and authenticity. Qualities Harry demonstrates every day."

The statement wasn't entirely truthful. 

Harry rarely spoke of his father voluntarily but it served its purpose. Anne's expression flickered, momentarily uncertain how to counter this unexpected approach.

Harry was watching Y/N with an unreadable expression, something complex shifting behind his eyes.

"My father," he said after a moment, his voice carrying an unusual weight, "believed in making strategic choices. In that respect, at least, I think he would have approved of my recent decisions."

Anne's gaze moved between them, clearly sensing something had changed but unable to identify exactly what. "Perhaps," she conceded reluctantly. "Though Desmond always took a long-term view. Temporary... arrangements... were never his preference."

Temporary

Arrangements

Y/N felt a strange hollowness expand in her chest at the reminder, though she maintained her neutral expression with practiced ease. Their arrangement had always been clear—this was a business transaction, not a love match. The fact that something seemed to be shifting between them recently didn't change the fundamentals of their agreement.

Harry set down his dessert spoon, his panna cotta barely touched. "I believe I'm capable of making my own judgments about what would best serve the Styles legacy, Mother. But I appreciate your concern, as always."

The dismissal was polite but firm. A signal that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Anne recognized it for what it was, her lips thinning slightly before she adopted a more conciliatory expression.

"Of course, darling. I only want what's best for you."

The remainder of dessert passed in strained conversation about safer topics: the upcoming charity season, Harry's plans for his next album, Anne's recent renovation of her country house. Throughout it all, Grumps remained regally seated in his chair, occasionally fixing Anne with his one-eyed stare in a manner that seemed deliberately provocative.

By the time coffee was served in the sitting room, the atmosphere had settled into a brittle détente, with Anne having apparently decided to reserve her more pointed critiques for another occasion. As she gathered her things to leave shortly before ten, she turned to Harry with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I've been thinking, darling. It's been too long since you visited the estate in the country. Why don't you and Y/N come for the weekend at the end of the month? The gardens will be lovely by then, and it would give us a chance for some proper family time."

The invitation was clearly a strategic move rather than a genuine desire for their company. Anne's country estate had been the site of some of their most tense encounters, a place where Anne held complete control over the environment and could more effectively isolate Y/N from Harry's attention.

Harry hesitated, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll have to check my schedule, Mother. We've got quite a lot of commitments in the coming weeks."

"Of course," Anne replied smoothly, kissing his cheek in farewell. "But do try to make it work. Family should be a priority, after all."

Her gaze slid to Y/N, the smile remaining fixed in place as she extended her hand rather than offering the cheek kiss she'd given Harry. "Y/N, it's been... illuminating, as always. Do take care of that cat. I'm sure with proper attention, its appearance could be somewhat improved."

Y/N accepted the limp handshake with a practiced smile of her own. "Thank you for coming, Anne. It's always a pleasure."

The blatant untruth hung in the air between them, acknowledged by neither but understood by both. As Thomas showed Anne to the door, Y/N felt the tension she'd been holding in her shoulders begin to release, the familiar post-Anne exhaustion settling into her bones.

Harry remained in the foyer, watching through the side window as his mother's sleek black car pulled away from the house. Only when the taillights had disappeared down the long driveway did he turn back to Y/N, his expression unguarded for a rare moment.

"Well," he said, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine weariness, "that was about what I expected."

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, suddenly too tired to maintain the perfect posture she'd held throughout dinner. "She seemed particularly determined to emphasize our temporary status tonight."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Mother excels at reminding everyone of their proper place in her world order."

"And my proper place is very much not as your wife," Y/N observed, stating the obvious without rancor. It was simply a fact. One they both had acknowledged from the beginning.

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You handled her well tonight. Especially that bit about my father. I've never seen her quite so wrong-footed."

It wasn't quite a compliment, but it was closer than anything he'd offered her in their four months of marriage. Y/N shrugged, uncomfortable with the acknowledgment.

"I've had enough practice by now," she replied, pushing herself away from the doorframe. "Though I think Grumps may have been the real MVP of the evening. Your mother's face when he jumped on the chair was... memorable."

Harry's expression lightened, a genuine smile briefly transforming his features. "He does seem to have excellent timing. And an uncanny ability to identify the person in the room most likely to be annoyed by his presence."

The shared moment of amusement felt foreign between them. Y/N found herself wanting to preserve it, to extend this unusual ceasefire beyond the boundaries of Anne's visit.

"Would you like a real drink?" she asked impulsively. "Something stronger than the wine we had with dinner? I think we've both earned it after surviving another Styles family dinner."

Harry looked surprised by the offer, hesitating as if weighing the implications of accepting. Their usual pattern after one of Anne's visits was to retreat to separate corners of the house, processing the encounter in isolation rather than together.

"Actually," he said after a moment, "that sounds like exactly what I need."

Y/N nodded, leading the way toward the library where they kept the better liquor. As they walked in companionable silence, Grumps appeared from wherever he'd been hiding during Anne's departure, falling into step beside them with his distinctive one-sided gait.

The library had transformed from a formal space into something more intimate as the night progressed. What had begun as a single drink to decompress after Anne's departure had evolved into several, the expensive whiskey loosening the rigid boundaries they typically maintained. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the book-lined walls as they settled deeper into the oversized leather chairs.

Y/N's cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, her posture relaxed in a way it rarely was around Harry. The glass in her hand was nearly empty––her third of the evening—and her laughter came more freely with each sip.

"I want to rip my hair out sometimes when you shower and then just leave your towel in the bed. Yes we have housekeeping but it's called being decent," she said, gesturing emphatically with her free hand. 

Harry snorted, taking another sip of his whiskey as he lounged back in his chair, legs stretched out toward the fire. His usual perfect posture had given way to something more casual, his hair slightly mussed where he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly during their conversation.

"At least I don't leave my makeup scattered across every surface in the bathroom," he countered, his accent growing slightly more pronounced with the alcohol. "How many bloody lipsticks does one person need? And why can't they all go in the same drawer?"

He mimicked opening various drawers and cabinets, his expression exaggerated. "It's like a treasure hunt every morning just trying to find my own razor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though the gesture lacked its usual edge. "They're organized by color family, not that you'd understand the concept. And at least I don't leave wet towels on Egyptian cotton sheets."

Harry leaned forward to refill his glass, the movement slightly less coordinated than usual. "The sheets dry eventually," he said with a dismissive wave. "What about how you insist on keeping the temperature at arctic levels? I found Mrs. Patterson wearing a cardigan in the kitchen last week, in August."

Y/N laughed, the sound genuine and unguarded. "Some of us don't naturally run at the temperature of a furnace. And Mrs. Patterson exaggerates. It was barely below seventy."

"Barely below seventy," Harry mimicked, dropping his voice to a dramatically serious tone. "Tell that to Grumps—I found him sleeping on top of the heating vent earlier."

As if summoned by his name, Grumps appeared in the doorway, stretching languidly before padding over to jump onto the arm of Y/N's chair. The cat settled into a comfortable position, his single eye regarding Harry with what looked suspiciously like judgment.

"See? He agrees with me," Harry said, gesturing at the cat with his glass. "That's his 'Harry is right and you're being ridiculous' face."

Y/N scratched behind Grumps' ears, earning a contented purr. "This is his 'I tolerate the loud human because hes going to be feeding me occasionally' face, actually. I've become fluent in Grumps expressions."

Harry's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the expression transforming his face in a way that still caught Y/N off guard. When he genuinely smiled, not the practiced, camera-ready version, but the real thing, he looked younger, more approachable. Almost like the boy she'd known all those summers ago, before his mother's influence had fully taken hold.

"What about how you alphabetize the spice rack?" he continued, shifting to sit sideways in the chair, his long legs draped over one arm. "Who does that? It's maddening trying to find anything."

"It's called organization," Y/N protested, taking another sip of her whiskey. "Not everyone wants to hunt for oregano for ten minutes every time they cook."

"But paprika and pepper should be together," Harry insisted with the passionate conviction of the mildly drunk. "They're both... p spices. It just makes sense."

Y/N burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. "P spices? That's your organizational system? By first letter?"

"It's intuitive," he defended, trying to maintain a serious expression but failing as a smile broke through. "Better than your color-coordinated bookshelf. Looking for that music history book the other day was like trying to solve a bloody Rubik's cube."

"The blue section is clearly music and arts," Y/N replied with exaggerated patience. "Everyone knows that."

"Everyone does not know that," Harry countered, leaning forward to emphasize his point. "Because it's a system that exists only in your mind. Like how you insist the good mugs can only be used on weekends."

Y/N gasped in mock offense. "The handmade pottery mugs are special! They shouldn't be used for random Tuesday morning coffee."

"They're mugs, Y/N. Their purpose is to hold liquid, not to mark special occasions."

"Says the man who has separate towels for his hair and body," she shot back, grinning. "Talk about unnecessary."

Harry's eyes widened. "How do you know about that?"

"Mrs. Patterson told me," Y/N admitted, looking smug. "She finds it hilarious that you need a specific towel just for your precious hair."

Harry ran a hand through said hair self-consciously. "It's not weird. Hair towels are smaller and more absorbent."

"Mmhmm," Y/N hummed skeptically, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And I suppose the special Italian conditioner that has to be specially imported is also completely normal?"

Harry's expression shifted to genuine surprise. "How do you know about the conditioner?"

"I live here too," Y/N reminded him, gesturing broadly with her glass. "I notice things. Like how you organize your clothes by designer, not type or color."

Harry looked slightly disconcerted at the revelation that she'd been paying such close attention to his habits. His gaze dropped to his whiskey glass, turning it slowly in his hands.

"Well, I notice things too," he said after a moment, glancing up with a challenging expression. "Like how you always put your left shoe on first. Or how you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."

Now it was Y/N's turn to look surprised. "I don't talk to myself."

"You absolutely do," Harry insisted, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Usually when you're reading. You have entire conversations with the characters and arguing with them when they make decisions you don't like."

Heat rose to Y/N's cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol or the fire. "I... I didn't realize I did that out loud."

"It's..." Harry hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. "It's actually rather charming. Especially when you get really worked up about some nineteenth-century idiot making poor choices."

The word "charming" hung in the air between them, unexpected and slightly dangerous. This was new territory.

Acknowledging positive aspects of each other beyond the carefully maintained façade they presented to the public. Y/N took another sip of her whiskey, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Well, at least I don't sing the same line of a song over and over for days," she countered, steering them back to the safer ground of gentle teasing. "Last week it was just 'the rhythm of the rain' for three days straight. I nearly lost my mind."

Harry laughed, accepting the shift in tone. "Occupational hazard. Sometimes a line just gets stuck in my head until I figure out where it belongs."

"In the meantime, the rest of us suffer," Y/N replied with an exaggerated sigh.

"Speaking of suffering," Harry said, his expression turning mischievous, "what about your obsession with those terrible reality dating shows? The walls in this house aren't soundproof, you know. I can hear you yelling at the TV from my study."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her free hand. "They're a guilty pleasure, okay? And those people make objectively terrible decisions. Aomeone needs to tell them."

"And that someone is you, shouting 'He's clearly using you for screen time!' at eleven at night?" Harry's impression of her voice was comically high-pitched.

"I do not sound like that," Y/N protested, laughing despite herself. "And I was right about that guy. He dumped her the minute the cameras stopped rolling."

Harry raised his glass in a mock toast. "To your superior judgment of reality TV contestants' motivations."

Y/N clinked her glass against his, still smiling. "And to your completely unnecessary hair towels."

The moment felt surreal. Sitting in the library, trading playful insults with the man she'd been at constant odds with for months. The alcohol had lowered their usual defenses, allowing a glimpse of what their relationship might have been under different circumstances. 

if they'd met as equals rather than through a business arrangement, if Anne's influence hadn't poisoned Harry against her family from childhood, if the weight of expectations and resentments didn't constantly hover between them.

Harry seemed to be having similar thoughts, his expression turning contemplative as he studied her over the rim of his glass. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning them a deeper, warmer green than usual.

"You know," he said after a moment, his voice softer, "when we were kids, that summer when I was eleven and you were... what, 10? I used to look forward to seeing you at the lake every day."

The sudden shift to their shared past caught Y/N off guard. They rarely discussed their childhood encounters. the brief friendship they'd formed during the summers when Harry's family stayed at their country estate near Y/N's childhood home. It felt like opening a door they'd tacitly agreed to keep closed.

"I remember," she said carefully, watching his expression. "You taught me how to skip stones. You were so proud when I finally got one to bounce four times."

A genuine smile spread across Harry's face at the memory. "You were a determined little thing. Wouldn't stop until you beat my record."

"And I never did," Y/N admitted with a rueful laugh. "What was it, eight skips?"

"Nine, on a good day," Harry corrected, his expression softening. "Though I'd been practicing for years by then, so it wasn't really a fair competition."

Y/N swirled the remaining whiskey in her glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Your mother found us there once, didn't she? At the lake. I remember her being... unhappy."

Harry's expression clouded slightly at the mention of Anne. "That's putting it mildly. She forbade me from going back to that part of the property for the rest of the summer. Said it wasn't appropriate for me to be 'consorting with the shopkeeper's daughter.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, clipped tones with surprising accuracy, though there was an edge of bitterness beneath the impression.

"Yet you still came back the next day," Y/N reminded him, remembering her surprise when he'd appeared at their usual meeting spot despite his mother's prohibition.

Harry's gaze dropped to his glass. "I did."

It was a reminder that there had been a time when Harry had chosen Y/N's company over his mother's approval, however briefly. Before the years of conditioning had fully taken hold, before he'd learned to view her through Anne's contemptuous lens.

"What happened to us, Harry?" Y/N asked softly, the alcohol making her braver than she might otherwise have been. "We were friends once, weren't we? Before... all of this."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he stared into the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight she rarely heard from him.

"We were children," he said, not unkindly but with finality. "Children don't understand the complications of the real world."

The statement felt rehearsed, as if he'd told himself the same thing many times over the years. A justification for the distance he'd put between them as they grew older, for the contempt he'd adopted toward her family in mimicry of his mother's attitudes.

Y/N nodded slowly, accepting the boundary he'd drawn even as disappointment settled in her chest. The brief window of genuine connection seemed to be closing, the walls between them reasserting themselves despite the alcohol and the cozy intimacy of the firelit room.

"I should probably get some sleep," she said after a moment, setting her empty glass on the side table and gently dislodging Grumps from his perch on the arm of her chair. "It's getting late."

Harry glanced at her, something complicated flickering in his expression before it settled back into careful neutrality. "Of course. It's been a long day."

As Y/N stood, she felt the effects of the whiskey more strongly, swaying slightly on her feet. Harry rose quickly, one hand reaching out to steady her elbow. The contact was brief but electric, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "Perhaps we both had more than intended."

They stood close for a moment, closer than they typically allowed themselves to be when not performing for cameras or guests. Y/N could smell the subtle notes of his cologne mingled with whiskey and the sandalwood scent of the fire, a combination that was uniquely Harry, familiar yet somehow new in this context.

"Thank you," she said softly, stepping back carefully to reestablish the appropriate distance between them. "For the drinks and... this. It was nice to just talk for once."

Harry nodded, his expression difficult to read in the flickering firelight. "It was... a pleasant change of pace."

The formality of his response should have been jarring after the relative ease of their earlier conversation, but Y/N recognized it for what it was. A retreat to safer ground. A reminder of the actual nature of their relationship, regardless of momentary détentes.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said, offering a small smile as she turned toward the door, Grumps trailing at her heels.

"Y/N," Harry called as she reached the threshold, causing her to pause and look back. "For what it's worth... I did consider you a friend. Back then."

The admission was small but significant. An acknowledgment of a truth they both knew but rarely voiced. Y/N nodded, unsure how to respond to this unexpected olive branch.

"So did I," she finally replied, the simple truth feeling both inadequate and too revealing.

With a final nod, she continued out of the library, leaving Harry standing by the fire, whiskey glass in hand, his expression thoughtful as he watched her go. The corridor felt cooler after the warmth of the library, or perhaps it was simply the absence of the unexpected connection they'd briefly shared.

As Y/N made her way up the grand staircase toward her bedroom, Grumps padding silently beside her, she couldn't help but wonder what had prompted Harry's unusual openness tonight. Whether it had been merely the influence of good whiskey and exhaustion after his mother's visit, or something deeper—a hairline crack in the careful walls they'd built around themselves.

Either way, she knew better than to assign too much significance to a single evening of relative harmony. Tomorrow would likely bring a return to their usual careful distance, the momentary connection forgotten or deliberately ignored as they resumed their performative roles.

Yet as she prepared for bed, moving through her nightly routine with the mechanical precision of habit, Y/N found herself replaying moments from their conversation. 

The genuine laugh when she'd teased him about his hair towels

The softness in his expression when he recalled teaching her to skip stones

The brief warmth of his hand on her elbow.

Small things, insignificant in the grand scheme of their arrangement. Yet somehow, as she slipped beneath the cool sheets of her bed, these moments felt like pebbles dropped into still water—tiny disturbances that sent ripples outward, changing the surface in ways too subtle to name but impossible to entirely ignore.

Harry's brow furrowed as he slipped beneath the silk sheets an hour later, expecting to find Y/N already lost to her dreams. Instead, her voice cut through the darkness like a blade—sharp, accusatory, and laced with years of unresolved pain.

"You lied."

The words charged with emotion brewing since their conversation in the library. The whiskey's warmth still lingered in his veins, but the comfort it had provided was rapidly evaporating.

"What?" he asked, genuinely startled by her wakefulness and her accusation’s directness.

Y/N shifted in the darkness, turning to face him. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, he could see the hurt etched across her features.

"That's what happened to us. You lied," she repeated, her voice steadier now but no less wounded.

Harry's jaw tightened. "About what?"

"You said, no, you promised you'd come back. But you never did."

"Christ," he muttered, settling onto his back with a heavy exhale. "You're drunk."

"And you're a liar," Y/N replied, her voice clearer now, more steady than he'd expected.

The whiskey still coursed through his veins, warming his blood and loosening the tight grip he usually maintained on his memories—on the parts of himself he'd worked so hard to bury. That summer. That clearing in the woods. Her lips against his, inexperienced but eager.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening. "It was a lifetime ago."

"You said you'd come back," she repeated, her voice steadier now, more insistent. She propped herself on her elbow, the sheets pooling around her waist. "That summer. In the woods. You promised."

The woods. The clearing. The dappled sunlight through the leaves. Her younger face tilted up toward his, trusting and open in a way she never looked at him anymore. The taste of her lips, inexperienced but eager. His whispered promises.

"We were kids," he said dismissively, though something uncomfortable twisted in his stomach. "People say things."

"Not just people. You." Her voice hardened. "You looked me in the eyes and promised. Then you vanished."

"What do you want me to say?" Harry snapped, propping himself up on his elbow. "That I'm sorry? Fine—I'm fucking sorry I didn't keep a promise I made when I was sixteen. Is that what you need to hear?"

"I need to understand what happened to us!" Y/N's voice rose, cracking slightly. "How did we go from that to... to this? To you treating me like I'm nothing but an inconvenience, like I'm beneath you?"

"I didn't have a fucking choice!" Harry's volume matched hers now, the careful facade of indifference crumbling. "You think my mother would have allowed me to keep seeing you? The daughter of a shopkeeper?" 

"You're such an asshole," she hissed. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you offered me this arrangement. You knew who I was."

"Of course I knew who you were," he snapped back, his own temper flaring. "The pathetic girl from the village my mother always warned me about. The one who wasn't good enough for me then, and certainly isn't now."

Her sharp intake of breath told him he'd struck a nerve. Good. He wanted to hurt her like she was hurting him with these memories.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. "You want the truth? My mother happened. She told me what a fucking embarrassment it would be if anyone found out I was sneaking around with the shopkeeper's daughter. How it would ruin everything my family had built."

"And you believed her," Y/N said quietly. "You just... accepted that I wasn't good enough."

"I was a kid!" Harry's voice rose to match hers. "A stupid kid who'd been taught his whole life that people like you were—"

"People like me?" Y/N cut in, sitting up fully now. "What exactly are 'people like me,' Harry? Poor? Common? Not worthy of breathing the same air as the almighty Styles family?"

Harry ran a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw rough against his palm. "I was sixteen, for fuck's sake. We were kids."

"Bullshit," Y/N snapped, her voice rising. "You just decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Your mother made sure of that, didn't she? Made sure you understood that people like me weren't good enough for people like you."

Harry sat up abruptly, anger flaring. "Don't pretend to know what happened. You have no fucking idea what my life was like then."

"Then tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me why you left without a word. Why did you promise to meet me and then never showed up. Why you let me wait there in that clearing for hours like some pathetic, lovesick fool!"

"Because I was a coward!" Harry shouted, the admission tearing from him before he could stop it.

 "Is that what you want to hear? That I was too fucking weak to stand up to my mother? That I let her convince me you were beneath me? That I spent years trying to forget about you because remembering hurt too goddamn much?"

Y/N stared at him, momentarily stunned by his outburst. Then her eyes narrowed. "So you just... what? Decided to hate me instead? To treat me like dirt the under your expensive shoes? That was easier?"

"Yes!" he hissed, leaning closer, his face inches from hers. "Yes, it was fucking easier to hate you than to admit I was wrong. Than to admit I missed you. Than to admit that for years after, every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face waiting for me in that clearing."

The tension between them crackled like electricity, years of resentment and unspoken truths finally surfacing. They were breathing hard, glaring at each other in the half-light.

"You're such an asshole," Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

"And you're a fucking pain in my ass," Harry growled back.

"Was it worth it?" Y/N asked quietly.

The question hit him like a physical blow. Was it worth it? The Grammy awards, the sold-out stadiums, the wealth beyond imagination—all of it built on the foundation his mother had established for him, brick by calculated brick.

"Yes," he answered automatically, but even to his own ears, the word sounded hollow. "It has to be."

"So you admit it," she challenged, not backing down despite his proximity. Her eyes flashed in the darkness. "You left because you thought I wasn't good enough. That I wasnt worth it”

"I left because I had bigger things waiting for me than some summer romance!" he shouted, losing his composure entirely. "What did you expect? That I'd throw away everything for you?"

"I expected you to at least say goodbye!" she shouted back, pushing against his chest. "Not to make promises you had no intention of keeping!"

He caught her wrists, his grip firm but not painful. "What's the real problem here, Y/N? That I broke a promise, or that I was your first taste of rejection?"

Her face contorted with rage. "You arrogant son of a—"

"Careful," he warned, his face inches from hers. "That's your mother-in-law you're talking about."

"This isn't a real marriage," she spat.

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It's not. It's business. So stop acting like I broke your heart."

"You did break my heart," she admitted, the raw honesty in her voice momentarily stunning him. "And the worst part is, you never even cared enough to notice."

The sudden shift in her tone caught Harry off-guard. He watched as the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by something worse—resignation. 

"I didn't expect you to throw everything away. I just thought I was worth a goodbye." 

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could turn away.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Don't—don't cry."

"I'm not crying because of you," she lied, her voice thick as she wiped angrily at her cheeks. "I'm crying because I'm tired and drunk and I hate that I ever agreed to this stupid arrangement."

Harry stood frozen, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. This wasn't the fiery Y/N he'd grown accustomed to sparring with. This was the girl from the lake, vulnerable and hurt.

Hurt that he'd caused, both then and now.

“because I wasted so much time wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why you hated me."

Harry's hand dropped away. "I never hated you," he admitted quietly. "I hated what you represented. The choice I was too weak to make."

Y/N wiped at her eyes, her vulnerability making her look younger, reminding him of the girl he'd known. "Your mother would have made your life hell."

"She did anyway," Harry said with a bitter laugh. "Just in different ways."

More silence stretched between them, but it felt different now—less hostile, more thoughtful.

"I didn't..." he began, then stopped, unsure what to say. "I wanted to come back."

Y/N went still, her back to him.

"My mother found out," he continued, the words coming reluctantly. "About us. About that day in the woods. Someone saw us and told her. She was... livid. Said she'd cut me off completely if I ever saw you again."

He moved closer, cautious as if approaching a wounded animal.

"I was sixteen, Y/N. Music was all I had. It was my only way out from under her thumb. If she'd cut me off, I wouldn't have had the money for the demos, for the connections I needed. I couldn't..."

"You couldn't choose me," Y/N finished, her voice small. "I understand."

"No, you don't," Harry sighed, the fight gone from him too. "I tried to send you a letter. My mother intercepted it. After that, she made sure we left early and never returned to that house. By the next summer, I was on tour. Everything happened so fast."

He hesitated, then placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. When she didn't shake it off, he gently turned her to face him.

"I'm not saying it was right," he said, looking down at her tear-streaked face. "I'm not saying I'm not a coward or an asshole. But I didn't forget you, Y/N. I just... couldn't have both worlds."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his face for the truth. After a moment, she nodded slightly.

"I waited for you," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "That whole next summer. Every day at our spot in the woods."

The confession hit Harry like a physical blow. He closed his eyes briefly, guilt washing over him.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words inadequate but sincere. "I should have tried harder to reach you. To explain."

Y/N nodded again, wiping away the last of her tears. "And I'm sorry for bringing it all up. It's ancient history now."

"Is it?" Harry asked, surprising himself with the question. His hand was still on her shoulder, and he was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing.

Y/N looked up at him, confusion evident in her expression. "What do you mean?"

Harry struggled to articulate the strange feeling in his chest—a mixture of nostalgia, regret, and something else he wasn't ready to name.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Just... today, with my mother. The way she talked to you. I hated it."

"You defended me," Y/N said softly. "I didn't expect that."

"Neither did I," Harry confessed with a hint of a smile. "Turns out there are limits to how much of her bullshit I can stomach."

Y/N gave a watery laugh, and the tension in the room eased slightly.

"We should try to get some sleep," she suggested, gesturing toward the bed. "Tomorrow's another day of pretending we don't want to strangle each other."

Harry nodded, but as they both climbed back into bed, he found himself saying, "What if we tried?"

"Tried what?" Y/N asked sleepily, already settling onto her side of the mattress.

"To not hate each other," Harry clarified, staring up at the ceiling again. "To at least... I don't know, call a truce or something."

There was a long silence, and he thought perhaps she'd already fallen asleep. Then he felt her shift slightly closer.

"I'd like that," she murmured, her voice soft with approaching sleep. "A truce."

"Goodnight, Y/N," Harry whispered, something unfamiliar and warm settling in his chest.

"Goodnight, Harry," she replied, and for the first time since their arrangement began, the silence between them felt peaceful rather than hostile.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the bedroom. Harry had woken early, his mind uncomfortably full with memories from the night before. The rawness of their conversation, the tears, the vulnerability—it all felt like too much in the harsh clarity of daybreak. 

He'd slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Y/N, and spent an hour in the home gym, pushing himself through a punishing workout as if he could sweat out the uncomfortable feelings taking root in his chest. By the time he returned upstairs, showered and dressed in fitted jeans and a simple white t-shirt that clung to his still-damp torso, he'd built his walls back up, brick by emotional brick.

Morning arrived with the gentle persistence of English summer sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. Y/N stirred slowly, the events of the previous night returning to her consciousness in fragments—whiskey in the library, unexpected laughter, confessions in the moonlight. A strange sense of vulnerability lingered, as if something fundamental had shifted while they slept.

She reached out automatically for her phone on the nightstand, checking the time. 8:47. Later than she usually woke, but understandable given how late they'd stayed up talking. Harry's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. He must have risen some time ago.

As she stretched and contemplated facing the day, Y/N wondered how their interaction would be affected by last night's unusual openness. Would there be an awkward acknowledgment? A tacit agreement to pretend nothing had changed? Or perhaps, optimistically, a slight easing of the constant tension that characterized their daily coexistence?

The answer came sooner than expected. As she descended the stairs, voices drifted from the kitchen—Harry's, and what sounded like Mrs. Patterson discussing the day's schedule. Y/N paused in the doorway, taking in the scene: Harry leaning against the counter in workout clothes, hair damp from a recent shower, scrolling through his phone while Mrs. Patterson arranged fresh flowers in a vase.

"Good morning," Y/N said, stepping into the kitchen.

Harry glanced up, his expression instantly hardening in a way that felt like a physical blow after the relative warmth of the previous night. His eyes, which had been soft in the firelight as he recalled teaching her to skip stones, were now cold and distant.

"Finally decided to join the land of the living?" he remarked, his tone carrying that familiar edge of condescension. "It's nearly nine."

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the sharp contrast to the man who had apologized in the darkness just hours ago. "I was tired," she said simply, moving toward the coffee maker. "We were up late."

"Some of us still managed to be productive this morning," Harry replied, gesturing to his workout clothes. "I've already been for a run, showered, and handled three calls with the label about the tour schedule."

Mrs. Patterson shot Y/N a sympathetic glance before busying herself with the flowers, clearly sensing the tension and wanting no part of it. This was familiar territory—Harry's subtle digs, the implication that Y/N was somehow failing to meet an arbitrary standard he'd set.

"Congratulations on your superior time management skills," Y/N replied, keeping her voice deliberately light as she poured juice into a mug—one of the everyday ones, not the "special" weekend pottery. "I'm sure your morning was far more virtuous than mine."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly, whether at her refusal to rise to the bait or simply from general irritation was unclear. "I've got meetings in the city all day," he said abruptly. "Don't wait up."

"Wasn't planning to," Y/N replied automatically, the familiar script of their antagonism reasserting itself with depressing ease.

Mrs. Patterson cleared her throat delicately. "Will you be wanting dinner when you return, Mr. Styles? I could leave something that could be easily reheated."

"No need," Harry said, still scrolling through his phone. "I'll be dining with the Sony executives. It will probably run late."

His tone carried a subtle implication—that these meetings were important, significant in a way that Y/N couldn't possibly understand. It was classic Harry, reinforcing the boundary between his world of music industry elites and her more ordinary existence.

"Very good, sir," Mrs. Patterson nodded, gathering her gardening shears and moving toward the door. "I'll just finish arranging these flowers in the sitting room."

As she left, a heavy silence fell between Harry and Y/N. It was Y/N who broke it, unable to reconcile the man before her with the one who had spoken with such unexpected honesty just hours ago.

"Is this how it's going to be?" she asked quietly, cradling her mug. "We have one honest conversation, and now you're going to be even more of an ass to compensate?"

Harry's gaze snapped up from his phone, his expression briefly revealing something—discomfort? guilt?—before settling back into cool indifference.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," Y/N pressed, setting her mug down with more force than intended. "Last night happened, Harry. We talked. Actually talked, for once. You apologized for something. And now you're acting like I've personally offended you by existing in your kitchen."

Harry's posture stiffened, his knuckles whitening slightly where he gripped his phone. "Last night was a mistake," he said flatly. "We'd both had too much to drink. I said things I shouldn't have."

"You mean you were honest for once?" Y/N challenged, frustration building. "God forbid you actually acknowledge that there's history between us, that we're not just strangers thrown together by circumstance."

"That's exactly what we are," Harry shot back, his voice hardening. "This is a business arrangement, Y/N. Nothing more. Whatever happened years ago is irrelevant to our current situation."

The dismissal stung more than it should have, given that it was nothing she hadn't heard from him before. Yet after the glimpse of a different Harry last night—one capable of reflection, of acknowledging past wrongs—the return to this cold, defensive version felt like a deliberate rejection.

"Right," she said, her own voice cooling to match his. "How could I forget? I'm just the shopkeeper's daughter who was convenient for your PR strategy. Nothing more."

Something flickered in Harry's eyes at her words—a brief crack in the façade before he reinforced it. "I have to go," he said, pushing away from the counter. "James is waiting with the car."

"Of course he is," Y/N murmured, turning away to stare out the kitchen window at the meticulously maintained garden. "Heaven forbid the great Harry Styles be delayed by an actual conversation."

Harry paused in the doorway, and for a moment Y/N thought he might say something more—might offer some explanation for his abrupt reversion to hostility. Instead, he simply adjusted his watch, his expression carefully neutral.

"Like I said, don't wait up."

With that, he was gone, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen with cooling coffee and the lingering sense that whatever brief connection they'd shared the night before had been deliberately severed.

She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, trying to process the whiplash of emotions. Had she imagined the significance of last night's conversation? Had it meant nothing to him beyond a momentary lowering of defenses due to alcohol?

No, she decided, recalling the genuine regret in his voice when he'd apologized for disappearing that summer. There had been real honesty there, however briefly. Which meant this morning's hostility was a deliberate choice. A retreat to familiar territory after venturing too far into emotional vulnerability.

Well into the night, Y/N remained at the window seat, watching as Harry emerged from the car in the driveway below. Even from this distance, his unsteady gait was evident as he stumbled slightly on the gravel, causing James to step forward with a steadying hand that Harry immediately shrugged off with visible irritation. She could hear the muffled sound of voices. James saying something in a concerned tone, Harry's response too slurred to make out the words but clearly dismissive in tone.

She hadn't seen Harry this drunk before. Throughout their four months of marriage, he'd been careful to maintain control, especially in public where photographers might be lurking. Whatever happened at his "business dinner" with Sony executives had clearly driven him past his usual limits.

Grumps lifted his head at the sound of the front door closing with more force than necessary, followed by a thud and muttered cursing that suggested Harry had collided with something in the foyer. The cat's ears flattened slightly before he settled back against Y/N's leg, apparently deciding the disturbance wasn't worth investigating.

Y/N debated whether to remain where she was or go downstairs. Their earlier interaction hardly encouraged her to seek him out, yet there was something about the uncharacteristic loss of control that worried her. Harry's public image, and by extension, their arrangement, depended on his maintaining a certain persona. If he was spiraling for some reason...

The decision was made for her when she heard the uneven progress of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the bedroom door swinging open with enough force to bang against the wall. Harry stood swaying in the doorway, his normally immaculate appearance in disarray, tie loosened and askew, top buttons of his shirt undone, hair disheveled as if he'd been repeatedly running his hands through it.

"Well, well," he slurred, his gaze finding her at the window seat. "If it isn't my lovely, devoted wife, waiting up despite being told not to."

The bitter emphasis he placed on "devoted" carried a weight of sarcasm that immediately set Y/N's defenses on edge.

"I wasn't waiting for you," she replied evenly, keeping her voice calm despite the tension coiling in her stomach. "I couldn't sleep."

Harry snorted, stumbling further into the room and collapsing onto the edge of the bed. "Couldn't sleep," he mimicked, his accent more pronounced in his inebriated state. "Worried about me, were you? How touching."

He fumbled with his tie, trying unsuccessfully to remove it before giving up with a frustrated grunt. The display was so at odds with his usual precise control that Y/N found herself rising from the window seat, concern temporarily overriding her irritation.

"What happened, Harry?" she asked, maintaining a careful distance. "This isn't like you."

His laugh was harsh, devoid of any real humor. "What would you know about what's 'like me'? You don't know me at all."

"I know you don't usually get drunk enough to barely stand," Y/N countered, crossing her arms. "I thought this was an important business dinner."

"Oh, it was," Harry replied, attempting to toe off his shoes and nearly toppling sideways in the process. "Very important. Lots of important people saying important things about my important career." 

He finally succeeded in removing one shoe, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. "And then my mother called the head of the label. Right in the middle of dinner. To express her 'concerns' about my recent behavior."

Y/N stiffened. "What concerns?"

"Apparently," Harry continued, his words running together slightly, "I've been 'overemphasizing my personal life' in interviews. Making our marriage 'too central to my public narrative.' Risking my 'long-term credibility with serious music critics.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, cutting tone with surprising accuracy despite his drunken state. The second shoe joined the first on the floor, followed by his suit jacket, which he shrugged off and tossed carelessly aside.

"She thinks I'm using you as a crutch," he added, his expression darkening. "That I'm hiding behind this—" he gestured vaguely between them "—this arrangement because I'm insecure about the reception of the new album."

"And the label executives agreed with her?"

Harry's laugh held a note of genuine bitterness that cut through the alcohol-induced looseness. "They're terrified of her. Always have been. My mother has connections throughout the industry. She's been shaping my career since before I had a career. So when Anne Styles calls with 'concerns,' everyone jumps to attention."

He attempted to unbutton his shirt, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. After watching him struggle for a moment, Y/N sighed and stepped forward.

"Let me," she said quietly, batting his hands away to deal with the buttons herself. It was an oddly intimate gesture for two people who maintained such careful distance, but the practicality of the situation overrode the awkwardness.

Harry's gaze fixed on her face as she worked, his expression unreadable beneath the glassy sheen of intoxication. This close, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, along with the lingering notes of his cologne and something else—cigarettes, though she'd never seen him smoke.

"They want to 'adjust the narrative,'" he continued as she finished with the buttons, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. "Less focus on being a 'settled family man,' more emphasis on me as a 'serious artist' focused on my craft. They're going to start planting stories about how absorbed I am in the new album, how I've 'retreated to focus on artistic exploration.'"

Y/N stepped back, processing the implications. "What does that mean for our arrangement?"

Harry shrugged, the movement loose and exaggerated. "Nothing changes officially. We're still married. You still get your money. I still get my..." he trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought momentarily. "Whatever I'm getting out of this."

The uncertainty in his voice struck a discordant note. Harry had always been clear about his motivations. The endorsements, the expanded fan base, the image reformation. This suggestion that he himself wasn't sure what he was gaining was new, and concerning.

"Harry," Y/N said carefully, "how much did you drink tonight?"

He waved the question away, falling back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. "Enough. Not enough. Who knows? The great Harry Styles, can't even handle his liquor properly. Another disappointment to add to the list."

The self-loathing in his voice was startling. A crack in the carefully maintained façade of arrogant self-assurance he typically projected. Y/N hesitated, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability.

"You should drink some water," she said finally, practical concerns overriding the complicated emotions swirling beneath the surface. "You're going to have a miserable headache in the morning as it is."

Harry's laugh held no humor. "Always so practical, Y/N. Always thinking about the sensible thing to do. Don't you ever just... lose control? Let yourself feel something without calculating all the consequences first?"

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. A criticism she'd heard before from friends who found her too cautious, too measured in her responses to life's challenges.

"Someone in this room has to maintain some sense," she replied, deflecting the personal nature of his inquiry. "And right now, it clearly isn't going to be you."

She moved toward the en-suite bathroom to get him water, but Harry's next words stopped her in her tracks.

"I saw your face this morning," he said, his voice suddenly clearer, as if he'd momentarily broken through the alcohol haze. "When I... when I was cold to you. You looked hurt."

Y/N turned slowly, finding him propped up on his elbows, watching her with an intensity that belied his drunken state.

"I wasn't hurt," she denied automatically, the lie transparent even to her own ears. "I was just surprised by the mood swing after... after our conversation last night."

"Liar," Harry said, the word lacking accusation, simply stating a fact. "You were hurt. I hurt you. I'm good at that, apparently. Hurting people. Especially people who..." he trailed off again, this time seeming genuinely lost in his own thoughts.

"People who what, Harry?" Y/N pressed, something in his tone making her heart beat faster despite her better judgment.

He shook his head, falling back onto the bed with his arm flung over his eyes. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. My mother's right. I'm making a mess of everything. The album, the tour, this marriage. All of it."

The defeated tone was so unlike him, so contrary to the confident, sometimes arrogant man, she'd lived with for four months. 

Y/N found herself moving to sit tentatively on the edge of the bed.

"That doesn't sound like you," she said quietly. "Since when do you let Anne dictate how you feel about your own life?"

A harsh laugh escaped him. "Since always. Haven't you been paying attention? My whole life is just... following her blueprint. Being what she wanted. The perfect son. The successful musician. Dating the right people from the right families. And the one time—the one time—I try to make a decision she doesn't approve of..."

He gestured vaguely toward Y/N, the movement uncoordinated and expansive. "Even this. Even marrying you. It wasn't really rebellion, was it? It was just... finding another way to prove something to her. Using you to make a point."

The blunt admission stung, despite being nothing Y/N hadn't already suspected. Still, having it confirmed so baldly, in Harry's own slurred words, felt like a physical blow.

"I knew what I was getting into," she said stiffly, rising from the bed. "This was always a business arrangement. Your motivations are your own business."

Harry sat up abruptly, reaching for her wrist with surprising coordination given his state. "No, that's not... I didn't mean..." He struggled visibly to organize his thoughts. "Last night, when we talked about that summer. About the kiss. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I'd come back? If I'd kept my promise?"

The question caught Y/N entirely off-guard, both its content and the raw vulnerability with which he asked it. She stared at him, trying to determine if this was genuine introspection or simply the rambling of a drunk man who wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

"It doesn't matter now," she said carefully, gently extracting her wrist from his grip. "We can't change the past, Harry."

"But what if we could?" he persisted, his eyes glassy but intent. "What if I'd stood up to my mother back then? What if I'd told her I wanted to spend time with the shopkeeper's daughter and didn't care what she thought? What if I'd been brave instead of... instead of whatever I was?"

The plaintive note in his voice made something in Y/N's chest ache. This was dangerous territory, speculating about paths not taken, possibilities that had withered years ago.

"You were sixteen," she said softly. "No one expects a sixteen-year-old boy to defy his mother, especially not one as formidable as Anne." 

Harry shook his head, the movement causing him to sway slightly. "I should have. I've spent over a decade doing exactly what she wanted, becoming exactly who she thought I should be. And for what? So she could call the head of my label and tell him I'm overemphasizing my marriage in interviews?"

His voice cracked on the last words, and to Y/N's horror, she saw his eyes filling with tears, actual tears gathering in the eyes of a man she'd never seen display genuine emotion beyond anger or irritation.

"I'm so tired, Y/N," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper 

Y/N hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. Her instinct was to comfort, but their history of antagonism made her wary of overstepping.

Still, something in his broken confession tugged at her, reminding her of the boy she'd once known. The one who'd taught her to skip stones and kissed her beneath the willow tree before disappearing from her life.

"T-tired of what, Harry?" she asked, her voice softening as she scooted closer on the edge of the bed. 

Harry's gaze fixed on her face, his green eyes glassy with alcohol and unshed tears. For a long moment, he said nothing, seeming to struggle with whether to continue down this path of unexpected honesty or retreat back behind his usual walls. The battle played out visibly across his features before he finally spoke, his voice rough and low.

"Tired of... pretending," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him something vital. "Tired of being what everyone expects. What my mother demands. What the label needs. What the fans want." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing in uneven tufts. "Tired of waking up every morning and putting on Harry Styles like he's a... a bloody costume I have to wear."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off-guard. This wasn't just drunk rambling. There was a depth of feeling behind his words that suggested these thoughts had been building for a long time, held back by the careful control he usually maintained.

"And what would you be," she asked carefully, "if you weren't being 'Harry Styles'?"

He laughed, the sound edged with something like despair. "That's just it. I don't even know anymore. I've been playing this part for so long I'm not sure where the performance ends and I begin." His hand found hers on the bedspread, gripping it with unexpected intensity. "Do you know who I am, Y/N? You knew me... before. Before all of this. Before I became... this."

The question was plaintive, almost childlike in its directness. Y/N looked down at their joined hands, his larger one enveloping hers completely, the familiar tattoos stark against his skin, and felt a strange ache in her chest.

"I knew a boy who loved to swim in the lake even when the water was freezing," she said quietly. "Who could skip stones farther than anyone I'd ever met. Who snuck me chocolate from the fancy box his mother kept for guests, even though he knew he'd be in trouble if she found out."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Harry's face at the memories. "I was better at skipping stones than you."

"You were," she acknowledged with a small answering smile. "You were patient enough to practice. I always got frustrated and gave up too easily."

His thumb traced an absent pattern on the back of her hand, the gesture unconscious and oddly intimate. "You were stubborn though. Wouldn't let me help you unless I pretended I was just as bad at it."

The fact that he remembered this specific detail, her childish pride, her refusal to accept direct instruction, was unexpected. Y/N had assumed those summers held little significance for him, especially given how easily he'd disappeared from her life afterward.

"That boy is still in there somewhere," she said softly, responding to his earlier question. "Under all the fame and the image and your mother's expectations. He's still part of who you are."

Harry's expression clouded, his grip on her hand tightening. "Is he? Sometimes I think that version of me died a long time ago. Killed by ambition or success or... or my mother's relentless fucking standards."

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, decades of resentment distilled into those few words. Y/N sensed they were approaching dangerous territory. Harry was revealing wounds he normally kept carefully hidden, even from himself.

"Maybe you just need to find him again," she suggested gently. "Reconnect with the parts of yourself that existed before all of this."

"How?" The question held genuine bewilderment, as if the concept of reconnecting with his authentic self was entirely foreign. "Everything I do is scheduled, managed, scrutinized. I haven't made a truly independent decision in years."

He laughed suddenly, the sound holding more genuine humor than bitterness this time. "Except marrying you. That wasn't in anyone's plan. Not the label's, not my manager's, and certainly not my mother's."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by this declaration. "I thought the whole point was that the label wanted you to seem more settled and relatable. That marrying a 'normal' girl would help with certain endorsements."

Harry shook his head, then immediately winced as the movement apparently intensified his dizziness. "That was the justification I gave them afterward. Made it seem like a strategic decision rather than..." he trailed off, seeming unsure how to complete the thought.

"Rather than what?" Y/N pressed, curiosity overriding her better judgment.

Harry's gaze found hers again, surprisingly direct despite his intoxication. "Rather than what it really was. A fuck-you to my mother. To everyone who's been controlling my life. And maybe... maybe a way to make up for what happened that summer. For breaking my promise to you."

The admission was too honest, too raw to be easily dismissed. Y/N felt her heart beating faster, unsure how to process this revelation. Had their entire arrangement been motivated not just by career strategy but by some lingering guilt over their shared past?

Before she could formulate a response, Harry's expression crumpled suddenly, the tears that had been threatening finally spilling over. One slid down his cheek, then another, until he was openly crying, quiet, shuddering sobs that seemed to surprise him as much as they did Y/N.

"Shit," he muttered, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the tears with the back of his hand. "Shit, I'm sorry. I don't... I never..."

The sight of Harry Styles––confident, controlled, perpetually composed Harry Styles—breaking down completely shattered Y/N's remaining hesitation. She moved closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders without conscious thought.

"It's okay," she said softly, feeling his body shaking against hers. "It's okay to feel things, Harry. Even the difficult things."

He turned toward her, his face pressing into her shoulder as if seeking refuge from his own emotions. His arms came around her waist, clinging with an almost desperate intensity as the tears continued.

"I'm so fucking tired," he repeated, the words muffled against her shirt. "I'm tired of disappointing everyone. The fans, the critics, my mother. You."

Y/N's hand moved to his hair automatically, stroking the soft strands in a soothing rhythm. "You haven't disappointed me, Harry."

He pulled back slightly to look at her, his face tear-streaked and vulnerable in a way she'd never seen before. "Haven't I? I've been awful to you. Every day for months. I've been cold and dismissive and... and cruel, sometimes. Because it was easier than admitting that I..." he swallowed hard, seeming to struggle with the words. "That I still care what you think of me. After all these years."

The confession hung between them, weighted with implications neither was prepared to fully examine. Y/N felt her own throat tighten with emotion she couldn't quite name. 

Not quite forgiveness, not quite understanding, but something in between.

"We've both been playing parts," she acknowledged softly. "The cold, demanding celebrity husband. The pragmatic, emotionless wife who's only here for the money. It's been easier than... than being real with each other."

Harry nodded, his forehead coming to rest against hers in a gesture of startling intimacy. "I don't know how to be real anymore," he whispered, his breath warm against her face, carrying the scent of expensive whiskey. "I've forgotten how."

Their faces were close now and Y/N could see every detail of his features. The fan of his lashes, damp with tears; the slight stubble along his jaw that would roughen into proper beard if left unattended; the small scar near his eye that makeup artists usually concealed for photoshoots.

His vulnerability in this moment was complete, all the careful artifice stripped away by alcohol and exhaustion and emotions too long suppressed.

"Maybe we could learn," she heard herself say, the words emerging before she'd fully formed the thought. "Together. How to be real again."

Harry's eyes searched hers, looking for something—sincerity, perhaps, or the catch that would reveal this as just another negotiation in their complicated arrangement. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

"I'd like that," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I've missed you, Y/N. Not just... not just now. But all these years. I've missed who I was when I was with you."

The confession struck her with unexpected force, a truth she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge: that she too had missed not just him, but the version of herself who had existed in those carefree summer days, before responsibility and hardship and the compromises of adulthood had reshaped her.

Before she could respond, Harry's eyes fluttered closed, his body slumping further against hers as exhaustion and alcohol finally overwhelmed him. His breathing deepened, the emotional storm passing as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving him drained and on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Harry?" she said softly, receiving only a mumbled, incoherent response.

With a sigh that held equal parts exasperation and unexpected tenderness, Y/N maneuvered him into a more comfortable position on the bed. She removed his remaining clothing down to his boxers—a task made easier by his semi-conscious state—and pulled the covers over him, positioning him on his side in case he became ill during the night.

As she moved to get him water and aspirin for the inevitable morning hangover, Harry's hand caught hers once more, his grip weak but insistent.

"Stay?" he murmured, the word slurred with approaching sleep. "Please?"

Y/N hesitated, weighing the emotional complexities of what had just transpired against the practical reality of a drunk man who likely wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. The vulnerability he'd shown had changed something between them, created a shift she wasn't sure either of them was ready to acknowledge in the cold light of day.

Yet the request itself was simple, human. A plea not to be left alone with the emotional aftermath of his breakdown.

"I'll be right back," she promised, gently extricating her hand. "Just getting you water and something for the headache you're going to have."

A faint smile touched his lips before his features relaxed completely into sleep. Y/N watched him for a moment, this unguarded version of Harry Styles so different from the man who had coldly dismissed her that morning. Would he remember any of this tomorrow? Would he retreat back behind his walls, pretend none of it had happened? Or would this unexpected moment of honesty create an opening for something different between them?

She didn't know, couldn't predict how either of them would navigate the aftermath of tonight's revelations. But as she went to fetch water and pain relievers, Y/N found herself hoping—against all practical judgment—that something of the connection they'd shared would remain when morning came.

When she returned to the bedroom, Harry was fully asleep, his breathing deep and even. She set the water and medicine on his nightstand, then hesitated, unsure whether to honor his request to stay or retreat to one of the guest rooms for the night.

After a moment's consideration, she changed into her nightclothes and slipped under the covers on her side of the bed, maintaining a careful distance between them. As she reached to turn off the bedside lamp, she glanced over at Harry's sleeping form, his face relaxed in a way it never was during waking hours.

"Goodnight, Harry," she whispered softly, before turning off the light and letting darkness envelop the room.

In the quiet darkness, Y/N lay awake for a long time, replaying Harry's tearful confessions and wondering what the morning would bring. Would he remember his vulnerability, his admissions about his mother's control, his suggestion that their marriage had been motivated by more than just business considerations? Or would alcohol erase it all, leaving them back at square one?

She didn't know the answer, and couldn't predict how either of them would navigate what had happened tonight. But as sleep finally began to claim her, Y/N found herself hoping.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: Phew! That was a long one. Yall really said you don’t mind the longer parts and I took that and RAN with it. I hope it wasn’t too long. But sheesh they really went at it in this one. Just kept escalating.

As always, thank you for reading <3

Taglist: Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite

[the-sweetest-slytherin]

Hyperfixated on Sanji right now, and I need all my other mentally unwell folks to lock in for this, because it's time for a very specific set of thoughts about some blond guy who does high kicks.

Sanji Has Nightmares

Kay so I'm of the opinion that Sanji has always had ✨crippling nightmares✨ because of what happened to him at the hands of his biological family. Having picked up on this, Zeff got into the habit of reading recipes and oceanography textbooks to Sanji to calm him down afterwards. Either because story books weren't available/Sanji insisted he didn't want any fairytales, or because Sanji just really is soothed by the recipes and facts about sea life.

They become less frequent as he ages, but never go away completely. As he gets older, more and more of these nights result in him pulling out his hair in his sleep or kicking Zeff by accident when the old man tries to rouse him. Nevertheless, after bonking the little eggplant once for good measure, Zeff never fails to read Sanji to sleep.

Sanji tells his crew mates about one of these times, wholeheartedly thinking it's just a funny little anecdote, meanwhile 2/3's of the crew look on in abject horror.

I think he probably manages to keep his nightmares under wraps for a good while, maybe even until just after Chopper joins up. He manages not to scream or cry in the night, and each time it happens, the chef simply makes his bed and sets to work on the kitchen. No matter what time it is, if he wakes up from a nightmare he is doing breakfast prep and inventory until dawn.

However after Nami almost dying, and being subjected to a lot of poking and prodding and needles and pills and- many other things that remind him of his unsatisfactory childhood, Sanji has a doozy of a dream, during which he wakes the whole ship.

I feel like the first time he wakes everyone up, it's straight to the kitchen with him, he is mortified. He brushes off everyone trying to ask if he's okay, locks the doors, and generally buries his head in the sand until daybreak. Whichever character suits your fancy (I pick Zoro) notices with a sinking feeling that breakfast has only looked this good a few times. Sure, it always looks and tastes great, but today's breakfast looks so intricate and decedent. Aesthetic bento box shit customized for each crew member on a Wednesday morning, completely unnecessarily. The dots are easily connected.

The next time it happens, having previously heard about Zeff's methods of calming Sanji, whichever character suits your fancy (I pick Zoro again) hastily grabs a cookbook from the chef's locker, and starts reading. Sanji calms down, maybe doesn't even wake up, perhaps there are cuddles involved?

I like to think it becomes a regular thing. Eventually Sanji comes around to the idea that his nightmares don't make him weak or flawed. Maybe the inciting incident for that acceptance being that whichever character suits your fancy (I pick, no surprises here, Zoro) has a nightmare and Sanji happens to wake up. Immediately, the first thing he does is grab his book and start reciting a strawberry shortcake recipe or something. One very sleepy marimo later, Sanji feels a little less self conscious.

Everyone on the crew has nightmares, and every once in a while, if someone wakes up in a cold sweat, a nearby crew mate who was woken up by their stirring will just go, "Cookbook?" And they'll sit there listening to the other drone on about whisking eggs and blanching greens until they fall to a peaceful sleep. (Note: Luffy has to have a snack if he is reading or being read the cookbook, otherwise no one gets any sleep.)

[thorne-kreizler-fanfiction]

-"Sometime during the night you both got rid of your clothes as your bodies demanded more closeness, your skin against his" YOUR BODIES DEMANDED MORE CLOSENESS, I'M SHOUTING

-"If the blade entered your king’s body a bit to the right or at a different angle, you would be sleeping in an empty bed and the only place you would be able to see Thorin’s face would be the marble effigy at his tomb in Erebor." You have no right to make me form tears like this

-"even if just for a moment" sTOP-

-"Now, however, in the darkness of the night, he is still yours, just for a while longer." oh-❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

-"The raven mane of his hair interspersed with silver strands, like veins of a precious metal encased in a rock" THIS WAS AMAZING WRITING AND VERY DWARVISH LIKE. I'm starting to suspect you are a dwarf…

-“Maralmizu, Thorin,” I need to close the computer and take a moment to regain composure-

-“'Can’t sleep?' he murmurs with a charming smile" MAHAL KEEP ME FROM GOING CRAZY

-Roäc!!!! I am going to CRY

-"A few clumsy niceties about how he enjoyed your time together and how he will always remember you, yadda yadda yadda." Lol. That's so sad but it made me laugh

-"This is the last time he plays you like his harp" ÄULE AND YAVANNA-

-"Nothing else matters beyond this little island of joy you created in the cruel ocean of time." stop this, please-

-"You are not afraid of the L-word any longer." I'M KICKING MY FEET

-THIS SMUT WAS SO CUTE😭

-ooh the amount of oceanic symbolism here😭

-"You are sure your hazy mind plays tricks on you. He has just called you his tiny songbird. He has called you his. No, you must have heard it wrong." STOP IT RAGNA I WANT TO ATTEND YOU TWO'S WEDDING BUT THAT CAN'T HAPPEN IF YOU DON'T SEE HE LOVES YOU TOO FOR DURIN'S SAKE!!1!

-"This blissful picture is not written in the stars, not for you." oh-

-"Perhaps they should have named him Stoneheart instead." oooh the dramaaaa

-"this is how a goodbye tastes like." STOP ITTTTT LATHALEA I WILL FIND YOU

-“Ragna… come with me to Erebor,” I JUST SCREAMED SOOO LOUDLY!!!1 FOR DURIN'S SAKEEEEE

-"No, of course not, you stupid, stupid Ragna! He just enjoys having you in his bed, have you forgotten about it again?" RAGNA STOP IT YOU ARE MAKING ME RAGE!!1!11

-"your own private map room if you wished so" I WANT TO CRY. HE'S SO THOUGHTFUL

-"His eyes are closed but you somehow know that they are as blue as his father’s." THE TURMOIL OF EMOTIONS I'M FEELING RIGHT NOW WILL MAKE ME EXPLODE

-"this is one of his flanking maneuvers" RAGNA YOU MAKE ME FUCKING MAD. JUST OPEN YOUR HEARTTT!!! WHY IS IT SO HARD TO ACCEPT LOVE??

-"looking more like a stone statue of one of his ancestors at the Main Gate of Erebor. Stern and lifeless." I want to cry. This writing is so great

“Tell me, Ragna. Let me hear it.” I screamed

-THORIN WHAT YOU DOINGGGGG YOU JUST HAD TO SAY "I LOVE YOU"

-"Instead, you have locked yourself in your rooms, trying to pretend that the world beyond your door doesn’t exist." I am fucking depressed and I feel a void in my heart

-i'm trying so hard not to hate on these two idiots but it's hard

-"One of Thorin’s braid beads. In your own bed." I'm crying

-"Since then, every day looks the same: work, work, more work, and staying at the office until late evening, until you are numb with tiredness." Oh I know how this goes. Trying to hide your heartbreak under piles of work papers. Yikes…

-"And then that bloody letter comes and turns everything upside down." MY HEART JUST SKIPPED A HEARTBEAT

-LATHALEA I HATE YOU FOR THIS AND BECAUSE I KNOW THAT NEXT CHAPTER WITH THORIN WILL HURT ME TWO

-I still have tears in my eyes...

All Is Fair in Love and Trade –  Part 6/9

Relationships: Thorin x Reader Rating: E Warnings: smut, angst

You can read the other parts here: The Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

For @gwen-ever 💙 Thank you for your support and help and everything else, you know yourself 🤩 A special thank you to everyone who has commented, reblogged and supported this fic! I'm really grateful to you all, you give me the strength to continue writing 💙💙💙

Khuzdul phrases: Maralmizu - I love you Zunshanush - [intimate diminutive] tiny bird Zunshanushê - my tiny bird

* * *

All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 6/10

Later that night

A tear rolls down your cheek and you sleepily wipe it away. Last wisps of a dream are quickly fading away, leaving you slightly disoriented. You can’t remember much besides a lingering feeling of softness and warmth. Something tickles at the tip of your nose. Something coarse and reassuringly warm, just like in your dream. You open your eyes and it takes you a moment to realize that you are still in Thorin’s bed, cuddled up to his bare chest. Sometime during the night you both got rid of your clothes as your bodies demanded more closeness, your skin against his. Now your lover is laying down on his side, one of his arms resting against your hip, your legs entangled, You run your hand through his thick chest hair, but he doesn’t react to your caress, still in deep sleep. Covering his left pectoral, there is a dark blue tattoo of a raven, barely visible in the faint light of a single candle. The tips of your fingers are tracing its outline, admiring the detailed pattern, feeling the strength of Thorin’s body slumbering beneath his skin.

Your gaze shifts down, to the side of his abdomen, where a long, knobby scar meanders through the peaks and valleys of his muscles. It is not the first time you see it, but only now you have a moment to look at it from up close. There are so many tales and songs about the Battle of Five Armies and the bravery of Thorin Oakenshield that you know very well how it was inflicted. Azog the Defiler. If the blade entered your king’s body a bit to the right or at a different angle, you would be sleeping in an empty bed and the only place you would be able to see Thorin’s face would be the marble effigy at his tomb in Erebor. Thank you, Mahal. Thank you for sparing his life. Thank you for bringing him into my life, even if just for a moment.

You have spent two weeks with him, only two weeks of your long lives, but it was enough to make your heart beat faster. It was still worth it, no matter the emotional turmoil you have been through. You know that whatever you have found in each other’s arms is going to end before long, in a couple of hours, as soon as the dawn of the new day comes. The King will return to his mountain, leaving your heartache in his wake. Now, however, in the darkness of the night, he is still yours, just for a while longer. Your fingers continue their explorations, as if trying to commit every inch of his body to memory. The raven mane of his hair interspersed with silver strands, like veins of a precious metal encased in a rock, his strong neck, the powerful line of his shoulders and arms, his broad torso narrowing into lean hips, his sinewy thighs dusted with coarse hair, pressed against yours, his legs intertwined with yours. Yes, you will always have your memories, the memories of an arrogant, irritating king, of a daring warrior, of a splendid lover. Of your Thorin and that tender smile he gave you in your bed last night, melting your heart. Now, his face is peaceful, the lines of his usual frown smoothed out by sleep. You feel a sudden, irrational burst of warmth in your chest and before you can think, you hear yourself speak. “Maralmizu, Thorin,” a shadow of a whisper leaves your surprised lips, and you are hoping that the night will keep your heart’s secret safe.

The tips of your fingers once again brush against the raven tattoo, the bird’s eye watching you attentively, its beak shut. A silent witness of your moment of weakness. You place your hand over the ornament and feel how Thorin’s chest is slowly rising and falling.

This would be a good moment to leave, you think, to disappear in the darkness while you still have the strength to do it in a composed manner. You have just said your farewell and there is nothing more keeping you here. You cast one last glance at Thorin’s oblivious face and start carefully disentangling your legs from his.

Suddenly, a hand covers yours on his chest and you are staring into the clear blue eyes of your king. Well, there goes your strategic retreat.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmurs with a charming smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Your raven kept me company,” you smile faintly, your muscles tensing in anticipation of what is to come. Woman up, Ragna! You have always hated goodbyes, and, let’s face it, you suck at them, but you know Thorin well enough by now to expect a short and efficient one. Look, he opened his mouth. Here it goes. You hold your breath. “Roäc?” one of his eyebrows lifts in surprise and his gaze follows yours to his chest, his hand still covering yours. “So he has a name?” you point your chin at the tattoo, letting out a sigh. Just a moment longer, then. “I had the tattoo made in Dunland, after Erebor fell, to remind me of what I left behind.” his face darkens, his hand clutches yours. “I raised Roäc from an egg, we were almost inseparable. But then Smaug came and every dwarf alive had to leave the Mountain.” “And… what happened to Roäc?”

“He stayed. He would not leave Ravenhill nor his kin,” Thorin closes his eyes for a barely noticeable moment.

“I am sorry to hear it,” you answer, your eyes set at your hands clasped together. “I never thought I would see him again, and yet he waited for me for over 150 years. Roäc was the first raven to greet me when I returned… home.” He makes a small pause and you see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“It must have been a happy day for you both,” you pat the image of the raven on his skin. “It taught me that one should never lose hope,” his intense gaze meets yours, and there is a new spark at the bottom of his eyes, something you can’t decipher.

“Hope…” you repeat. Hope. How ironic. Rapidly you close your eyes in an attempt to stop them welling with treacherous tears. Now is not the time, Ragna! You need to hold on a bit longer!

Thorin’s hand, still clasped together with yours, slides towards the center of his chest. You can clearly feel his strong heartbeat beneath your palm.

“Ragna, I…” he says. Oh. Absorbed by his words, you have completely forgotten about what has to happen now. You’ve had enough lovers to know where this is going. A few clumsy niceties about how he enjoyed your time together and how he will always remember you, yadda yadda yadda. After that, it will be time for you to leave for your chambers where a cold and empty bed is waiting for you while he is to return to his comfortable life in Erebor. The end.

You decide to save you both the embarrassment of that meaningless conversation and bid him goodbye in the only way you are good at. When you place your finger on Thorin’s sensual lips, his eyes widen in surprise, but not another word leaves his mouth. Instead, your hand moves to his bearded cheek, cupping it gently, enjoying the tickling sensation of his beard gently scraping against your palm for the last time. And then you kiss him.

He lets out a hum when your lips meet his. But this is not a ravenous, hungry kiss from before. It tastes like the first strawberries of summer, fresh and sweet, making your lips tingle, its careful tenderness going straight to your head. His hand sinks in the hair at your temple, his fingers gently running through your locks.

“Ragna…” he breathes against your mouth, his nose rubbing against yours, his thumb brushing against your cheek. But this is not the time for talking. You place a small kiss at the corner of his lips, and then another and another, sealing them with a myriad of soft pecks. His hand cups the back of your head and he responds, peppering your whole face with gentle kisses. He moves his lips lower and you stifle a small whimper when he repeats his ministrations on your neck.

“Ragna…” he murmurs against your throat, and then kisses you just below your earlobe, eliciting another whimper from you.

“Ragna...” his lips brush against your ear, gentle like a dove’s wing, making you purr with pleasure, while his hand starts unhurriedly travelling down your back, tracing the line of your spine, making you shiver with delight. This is the last time he plays you like his harp and you want to make the most of it.

Thorin’s hand slides down to your waist and then slowly, sensually travels up again, while his lips trail over the swell of your breast. Passion stirs inside you as you press your hips towards him, feeling the red-hot hardness of his manhood between you. A rumbling groan leaves him as his mouth attentively worships every curve of your breasts. Oh, Mahal, you want to feel him all over your body. When his thumb brushes against your nipple, a shadow of a moan escapes you.

“Ragna…” he murmurs once more. Now he is back to kissing your mouth with impossible ardour, and you are drawn to his eyes, darkened with lust. They remind you of a sea on the brink of a storm.

No, you are not going to let him talk. Not now. Not yet. Knotting your hands in his hair you return his kiss. You revel in the hardness of his warrior’s body against yours, sensing the signs of a coming squall that is going to carry you both away.

You place your hand on his chest and push it gently. When his back rests flat against the bed, your lips cover his, meeting in yet another sensual kiss. Your silky locks fall around you, a curtain of hair shielding you both from the whole world. Now, in this very moment, it is only you and him. Nothing else matters beyond this little island of joy you created in the cruel ocean of time.

Unhurriedly, savoring the moment, you straddle his hips. A spark of recognition flickers in Thorin’s eyes and a familiar half-smile appears on his face as his hand travels upwards along your thigh to rest on your bare hip. You wrap your hand around his silky hardness and guide it straight to your core.

“Ragna...” he purrs as you lower your body on him, taking in his formidable length, your breathing shallow. His fingers dig into your skin as you are impaling yourself in one steady push. It feels so ecstatic. So right.

He is buried in you to the hilt, but doesn’t move, waiting for you to adjust to him. You rest your hands on his chest, taking in deep breaths and finding his gaze. His eyes are like the late evening sky on a warm summer evening, adorned with flickering stars. A silly thought crosses your mind: if you were to make a wish now, would you see a falling star in his firmament, carrying it to fulfilment?

Please, stay with me.

“Ragna, lovely Ragna,” he whispers.

As you hover over him, Thorin cups your cheek, oblivious to your unspoken plea. There is something in the way he speaks, something sweet and tender, that once again makes you wish you could hear him say your true name in this tantalizing voice of his.

“Thorin,” you respond, leaning into his palm and brushing your lips against it. Your chosen name for his chosen name. Your heart for his passion. A fair exchange. No strings attached. One last time.

This is when you rock your hips against him for the first time. Not breaking the eye contact between you, you lift yourself up slightly only to slide all the way down with a sigh accompanied by his low grunt.

Don’t let me leave. Please, don’t go.

This slow, sensual dance of your bodies is what you would call lovemaking. You are not afraid of the L-word any longer. You pour your heart into every caress, every move you make. It does not matter if he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. Yours will have to be enough for both of you tonight. It is your farewell gift for the king of your heart.

Please, show me, how can I melt your heart? How can I make you see?

Thorin’s hands are wandering across your skin, caressing you gently, as if he was admiring a marble statue sculpted by the greatest stone masters of Erebor. The intense feel of his manhood inside you is overwhelming. Taking in the new, incredible sensations, your body continues the slow, steady movements. Now it is not about chasing the diamond peaks of pleasure; it is about enjoying these precious moments between you for as long as you can. It is as if Thorin understands your thoughts, because his caresses become in an equally unhurried manner; his every touch is attentive and careful, leaving your skin tingling with delight.

I want this night to last forever. Please, let it never end.

His eyes are hooded with pleasure, the dark waves of his hair scattered across the pillows. Thorin is yours now, just for a few moments longer. Only yours. You press your weight against him, taking him in once again, rocking back and forth with a moan while he pulls you down, his hands caressing your back and buttocks tenderly. A whimper escapes your lips at this change of angle, all the sensations intensifying, your breasts pressed against his muscular chest.

Thorin’s hands firmly rest on your hips as he thrusts up into you, slowly, purposefully, again and again, finding a way to plunge deeper inside of you than ever before, not stopping, navigating you both through the wild waves of your ocean of passion.

“Ragna…” the sound of his deep, husky voice fills your ears as he thrusts into you once more.

With a stifled cry of pleasure on your lips, you give in to your passion. Your body tenses in with pleasure, waves of ecstasy washing over you, taking over all of your senses. But you are not alone. Thorin is there, not letting you go, riding out the storm beside you. You are holding onto him as if he was your raft on the high seas, your only salvation on the stormy waters of the ocean. A few more erratic thrusts and his delicious warmth spills inside you, making you shiver with pleasure. He is right there with you, sharing your bliss, your hearts beating to the same rhythm.

My heart belongs to you. Only you.

“Thorin…” you whisper into his skin, as you lay down, your limbs heavy with bliss, your cheek against his chest, clinging to him, feeling his arms closing around you in a tight embrace.

“Zunshanushê,” he murmurs back tenderly, his fingers running through your hair as the storm of ecstasy slowly subsides around you. You are sure your hazy mind plays tricks on you. He has just called you his tiny songbird. He has called you his. No, you must have heard it wrong. The word he must have spoken was Zunshanush. Just a tiny songbird. A pet name. A songbird from the Iron Hills he will perhaps recall from time to time with a smile, back in Erebor.

You wish the circumstances were different. You would have been his Ragna, and he could have been your Thorin. You would start each day with a kiss and braid each others’ hair every morning. You would fall asleep in a tight embrace every evening, just like you are embracing now. And then, a little pebble or two would appear in your lives, giggling, saying their first words, making their first steps, running happily around the mountain, learning to ride a pony...

Ragna, you need to pull yourself together and stop being mawkish. This blissful picture is not written in the stars, not for you. First of all, you are painting an ideal, overly romantic picture of your happy life with none other than the arrogant, bullheaded King Under the Mountain! Have you suddenly forgotten how irritating and full of himself he is? Have you forgotten how you both have your separate lives and completely different duties to fulfil? And if that wasn’t enough, there is the matter of you living under two completely different mountains, separated by days and days of travel.

You know what you have to do now. Get up, gather your things and go. You have to ignore the whispers of your heart and forget how good it feels to have his strong arms around you, once and for all. Need something to snap out of it? How about this tiny little detail: Thorin Oakenshield is only interested in your body, nothing more. Perhaps they should have named him Stoneheart instead. The only way you are going to have your “happily ever after” with that dwarf is in your dreams. Damn your luck and your silly feelings. Couldn’t you have fallen for someone else? Preferably not an extremely annoying and unfeeling king?

There is something wet on your cheek, and you brush it away, only to realize that these are your tears. You feel their salty taste on your tongue. This is how a goodbye tastes like.

“Ragna, what is it?” Thorin murmurs into your hair.

You press your face into his chest in panic. He can’t see that you are crying! The last thing you want is for him to pity you. Take a deep breath. That’s it. Calm down, Ragna, you can do it. You know how to hide your emotions. Imagine you are back in the council chamber.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” you hear yourself say and then you clear your throat. “It is almost dawn, isn’t it?”

You can almost hear his heart beating in the silence that falls after your words. And then he takes a deep breath. “Ragna… come with me to Erebor,” he says, pressing his lips against your head.

Oh. You have not seen it coming. Does he mean…? No, of course not, you stupid, stupid Ragna! He just enjoys having you in his bed, have you forgotten about it again? The only thing that matters to him is not your sharp mind, but the thing you have between your legs! And now he is probably thinking that you will gladly obey him, like a lowly scullery maid, becoming simply yet another submissive woman in the long line of his conquests, just because his majesty wishes so! Over your dead body!

“That’s a good one!” a dry laughter escapes you as you feel a stab of pain in your chest. You hope Thorin doesn’t notice how much the sound you have just made resembles a sob. He doesn’t join your chuckles, but grunts instead.

“Does my proposal sound amusing to you?” his words rumble in his chest against your cheek. You sit up to face him, feeling the anger, the pain, the disappointment rising their ugly heads within you.

“Return with you? As what? As a lo…” great, here we go again. The L-word refuses to pass your mouth this time. “As the king's concubine?”

“Would it be that bad?” he rises on his elbows, meeting your gaze. “Come with me and stay in Erebor. You will have everything you could ever imagine, and more. New apartments in the royal wing, dresses, jewels, your own private map room if you wished so, and a table.”

“A table?” you frown.

“Yes, a table, and two comfortable armchairs by the fireplace. We will sit there in the afternoon and you will tell me how bad my ideas are and how much you dislike them... And yes, I will be the one to keep you warm in my bed at night.”

“Do you think I want this?” your frown deepens. Seriously. Is he that stupid?! It looks like you need to spell it out for him. “Do you think I would like just being just rich and doing nothing all day long while you are busy with the matters of state?” Thorin shakes his head slowly and sighs.

“For most of my life, I did not have any of these riches, but now I can use them in any way I wish. You deserve a life in luxury, Ragna...” he sits up and tries to take your hand in his, but you move away. You know very well that the moment he touches you, the moment you feel that pleasant tingling on your skin, you will agree to anything he proposes.

“What luxury would it be if I wouldn’t be able to speak with you nor anyone else for more than an hour a day or so? What about every single of my actions being closely observed and scrutinized by everyone under the mountain?! Oh, and I almost forgot about people bowing at me just because I happen to sleep in your bed! Is this what you think I want? A golden cage?!” you hear your heart pounding in your ears.

“Do not speak to me of golden cages!” he gives out a roar. “I lived in one, and I know how it feels, both inside and outside! If you come with me, you will not have to suffer any of it. I am offering you only what is best! Can you not see it?”, his stormy stare bores through you as he leans towards you, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set in anger.

“So now I am to throw my whole life away on your whim only to pleasure you every night?! And to be shunned when you are bored with me?” your hand clenches into a fist. Does he not see how much pain he has caused you already? Why is he adding more? Is he really that thick?!

“This is not…” he starts, but your fury takes over and you cut him off. You are not finished yet. “What about my career? Do you have any idea how hard I have worked to become Lord Dain’s advisor? How important my work is for me? Do you think I can abandon my responsibilities just like that?!” you throw words at him as if they were daggers. “And you have the nerve to propose it now, knowing how much depends on the upcoming treaty negotiations with Mirkwood?!”

“I do not care about Mirkwood!” he roars back at you. “It has nothing to do with you and me!”

“Well, then clearly we are of different opinions on this matter! A good negotiator thinks of everything before presenting their offer, and you clearly haven’t! Are you even speaking to the right person? Why me? You can have any other woman to warm your bed at night!”

“Ragna…” he growls your name in one long purr. “Are you truly asking me this? Have we not been enjoying ourselves?”

“This is not the point! Here, I’m respected, I’m making a difference, and in Erebor, I’d be just another bed warmer!” you spit out the last words as if they scorched your tongue. “Do not speak of yourself this way! This is not who you will be under my Mountain!” he slams his hand against the bed.

“Then who would I be? What would happen if you were to find yourself a queen? Would I be expected to keep on being your mistress, discreetly hidden away in the deepest corridors of the mountain? Serving her king whenever he feels like?” you feel the salty taste of tears on your tongue, an explosive mix of pain and rage running through your veins. A hazy image suddenly appears before your eyes, you looking at a sleeping babe in a beautiful bed as you brush one of his dark locks off his face. His eyes are closed but you somehow know that they are as blue as his father’s. “What if I were to give you a child? What life would I be expected to lead, along with your bastard son or daughter? Would we be required to live away from you, from anyone’s sight, not to offend your queen’s sensibilities? Or would we have to leave your mountain, never to return?! Do you really think I’m like one of your ladies, ready to fulfil any of your wishes, without a single thought?”

A dark silence fills the chamber for an eternity, or maybe it is just a few heartbeats. At this point, you are not sure any longer. Thorin’s bedchamber feels equally dark, as dark as the vision of your hypothetical, but quite probable future in Erebor. Luckily for you, you won’t let the stupid, arrogant dwarf in front of you destroy your life. Now he is glaring at you without a word, his own face set into a grim expression. And then he explodes.

“Stop this nonsense at once, Ragna! It won’t happen! Nothing of the things you said will happen! You are different! Do you hear me?!” Sparks of anger brighten his stormy eyes.

“How can you say that?! How do you know?! And am I truly different from other women who keep you company at night? Different how?” You demand. Did he really think you imagined him to act like a chaste and proper ruler from the ancient dwarven legends? Did he expect you to think that his nights in Erebor were filled only with peaceful sleep and thoughts about the bright future of his beloved kingdom? Seriously. Life is not a fairy tale.

The King opens his mouth, looks at his fisted hand and unclenches it slowly. Then he clears his throat and lowers his gaze along with his voice, “I sleep better when you are around.” He has to be joking. That sudden change in him baffles you. What is he up to? Is he trying to soften you up? What a cheap trick.

“Let me get this straight. The King Under the Mountain wants me to go with him to Erebor so that he has pleasant dreams?”

Thorin looks back at you, and you can notice a shadow passing over his eyes as he sighs.

“This is not what I mean, Ragna,” he says in a quiet voice.

You pause for a moment, tilting your head slightly. This… this is so unlike him. It takes you a moment, but then you understand. He is a great strategist, that is what they say about him, and this is one of his flanking maneuvers. Everything is a battle to him, even your last conversation. This is a way for him to gain an advantage over you and counterattack when you least expect it. You have to be on your guard, Ragna!

“What do you mean, then? Have you forgotten our arrangement? It was just an adventure, a treat to sweeten up the negotiations,” you retort, ignoring the stinging tears. You can’t stop them from running, you can’t swallow them any longer. Each of them burns a trail down your cheek. It hurts more than you expected it to.

“So it was all business to you? This? An additional hidden clause to this trade agreement?” he gestures at the crumpled bed sheets around you, his shoulders suddenly sagging. Now that shadow is cast over his whole face, its features set in stone. But perhaps it is just a trick of light. Because… he can’t be that sad, can he? It is not as if he was about to lose his favorite trinket. Besides, he has a whole damn treasury of them! He won’t ever notice your absence; while you… you know you will never forget him. You wipe off the tears from your cheeks. He follows your movements with his eyes, but never makes a move, looking more like a stone statue of one of his ancestors at the Main Gate of Erebor. Stern and lifeless.

“I…” for the first time in your life the words fail you. You feel his gaze burning your face. How can you tell him how you feel…? How can you find words to describe this shard wedged painfully into your heart, making you feel restless, clouding your mind, making you change into a helpless puddle of emotions every time he is around…?

“Tell me, Ragna. Let me hear it.”

But the right words don’t come. You will not give him the satisfaction of an answer so he can gain the upper hand and easily use you any way you like. The moment you tell him how you feel, you are lost. So you stare at your hands instead, trying to control their trembling.

Thorin waits for a few heartbeats and then speaks, as if to himself, “I see.”

He gets up from the bed and walks over to his desk, the light from the fireplace dancing over his muscular, well-honed body of a warrior. But you realize the time has come. From now on, the Thorin who held you close mere moments ago is out of your reach. Only Thorin II, King Under the Mountain remains. You search blindly for your clothes, your vision blurry. When you raise your gaze, he is already dressed, wearing a pair of loose trousers and a crumpled shirt that somehow makes him look even more alluring, and yet no longer yours to touch.

“You are right, Lady Ragna, this was just a negotiation.” he speaks coldly, in an official manner, and yet you notice a hint of anger ringing in his voice. Clearly, he is not as unaffected as he wants you to think.

You made him furious, and you are glad. An eye for an eye. He shouldn’t have offered you that humiliating arrangement. He shouldn’t have hurt you the way he did, but he did, and now he is paying for it.

King Thorin Oakenshield’s back is turned towards you, while his hands rummage among the papers on his desk. “I will not require you any longer. That will be all.”

Not able to utter even a word, you dress as quickly as you can, and leave his chambers, ignoring the shaking of your hands, and the heavy weight in your chest. This is for the best, isn’t it? So, what is wrong with you? Then why are you feeling the way he surely wanted you to feel? So worthless, so replaceable? As one of the many tools he would use in the forges, and then cast it aside when it is no longer needed, and then move from one anvil to another. An object. That is what he made you feel like. Once something useful, something important in a way, now an useless piece of scrap metal. You are happy he is suffering, you are happy that for once you made him feel something, something that was not pride, nor triumph. You are happy, Ragna, aren’t you? But if you are happy, then why your tears won’t stop tonight, why every breath hurts so much, why do you want to turn back? Why do you want to run into his rooms and take back every word you said? Isn’t it exactly what you have wanted in the very beginning? A profitable trade agreement and a bit of fun on the side?

* * *

This is the last time you speak with the King Under The Mountain during his visit to the Iron Hills. You don’t get any sleep in the early hours of the morning, but you arrive to the council chamber for the ceremonial signing of the treaty, making sure you look your best, wearing the most lavish gown you own (the one with the deepest cleavage, to turn away everyone’s attention from your reddened eyes). You make a point of staring at the painting of Lord Dain’s great-great-great-great grandfather while he and the king make their speeches. His majesty signs the cursed treaty, but Thorin never graces you with even the smallest of his looks, his brow constantly furrowed, his gaze as stormy as the autumn sky.

Afterwards, Lord Dain applauds you for serving the Iron Hills admirably and securing favorable treaty terms. Everyone else congratulates you for another great success. Soon after, the King of Erebor leaves back to his Mountain. You should feel triumphant, but instead you hear that little voice inside you growing louder as the distance between you grows: “Was this truly what you wanted, Ragna? Was it?”

* * *

Thorin is gone. The king left the Iron Hills a couple of hours ago. You have never gone to the Main Hall to bid him farewell as everyone else did after the treaty was signed. Instead, you have locked yourself in your rooms, trying to pretend that the world beyond your door doesn’t exist.

Thorin is not here. Sitting down on your bed, you move your hand across the mattress, as if hoping to feel the lingering heat of his body. Unfortunately, the bedsheets are unpleasantly cold under your touch.

Thorin has left. He is not coming back. Your bed is empty. Just like your heart.

You are about to get up when your fingers find something small and hard beside one of your pillows. One glance is enough to recognize it. One of Thorin’s braid beads. In your own bed. As if you weren’t trying to forget that he was here, along with his warm gaze, gentle kisses and tender caresses. You still remember the way he held you in his arms. Something aches in your chest and you need to take a deep breath to chase the tears away.

Bringing the bead to your eyes, you recognize all the details. It is made of silver, and there is a small sapphire along with the rune “T” and the symbol of the royal house of Erebor etched in it. You barely register when your hands find one of your braids and clasp the bead around it. The glistening metal complements your hair color well. You steal a glance at your reflection in the bedroom mirror. This is how you could have looked like in another life. Sighing hopelessly, you shake your head. Oh dear, Ragna, is this how bad it got you? Dreaming away about wearing Thorin’s marriage braid along with his bead? Weren’t you supposed to hate being chained to another dwarf this way, surrendering your independence, your freedom? Ah, well. Last night made clear that certain things between you were never meant to happen. Forcefully, you pull off the bead from your hair and throw it blindly on the floor, your vision blurry once more, your cheeks wet yet again. Stupid Ragna. Stupid negotiations. Stupid king.

You decide to sleep on the reclining armchair in the study that night and every night since then. Every time you look at your empty bed, your mind makes you recall how it looked when he was there, so close to you, slumbering peacefully, not a frown sharpening his features. It hurts. You have to ask one of the maids to change your bed linen. Why? Because Lady Ragna, one of Lord Dain’s chief advisors, cannot be trusted to change her own bed sheets. If you had a chance, you would press your nose against the crumpled fabric, inhaling Thorin’s lingering scent, and then shed another round of helpless tears. All because of that one evening you spent together in your chambers, kissing and embracing. Damn him.

That one evening of wallowing in self-pity and drowning your sorrows in Dorwinion wine you promised yourself turns into three days. On the fourth day, Lord Dain finds you in your office sleeping on a pile of documents. You have completely forgotten about that inspection of the forges you were supposed to attend to together with him on that day. You mumble your apologies, trying to ignore the pounding headache and a wave of nausea. He sends you home, telling you to sleep it off.

On the fifth day, you come to your office completely sober and throw yourself into work. Somehow, you manage to survive the day without thinking of Thorin more often than twice every hour. Since then, every day looks the same: work, work, more work, and staying at the office until late evening, until you are numb with tiredness. This way you fall asleep before your head hits the pillow, even though your dreams do not bring you any relief. You don’t really care about it, because at the end of the third week you manage to work out a fragile truce between your heart and your mind (hey, you’re a great negotiator, after all!). The deal is simple: you don’t think and don’t speak about Thorin, making an effort to bury all the memories of him in the deepest corners of your brain. In return, the constant dull pain in your chest is becoming more and more tolerable every day. And then that bloody letter comes and turns everything upside down.

* * *

Three weeks after Thorin Oakenshield’s visit to the Iron Hills

You are staring at a piece of thick parchment emblazoned with golden letters, the Royal Seal of the King of Erebor proudly gracing its bottom part.

Your eyes glide over all the mandatory titles and lengthy niceties only to focus on a single sentence:

It is with great honor that we invite Lady Ragna, daughter of Eldi, to the annual Durin’s Day Feast in Erebor.

The letter is signed in black ink, and you recognize the handwriting:

Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain

The parchment is shaking. No, your hand is shaking. And your heart is beating fast, too fast. Ragna, calm yourself down! It’s just a stupid letter! You take a deep breath. Then you fill your goblet with water (you can’t even look at the Dorwinion wine any longer, not since… nevermind!) and drink it in one gulp. You read the invitation again, but the blasted letters don’t want to disappear nor form another name. It is clearly addressed to “Ragna”. You.

Thorin Oakenshield, the king of all the Dwarves of Middle-Earth, the dwarf who captured your heart and then tore it apart, wants you to attend his famous Durin’s Day Feast.

Shit.

* * *

The Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

Please let me know how you liked this chapter! 🌟🌟🌟Oh, and I have a small announcement to make! 🌟🌟🌟 This fanfic grew yet again (surprise), a bit more (surprise) than I thought it would (surprise). So next week you are going to get a new surprise chapter - showing what happens with Thorin after he returns to Erebor and before he sends that letter to Ragna.

Read it? Like it? Reblog it! Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @jotink78 @anyaspidergirl-blog @tschrist1 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @xmly-xo @justfollowtheroad @kirenia15 @linasofia @bitter-sweet-farmgirl

[theshiftingwitch]

What to do when nothing is working

I see you're spiraling again.

Mhm, what's gotten you in a rut this time?

"I've been trying to manifest this thing/person/opportunity for months now and nothing is happening! I'm so fucking tired."

Valid.

Your emotions are valid.

Your frustration is valid.

You're allowed to feel down when everyone else is seeing great results and you are seemingly doing everything right and still having nothing to show for it.

It fucking sucks! I get it.

We have all been there.

Allow me to tell you what to do when things get bleak and you don't know what to do anymore.

Step n°1: take a few steps back.

You're way too invested in the problem to see the solution. Begin by walking away from all of it. Not forever, obviously. Not for months or years, just for however long it takes you to recenter yourself. It could be minutes, it could be days, you decide.

Go back to the basics.

We get caught up in methods and techniques and challenges and saturation sessions that our vision gets clouded and we miss the bigger picture. So take a few steps back, and like a scientist frustrated with the results of their experiment or an author suffering from a writer's block, you too should go back to the drawing board.

Look up the definitions.

What is the law of assumption?

What is reality shifting?

What is manifesting?

Keep them short, each definition should be exactly 1 (ONE) sentence. Don't overwhelm the system.

Step n°2: regulate your nervous system.

Now that you have a basic, simple, and easy understanding of the core concepts of this experiment, you need to get your body on board.

Losing your shit every time something goes awry means you're stuck in fight or flight. Your nervous system is fried, and you can't function properly without a fine-tuned motherboard.

Regulate.

What does that look like?

• Box breathing (inhale for 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4)

• Humming (it works okay?!)

• Walking, dancing, sitting in the sun, moving your body and getting out of your own head.

• Taking a cold shower (only if things are dire, don't get sick and blame me!)

• Screaming into a pillow (don't scare the neighbors)

• journaling (get your feelings and thoughts out of your mind and on paper)

You can do this over the course of a couple of days (preferably every day for the rest of your life, you want to be in tune with your body.)

Step n°3: Stop over-consuming.

You're scrolling on Tumblr, digging through Twitter, obsessed with TikTok (yikes on bikes) and you're listening to every guru and coach and expert on the planet. You know what that creates?

Noise.

Unnecessary, confusing, overwhelming noise that is drowning out the one voice you should be listening to.

Yours.

Your intuition knows what's up. She can guide you to the easiest, fastest way to get everything you want, you have to listen to her.

Step n°4: relax.

If you've done your homework as given to you in step 1, then you truly understand the law now. What you desire is already yours, right? You have it because that's your assumption and assumptions do not need proof (that's how an assumption works!) so even if you're not seeing any proof, you still have it. Right?

And what does the person who has all of their desires do?

Chill.

Lounge on a tropical beach. Drink mimosas or dry Martinis or bloody Mary (can you tell I'm an expert at this?) read a book, watch a tv show, hang out with your friends, make shopping lists, do your makeup/hair, go for walks, talk to the nymphs, make friends with the fae (do not give them your real name!) create a work of art, write, sing, dance, make love, share your thoughts, scream, squeal, live!

You came here to live.

And finally, I will leave you with this.

You are god.

You are love.

You are peace.

You are all that you desire because none of it would exist without you.

You are the creator.

You are everything.

Return back to yourself.

Happy manifesting ❤️

[lightlycareless]

i have a headcanon that naoya loves slapping y/n ass 😭 poor girl

Hellooooo anoooon!!!! Thank you for waiting!!

Sometimes I get these very specific asks where I'm like "I haven't thought about it but am I glad this was brought up to my attention."

Thank you so much for sending this in, I really enjoy writing the perverted Naoya that kind of guides himself through his desires :) I really need to make him more debauched lol.

Anyways, here are the warnings: slight nsfw. just innuendos here and there, nothing explicit. but still, minors please don't interact.

Happy reading!!

Honestly, that is just one of his many fixations when it comes to your body, perhaps his focus solely depends on his mood that day. Sometimes it’s your chest, and sometimes your ass. But once he sets his mind into tormenting you there is no stopping him—it’s like it were physically impossible to not slap your butt. Naoya simply has to or he’ll go insane!

To which you… go along with. Most of the time, sometimes… though you enjoy the playful connotations behind his actions, you still get flustered for them! Naturally so if he always did them in front of others, even if he proclaimed to do so discreetly.

But that wasn’t the point of this at all! Far from it, actually. It all boiled down to a single question, every single time: was it really necessary for him to slap, pinch, squeeze, and fondle your ass, every minute of the day?!

For someone as debouched as Naoya, yes. And you’d do good, as everyone else, to accept this fact and move on if there was the slightest wish to accomplish anything at the estate.

Yet, as much as you loved Naoya and all his peculiarities, indulged them too as well, you’d soon reach the limit where you could no longer permit his excessive enjoyment to perturb you anymore.

Not when in the presence of innocent bystanders, and certainly not when it starts to hurt.

“Naoya!” you cry the moment his hand lands against your bottom once again, giving a loud smack that made everyone around red, quick to look away less they wished to suffer Naoya’s irrational jealousy, or your shocking frustration at the now shattered pieces of your favorite tea set. “That was—”

“Oh, oops.” He sheepishly apologizes, and if that wasn’t clear enough to prove his indifference at the whole situation, his following words did. “But I can always get you a new one.”

“That was—what is wrong with you?! That was my favorite set!! A gift from my sister!”

“Y/N, it’s just a matter of reaching out to her and asking—”

“No, you’re not going to buy your way out of this!” you interject, with a loud, clear voice that rattles Naoya for a moment, never seen you this agitated before…

“My love, truly, it was just an accident—"

“It’s not an accident if it happens all the time!”

“All the time? Just how many teapots do you think I’ve broken??”

“That’s not—You know I’m not talking about that!”

“Is that so? Well, whatever it is, you never seemed to have a problem with it before… I don’t know why it’s suddenly such a nuisance.”

“… you know what? I need some air.” And without anything else to add, you motion the nearby staff to help you clean up his mess before leaving the kitchen.

Leaving behind a distraught Naoya who didn’t take much longer than just a few seconds of analyzing your stern, disappointed tone to know he had direly messed up and subsequently, chase after you.

“Wait, Y/N—”

However, you were (surprisingly) faster to outwit him, at least until you were able to arrive to a secluded garden where you’d be able to deal with the humiliation of not only being exposed through his lewd act, but also the dismissal of your feelings.

The importance of the lovely gift your sister gave you to commemorate your marriage, relegated to a simple, playful “apology” simply because Naoya was too stubborn to admit his faults. To deal with the consequences of his actions, instead of you!

…A part of you knew this was almost silly to stress about, for you were well acquainted with this side of Naoya when you got together with him—so to suddenly proclaim otherwise would only prove foolish.

Still, it didn’t hurt any less. And at the notion of him possibly coming to insist you on how there wasn’t nothing wrong with his behavior, simply an exaggeration on your part, makes you consider spending some time apart; at least until you cool down.

But surely you weren’t expecting him to actually allow that, were you?

“Y/N, you can’t just leave like that.” Naoya says once he finally reaches you, but you do little as raise your gaze to him, still focused on the flowers before you. He insists. “Y/N—"

“Are you here to make fun of me again? Was that not enough?” you murmur, he presses his lips.

“I’m just playing, you should know that by now, princess.” He persists, followed by the feeble attempt of reaching out to you, taking a seat by your side just at the edge of the engawa… Only for you to inch away when he does.

If your sudden disappearance moments ago wasn’t enough proof of your animosity, then this heart wrenching disapproval is.

“Y/N…”

“What do you want, Naoya? How else could I probably entertain you into leaving me alone?”

“Why would you want me to leave?” He asks. “Is that not why we married? To never be apart?”

“…I recall making a vow to support one another, not ridicule. Or hurt.”

“Hurt?” Naoya repeats almost incredulously, blinking as his mind desperately attempts to recall a moment where he’d done the very same thing he swore to never do again. “When have I… I wouldn’t, Y/N.”

But you remain silent at his response, briefly giving him a look that denotes your retaliation to said announcement, your skepticism behind his confidence, before looking away once more.

You had no reason to lie about such serious matters, after all.

“… Is it because of the tea cups set?” Naturally, amongst other things. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you into dropping them; I just… well, I guess I just wanted to brighten your mood, you seemed pretty… tense.”

“Were there no other ways to do so?” you quietly add. “Must you… make me look like a fool?”

“I doubt anyone thought that of you, my love. The whole estate adores you.” Naoya admits. “If anything, I’d be the one they abhor above all… and within reason.”

“Not everyone hates you, Naoya.” You look at him, gaze softening at the face of his insecurities.

If there’s one thing you dislike more than how impetuous your husband can be from time to time… it’s his sadness. His solitude.

No one is deserving of such doubts, certainly not your loved ones.

“I don’t hate you.” You say. “Even if we disagree in some things… my love will never dwindle.”

“I shouldn’t have made you angry; the reason why I married you was to strengthen my commitment of making you happy, not the other way around.”

“It’s bound to happen, we’re both human after all.” You chuckle. “But… I guess I let my emotions get the best of me because… well, I’m… hurt.”

“Hurt?” Naoya frowns. “What do you mean hurt? Who did it? Is he still here?? I’ll make sure they—”

“No, Naoya, don’t—it’s not like that.” You shyly explain, heat slowly starting to settle in your cheeks and ears. “I… Let’s say I’m not very comfortable sitting down.”

“Sitting down?? What are you—”

…

Oh.

Oh.

It’s Naoya’s moment to turn bright red at the quick flash of last night’s endeavors.

Had he truly been that careless with his desire, that he didn’t measure the intensity of his acts?

But he thought…

“Ye—yeah; you were a bit too… rough last night.” You follow. “I don’t usually mind but I guess… I wasn’t that prepared this time around.”

“O—Oh, Y/N… I… I’m sorry.” He stammers, taking your hands and gently pressing them. “I should’ve known.”

“It’s ok, I know.” You reassure him. “I… I think we just went a bit too crazy last night and didn’t deal with the aftermath properly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve done more.”

“Because it was… embarrassing for me.” You admit. “How do you tell your husband that your… butt hurts because he spanked it too much?”

“Just like that.” Naoya chuckles, releasing a bit of the tension settling on your shoulders “I do suppose this means I have to improve in our aftercare—guess it’s more than just warm baths and cuddles.”

“I guess it does.” You say. “Or maybe I’ve grown too old now…?”

“Old? Since when being in your 20’s is considered old?”

“A lot would say otherwise…”

“Ah, either way I’m not interested in such trivialities. All that I care about is making your butt feel better.”

“It sounds wrong when you say it like that.” You pout, he laughs.

“It’s the truth.” Naoya shrugs. “Do you think kissing it better will help?”

“Oh, no, it’s off limits until I feel better!” you fervently shake your head at this scandalous proposal. “And that includes sex!”

“…Fine, I can live with that.” Naoya dejectedly admits, because to the always handsy husband, this might as well be a life sentence, as ridiculous as that sounded. “Anything for my mochi, I suppose…”

“…But I guess I can make exceptions if you get the same tea set, without Hinata knowing about it! She’ll kill me if she finds out what happened to it…”

“Kill you? Impossible; if anything, I believe she might even find some way to make this incident a… blessing.” Proclaim even that her gift wasn’t that pretty anyways and she could get you a much better! Just to avoid seeing you upset. “I’d be the one to face death instead.”

“Not if we keep this a secret.” You smile, offering your pinky finger at him. “Shall this stay between us?”

He clasps your finger with his.

“I swear, over your sore—”

“Shut up!”

Your reaction would be believable if you weren’t equally perverted as him, it’s how many of these things came to be, after all.

Nothing but a reflection of your own desires, made possible thanks to his undying devotion.

a.k.a you have all these kinks you wanna try out and naoya is like damn!!!

...

...

....

count me in. also facesitting is 🤌

Nothing more to add than thank you so much for this hehe I hope it was to your enjoyment!

Take care and hope to see you soon :)) 💖💖💖

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Broken Glass was SO GOOD!! Could you write something like that but with Auston?😯

Did this slightly different than Broken Glass just so it wasn't a duplicate post with Auston copy-and-pasted in place of Quinn.

Still high drama, still a hospital moment, still copious amounts of hurt/comfort! But thanks for the compliment, babe! 🩷

Also, I wrote this in one sitting to try and keep things more fluid. Apologies in advance for proofing.

That being said: C|W : implied alcohol use, physical trauma, minor depictions of bodily injury, mentions of blood W|C : 2k

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"What? Oh yeah, I'm not going that far, just the next block over or so. You guys are good!"

Girl's Night plus a best friend's birthday had made for an evening full of an over-abundance of laughter, stories, and alcohol. Auston had been on the road the last week and a half but was due home in the morning. His absence had flared your depression the last few days, so you were thankful for the welcomed distraction. The night was finally coming to and end and it was time to say goodbyes and go home, however hard it was.

"Are you sure?" Stressed one of your friends, the mother hen of the group.

"Yeah, I promise. I'm not leaving Auston's car downtown over-night. I'll be fine."

She sighed, her breath like smoke against the cool Canadian air. You could tell she wasn't convinced about you walking alone at night back to the car, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had been nice enough to let you drive it while he was gone, and you were going to make sure nothing happened to it.

"Text me when you get home, please."

You had to laugh, "Yes, mom."

Waiting around until all of them piled into the cab, you waved goodbye before starting off on your own. By now, Auston's game was long over and you were eager to talk to him if even just for a few minutes -- if he'd answer his phone.

"Hey mama," he said smiling when he answered your video call. His hair was wet and his eyes expressed his exhaustion but you were happy to see him regardless, and he seemed just as pleased to have you light up his phone.

"Hi, handsome," you replied, stopped at a crosswalk. "I saw you guys got a win! I had the game on at dinner."

Auston laughed, running a hand through his hair while never breaking eye contact with you. "We did yeah, we needed it. How was tonight?"

The light changed.

"It was good. The girls just left to go home.”

Auston’s expression narrowed slightly, “Are you alright to drive home?”

“Yes,” you whined. Deep down, you knew everyone was just showing that they cared about you, but sometimes you wished they had a little more faith.

“Just making sure you’re safe, mama.”

“I know,” you sighed, feeling regret over giving him the subtle attitude. “Trust me, they all but pulled me into the cab before they left. I only had a few glasses of wine, and like I told them, I’m not leaving your car parked all night.”

“You’re more important than a car.” By now, Auston’s brows were pulled in, sharp wrinkles forming beneath them. He didn’t show you his serious expression very often, but when he did, you knew it was for a reason.

“Baby, I’m fine. I knew I had to drive home, so I was careful. I’m not even giggly!”

You had the ability to melt his stern demeanor so easily, and this moment was another of those times. Almost instantly, his brown eyes were warm again as was his tone, “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. I need you safe -- always. Who else am I going to hold at night?”

His wink killed you. “Oh stop! You’re so dramatic!”

“I love you, mama.”

“I love you, too,” you confessed, feeling everything return to a normal playing field. “Are you guys flying home in the morning still?”

“Yeah, we’ll head to the airport first thing in the--”

Your phone would fly out of your hand, somersaulting across the pavement. On Auston’s end, he initially thought you had simply dropped it, but after he heard your screams he immediately flew into panic mode. Three teenagers had just jumped you from behind, one hitting you on the back of the head with something heavy which had taken you knees out from under you. You’d crumple into a ball on the sidewalk, but that was right where they wanted you. There were forceful kicks to your ribs as well as punches to your face. Never had you ever felt such intense pain in your life. This was a literal nightmare.

The taste of copper in your mouth was strong; the lack of air in your lungs made you think you were going to die. You couldn’t hear Auston’s yelling through the phone for the ringing in your years. You attackers wouldn’t see it either, as the phone had fallen screen down, up against a store front.

They were laughing at you; that you couldn’t unhear.

The beating felt like forever, but in reality only lasted a couple minutes or so. They took your Gucci bag Auston had just bought you for your birthday, as well as his keys before running off, leaving you laid out against the damp concrete. With shallow breathing and heavy eyelids, you’d feel the world fade in on you. It wouldn’t be until the ambulance’s sirens and personnel got to you that you’d be painfully reminded of the night’s turn of events.

Everything was a blur.

You were in and out of consciousness on the ride to the hospital. The bright, white overhead lights stung your throbbing head too much to bear. Every bump, every turn of the vehicle made you wonder if your bones were made of glass, and if all of them were shattered. Misery. All of it, every feeling.

- - -

“It’s going to be a long road. She’s going to need someone who can be around her consistently for some weeks. There’s no way she can take care of herself in this condition, and I’m sure you know that.”

You weren’t sure if you were in a medially induced coma or having some sort of out-of-body experience. You could hear the nurse speaking, and you thought you had heard Auston’s voice a time or two, but then again, maybe that had just been wishful thinking.

“I know it’s hard to see her this way, but the surgeries went well. We’re just keeping her here because she had so much trauma. The doctor will come up with a timetable on her release time over the next few days. There’s a lot of swelling we’re keeping an eye on, and we don’t want to send her home too early.”

Halfway through the conversation you found yourself counting the beeps coming from your heart monitor instead of who was talking in the room with you. You were alive, somehow, but you couldn’t remember getting here.

“We’ll be back at the top of the hour to check on her again, you’re more than welcome to stay.”

The door shut softly, but your eyes rolled to the left, beneath swollen and closed eyelids. Someone had sat down beside you.

“Baby, I love you,” you heard Auston mumble, voice pained like he was on the verge of tears. “I love you so much. So, so much.”

With whatever strength you could muster, you forced your eyes open. “Auston,” you could only whisper.

His ability to speak was gone. Just seeing you in that hospital bed had crushed him, let alone hearing your attack happen in real-time. You couldn’t ignore the tears silently rolling down his cheeks as his chin came to rest on the edge of the bed.

“I love...you.” Speaking was hard for you, the tubes down your throat for anesthesia had caused the hoarseness, making each word labored.

“Don’t speak, baby. It’s okay.” He was trying so hard not to break down, at least not in front of you. His eyes were red, either from not sleeping last night or from previous emotional episodes. Either way, he was losing the battle of being strong in front of you. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I-- I--,” he closed his eyes, trying to collect himself.

With your left hand, you moved it away from your body to touch his hand. Auston seemed reluctant to touch you, likely from fear of causing you more unnecessary pain, but you reaching out to him, he swallowed up your hand with both of his. His touch was warm, so soothing against the cold nature of hospitals. All you wanted to do was crawl into his arms and let him hide you away from the nightmares of your reality.

“I called the police as soon as I heard what was happening,” he confessed, trying to shake the sounds of your cries that were replaying in his mind at the mention of last night’s chain of events.

“Your car!?” You remembered the boys stealing your bag, and everything you had in it.

Auston did his best to shush you concerns, rising to his feet to give you a much needed kiss. Your bottom lip was split, but you needed to feel him against your lips. This accident aside, it had been over ten days since you had seen him. What unfortunate circumstances you had to reconnect on.

“Don’t worry about anything but yourself, sweetheart, please. The police are working on it. Like I said last night, you mean way more to me than any car. Those are so easily replaced-- you aren’t.”

Your eyes were both blackened, swollen, and stinging against the light of the room, yet Auston looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world, because to him, you always would be. He knew your heart, making the inside always more stunning than the out.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. Okay as much as you can be,” he stumbled. “When you went quiet I thought I lost you, baby.”

You were both crying now. Fuck, if you could just have him hold you.

“I’m going to call my mom later and see if she’ll fly up and stay with you while you recover, okay? I caught a red-eye last night so I could get back to you sooner than this morning. I just knew I couldn’t sit in that hotel knowing what had happened. I used Mitch’s phone to call the police. I couldn’t bring myself to end the video call, even though you didn’t have your phone. They recovered it, though. So...there’s that,” his voice dropped off. There were a lot of memories on that phone.

“Auston?” Again, your words were whispers, but he heard you easily.

“What is it, baby?”

You had never seen him look so sad -- ever. He knelt back down, his elbows now resting on the bed as he looked at your broken body before him. As carefully as he could, he touched your face with the back of his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

Fresh tears pours down his face at you’re quiet apology. There was the sharpest pain in his chest, but he would hide it for you. He was already ashamed that he had allowed himself to cry in front of you, with you dealing with so much already.

“Baby, no, please-- please don’t apologize. You didn’t do a single thing wrong. None of this is your fault, okay? You didn’t deserve this.”

You couldn’t help but think that if you had just gotten in that cab, you’d be in bed with Auston, back at home, instead of laying in the ICU wing in the hospital with numerous broken bones and healing wounds. If only... As you looked at him, you had a feeling he knew what you were thinking.

“You had no way of knowing, sweetheart. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes things just happen, and I hate so much that it had to be you.”

Every gasp for air burned pain across your whole chest, and Auston did what he could to calm you down, although he felt like he was running blind in the situation.

“I’ve a few days off, okay? I’m not going to leave your side. I’m not leaving you here alone. I can’t,” he paused for a moment before putting his forehead to your temple. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you. Never again.”

[gardens-light]

Hello! I don't know if you had watched Transformers Prime before, but I'd like to make a request!

Since there's been two DC themed request, how about a Marvel one? Can you do Optimus, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Knockout, Starscream, and Megatron with an (S/O) that has the same abilities and appearance as Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)?

Hi! I've watched Transformers Prime and it's honestly awesome! It's definitely a series I would of loved in my teens. I've actually been binge watching it again, for a Knockout fanfic I'm currently working on. But just can't decide whether to make it as a one-shot or a series. Also, apologies for the long wait. Hope you enjoy these headcanons!

TFP x Mutant GN/Reader

Optimus Prime

He meets you during a battle that had reached a critical point. The Decepticons had the Autobots pinned down in an abandoned city, forcing them into defensive positions among the ruined buildings. Blaster fire echoed in the night, flashing against the broken concrete. Optimus took cover behind a crumbling wall, scanning the battlefield for an opening when something unexpected happened.

A sharp BAMF! rang out, accompanied by a cloud of thick, dark smoke. In a blink, one of the Decepticons near the Autobot vanished—only to reappear midair, screaming as they plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening crash.

Optimus turned sharply, scanning for the source of the anomaly. That’s when he saw you—a figure moving like a shadow, darting between enemies with an elegance he’d rarely witnessed. Your glowing eyes flickered like twin embers in the dark, tail flicking behind as you disappeared in another burst of smoke, reappearing atop a ruined bus before vanishing again.

Then, suddenly, you were right in front of him.

Crouching low, eyes locked onto him. Hands braced against the concrete, muscles tensed, as if anticipating his reaction.

Optimus, ever composed, held his ground. Observing your stance, your breathing. A warrior, but not one of the Decepticons.

"Impressive," he rumbled, voice calm yet firm. "But I must ask—who are you, and where does your allegiance lie?"

You simply blinked, tilting your head slightly. Then, with a small smirk, vanishing again.

Optimus exhaled slowly, optics narrowing. This one would need watching.

Relationship

Optimus recognizes your skills early on but remains wary of your unpredictability. Over time, however, he comes to trust you as an ally, learning to anticipate their unique fighting style. Appreciating how they move with agility and grace, often watching them train with interest. Soon incorporating strategies, utilizing your teleportation to scout ahead, infiltrate Decepticon bases, and disrupt enemy forces.

Your habit of teleportation would occasionally surprise him, but he adapts quickly, developing an awareness of when you might ‘bamf’ in and out of the Autobot base. Your habit of teleporting beside him mid-battle, often makes him say flippant remarks about the situation. Optimus always remains composed. “Must you always announce yourself like this?” but you'd always give him that smile that secretly that makes his spark pulse. “What? Not a fan of dramatics?”

He's reserved but deeply affectionate in quiet ways. He would take time to understand you and let the relationship develop naturally. enjoying moments of peaceful conversation. Intimacy would be slow-burning but deeply meaningful. He would cherish their presence and show affection through gentle touches, forehead touches, and soft-spoken words of devotion.

Optimus understands that you hold incredible power, but also a dangerous one. He takes it upon himself to mentor you, often reminding you of the responsibility your abilities come with. “Strength is not defined by power alone. It is defined by how one chooses to use it.”

He would be protective but never overbearing, trusting you to handle yourself but always ready to support you in danger.

Ratchet

Ratchet was having a normal—or rather, relatively normal—day in the Autobot base. In the middle of a difficult repair on Bulkhead when a loud, unnatural sound echoed throughout the medbay.

BAMF!

Sparks flew as his tools clattered to the ground. His optics darted to the source of the noise, and what he saw nearly gave him a processor failure.

Perched on a counter, legs casually swinging, was someone that should not be there. Your glowing eyes softly gazed at him, his optics studied your blue skin and tail.

Ratchet’s immediate reaction? Pure, unfiltered exasperation.

“What in the name of Primus—who are you, and why are you in my medbay?! How did you even get in here?!"

You gave him a sheepish expression, raising your hand in surrender. "Uh… sorry? I didn't mean to pop in unannounced. Agent Fowler told me to meet him at this location, I'm the new recruit."

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge, muttering something about "why do these things always happen to me?" Optimus arrived shortly after, explaining the situation, but Ratchet was not pleased about having a teleporter anywhere near his delicate medical equipment.

Relationship

Once he's over the shock, Ratchet is fascinated by your biology. He asks endless questions about how your teleportation works—“Is it neurological? Does it take energy? Can you teleport others? And why does it leave behind sulfur?”

Over time, he grows used to your antics. He would get very fussy if you teleport into his medbay unannounced, throwing tools in frustration, but he secretly enjoys your company. He would initially find your agility unsettling whenever you acrobat around the base, especially you're perched on high places. “Get down from there before you hurt yourself!”

Ratchet is a grump, but he’s also deeply caring. He would check on you often, making sure teleporting didn’t exhaust you or cause internal damage. If you get injured, he does not tolerate excuses. “I don’t care if you can ‘bamf’ away from danger—you’re still getting checked!”

Romance would develop slowly, filled with sarcastic banter, exasperated sighs, and unexpectedly tender moments. Intimacy would be quiet but deeply emotional. He’s the type to press his forehead against yours, silently assuring you that he cares. He would grumble about your teleportation one minute and then instinctively catch you if he saw you stumble the next. He would express love through acts of service, such as patching up any injuries, making sure you rest, and, when no one is looking, stroking your cheek with surprising gentleness. If you ever expressed insecurity about your appearance or abilities, Ratchet would scoff, “If you weren’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

Wheeljack

Wheeljack isn’t the type to get easily impressed—he’s seen a lot, fought a lot, and survived even more. But the first time he meets you? He’s caught completely off guard.

It starts with him tracking a Decepticon patrol, staying low, waiting for the right time to strike. Just as he’s about to ambush them—BAMF!—a swirling burst of blue smoke appears in the middle of the fight, and suddenly, bodies are dropping left and right.

You moved too fast for the Decepticons to react—teleporting between them, dodging blaster fire, flipping over one’s back, and landing a well-placed kick before disappearing again. Your tail whips out, knocking a weapon out of a scout's servo, and just as they turn to fire at you—you were gone.

Wheeljack stands there, staring, half-impressed, half-confused.“Huh. Well, that’s new.” You teleport right next to him, dangling upside down from a ledge, your tail wrapping around it, while grinning at him.

“You’re welcome.”

Wheel scoffs, but struggles to hide the smirk that teased the corners of his lips. “Didn’t ask for help.”

“Didn’t need to.”

Relationship

From that moment, the pair of you became a disaster duo. Explosions, infiltration missions, crazy stunts—Wheeljack loves your unpredictable energy. He would absolutely encourage you to prank others with your abilities, especially Bulkhead or Ultra Magnus.

With your combined skills, Wheeljack can't help but up with insane strategies in the middle of battles. “Okay, here’s the plan: You teleport me inside their ship, I plant the charges, you get me out, and we watch the fireworks.”

If you can swordfight, he’ll spar with you constantly, testing your agility against his raw combat power.

You always challenge each other, pushing one another to their limits but also watching each other’s backs. Competitive streaks turn into romantic moments. A sparring session ends soon ends pinning each other down, faces inches apart before he smirks: “Admit it—you’re impressed.”

Your relationship would be flirty and playful. Teasing each other mid-mission, teleporting behind him to poke his shoulder, only for him to smirk and throw a grenade your way. He loves your unpredictability, often grinning whenever you surprise him by appearing out of nowhere.

Wheeljack is big on physical affection. He loves it when you drape your tail around his arm, finding it both hilarious and endearing. He would enjoy spontaneous moments of affection, pulling them into unexpected kisses or scooping them up after a successful fight.

He can never hide the smile that comes to him, whenever you teleport onto his shoulders, casually perching there.The first time you dos it, he grunts but doesn’t move you. And before he knew it, eventually, it becomes a thing.

He would probably call you “Ghost” or “Shadow” as a nickname.

When it’s just the two of you, the chaos slows down. Simply sitting together on the roof of his ship, watching the stars, your bodies still buzzing with adrenaline. While Wheeljack absentmindedly traces his servo over your back, enjoying the quiet. "Never thought I’d meet someone crazier than me." He'd quietly admit, voice just above a whisper, causing a warm, genuine smile to come to you. "You’re welcome."

The first time you confess your love for him, he doesn’t say it back right away. Not because he doesn’t feel it—he does. But he’s not used to saying it. Instead, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours. "Took the words right outta my mouth."

Knockout

You both first cross paths when Knockout arrived at one of the illegal street races, scoping out the competition for potential entertainment or recruits. Disguising himself in his altmode, as usual, showing off his pristine red finish under the neon lights of the race scene.

But he notices someone... unusual in the distance—not a racer, but definitely someone with presence. Their movement was smooth, almost feline, his gaze studying their movements as they leap onto a streetlamp effortlessly, perched like some kind of predator.

Then, out of nowhere—bamf!—you teleport onto the hood of his alt mode in the middle of the race, crouching with an amused smirk, your tail flicking lazily. Knockout immediately slams on his brakes, trying to shake you off, but you just teleport again, this time inside the driver’s seat.

“Nice ride,” you remarked, trailing a finger along his polished dashboard. “You look like the kind of guy who likes to make an entrance.” Knockout, unamused but undeniably impressed, growls in frustration.“Do you have any idea how much effort goes into keeping this finish spotless?!” but you speechlessly teleport back outside, leaving behind a faint trace of smoke, he’s equal parts intrigued and annoyed. "Now, aren’t you an interesting little anomaly?"

Relationship

Since then, you and Knockout occasionally 'bump' into one another. But your relationship deepens after you help him in the middle of a battle, but you push yourself too hard.Knockout catches you mid-teleport, your body stumbling from exhaustion after rapid jumps across the battlefield. Instead of mocking you, he actually looks concerned.

Behind all the flair, he truly worries about you. He doesn't like seeing you exhausted after teleporting too much, and he'll make you rest- no arguments. "Even perfection needs to take care of itself, Darling."

If you disappear mid-battle and don't reappear for too long, he'll get scared. Frantically calling for you, optics searching wildly. But the moment you teleport back, he grips your shoulders, scolding you while checking for injuries.

Knockout finds your physical agility mesmerizing. Since he has an eye for aesthetics, your graceful agility and fluid teleportation catches his attention instantly. Your ability to vanish and reappear makes him constantly have to stay on his toes, which is both frustrating and thrilling to him.

The flirtatious banter between the pair of you, simply makes the air crackle around you. The first time you steal his buffer, he gapes in absolute horror. Teleporting just out of his reach, dangling it between your fingers."You wouldn’t dare." Something electric pulses throughout his frame, as you give him that oh-so sweet and teasing smile. "Oh? What’s it worth to you?" The next thing you know, Knockout has you pinned against a wall of his lab, his optics gleaming with mischief as he leans in close."You should know by now, darling, I always get what I want."

He adores your tail, often trailing his claws over it absentmindedly. Whenever you wrap it around his wrist playfully, he smirks and pulls you closer, murmuring, "If you wanted my attention, darling, all you had to do was ask." While you rest against his chassis, running his digits along your spine in slow, absent-minded circles.

He’s not one to open up easily, but when it’s just the two of you, the walls come down. Finding himself telling you things he wouldn’t admit to anyone else, simply creating a safe space where the two of you can talk about things neither of you admit to anyone else.

Starscream

Starscream’s first encounter with you was less than pleasant. It happens when he was patrolling alone, trying to get away from Megatron’s constant scrutiny. Already in a bad mood, muttering to himself about how he deserves to lead the Decepticons, when suddenly—BAMF!—a burst of blue smoke appears right in front of him.

His optics widen in shock, and before he can react, you were gone again. "What the—?! What in Primu's name?!"

But you simply reappear above him within the hallway of Nemesis, tilting your head, speaking in an unimpressed."Well, that’s rude. I just got here."

Once he regains his composure, he glares suspiciously at you. Not trust anything he doesn’t understand, and your ability to teleport unpredictably makes you a threat in his optics."Hmph. You think a mere parlor trick impresses me? I command an army of Vehicons!"

But you simply flash him a smartass smile,"That’s cute. Your army couldn’t touch me even if they tried."

Relationship

At first, Starscream is initially paranoid. Convinced you're either a spy, an M.E.C.H experiment, or some other potential rival. He watches you like a Seeker hawk, analyzing how you move, how often you teleport, and whether it drains your energy. But the more he sees you in action, the more intrigued he becomes.

The way you outmaneuver him effortlessly, always both infuriates and excites him. You never seem to be afraid of him—a rarity among Decepticons. You always tease him relentlessly, calling him out on his dramatics."You certainly do love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?" yet to your surprise, he also occasionally teased you in return, "and you certainly do love making entrances."

Sometimes he tries to outsmart you, setting traps or tracking energy signatures, but you always slip away—sometimes leaving behind cheeky notes or remarks just to piss him off.

Whenever Starscream flirts- of course in a grand, dramatic way—praising your abilities, making sly comments. "Ah, such magnificent skill! I do admire how you flawlessly use those talents of yours." but the moment they flirt back, he short-circuits. "Good, because I intend to use them on you... in a different sort of way." Cue his wings fluttering and an immediate change of subject.

Starscream doesn’t do well with feeling vulnerable. It makes him absolutely paranoid, hence why Starscream is terrified of betrayal. It takes a long time for him to truly believe you're not just using him. The first time you stay by his side despite having an easy escape, he’s stunned. "You... could have left." But you just gave him a warm genuine smile,"true..., but why would someone ever do that?" and that’s when he starts letting his guard down, hitting him unexpectedly.

Maybe it’s the way you stay with him after one of Megatron’s beatings, running your hands gently along his damaged wings. Maybe it’s when you teleport in front of him mid-battle, shielding him from an attack. Or, maybe it’s the way you laugh at his sarcasm instead of recoiling. Either way, he’s horrified by the realization that he's fallen for you- and fallen hard. "This is a liability. You’re a liability." You give him that teasing smile,"oh, sure, that’s why you hold onto me so tight at night." "...Shut up."

In public, Starscream is his usual dramatic, arrogant self. But in private? He lets tiny moments of softness slip. Whenever you lean against him, and he doesn’t push you away. But the first time you confess your love, he panics. Staring at you, wings flicking uncertainly, processor running at full speed. "You… you what?" a small smile teases the corners of your lips,"you heard me, Star." He opens and closes his mouth, trying to come up with a snarky reply, fails, then just mutters— "Hmph. You’re insufferable." He loves you too.

Megatron

When he first encounters you, it’s not because they sought him out—it’s because you caught his attention. He notices you first on the battlefield, moving too fast for his warriors to hit, teleporting between enemies with effortless precision. Bypassing defenses, evading detection, leaving only the faintest traces of smoke in their wake.

Megatron's initial reaction is not anger, nor fear—but fascination. He watches you fight, calculating, analyzing, testing. Most warriors rely on strength, on speed… but they rely on the element of surprise. Interesting.

When you finally come face to face, he's neither hostile nor immediately dismissive. Instead, he studies you."You evade death as if it were a game. Do you not fear it?" you give him a teasing smirk, "Should I?" His optics glow with intrigue. Admiring your strength and sees potential in your unorthodox combat style.

Relationship

At first, Megatron plans on testing your abilities and loyalty, sending you on a mission, fully expecting you to fail. But you always came back victorious, teleporting into the warship’s throne room and casually perching on his armrest. "I assume you’re impressed." He glares but doesn’t move them, "hmph. Perhaps you are not entirely useless after all."

Your personalities continuously clash, you're unpredictable. Megatron relies on control—of the battlefield, of his troops, of the war itself, yet he fails in attempting to control you. You don't fear him, and it's probably this what truly unsettles—and excites—him. Unlike others who cower before his presence, you stand their ground. Always challenging his authority, but never without purpose. You do not blindly follow orders, but neither do you act like a reckless fool. You intrigue him in ways he does not understand. The first time you outright refuse one of his orders, everyone in the room goes dead silent. "I don't take orders, Megatron."His optics narrow, but instead of striking them down, he give you a smirk with a hint of... flirtation? Within his words, "then you will find that I am not easily defied."

Whenever you tease him, He watches you carefully, knowing full well that you're are playing a dangerous game. But Primus help him—he enjoys it.

To love Megatron is to love a storm. He is power incarnate, and his love is not gentle—it is demanding, consuming, relentless, intense, almost overwhelming. His touches are possessive—gripping your arm, waist, or throat—not in a way meant to harm, but to remind you of his dominance. Physical intimacy is a battle in itself. You tend to push, tease and challenge him, yet he always responds with rough, fervent passion. Megatron rarely initiates softness, but whenever you curl into him, resting your head against his chassis, he finds himself... allowing it. "You test my patience." you look up at him, "and yet, here we are." Megatron isn't the type to whisper sweet words, but he will slaughter anyone who dares harm you. Nor, offer gentle touches, but when he wraps you in his arms, you can't help but feel as if nothing in the universe could touch you. And though he'd never speak- let alone usher the words "I love you"—but whenever he looks at you, you know he'd gladly burn the world for you.

He is used to subordinates fearing him, obeying him without question. But you? You disappear the moment he tries to intimidate you, only to reappear behind him, whispering in his audio receptors. "You’re not as terrifying as you think you are, Megatron." His optics flare with both irritation and amusement.

He is fiercely possessive. If another Decepticon so much as looks at you with ill intent, Megatron will make an example of them, quick to remind everyone who you belong to.

He hates feeling powerless. The first time you're injured, teleporting too much in battle and collapsing, he feels something foreign—panic. He catches you before you fall, optics flashing dangerously. "Foolish. You should have stayed at my side!" despite his harsh tone, his touch is gentler than expected as he carries you away from the fight.

Megatron allows you freedoms no one else has.You can speak to him in ways no one else can, vanish and reappear without being reprimanded. Resting against him, exhausted from battle, he lets you. No one else is granted such privilege.

At night, whenever the pair of you are alone, his guard lowers. Sitting together in silence, watching the stars. Megatron lets you trace your fingers over his battle-worn plating, exposing a rare moment of quiet vulnerability. During these moments, he doesn't speak much, but his servo rests on your back, grounding you. Sometimes, you wrap your tail around his wrist, a silent declaration of affection. He doesn’t comment on it, but he never pulls away. When you first confess your love, he doesn't react at first—his expression is unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at his lips, "a dangerous sentiment. Love makes one… vulnerable." You lean closer, pressing your forehead to his, "only if you’re afraid of it." His optics darken, his voice low, "I fear nothing." And then, finally—he pulls you close, claiming your lips in a way that leaves no doubt.

[thydungeongal]

hi, hope this is a no-brainer for you, so it won't clog up the asks as much: what are MC-moves and fronts doing in PbtA-games?

I've been looking into a few, cause I'm curious about that operation on several levels you talked about, but something about the MC moves just doesn't seem to click, while I understand the players' just fine. they read to me as an abstract "do whatever"-sort of thing, while very insistent that you do them, and some idea behind it all that I can't fully grasp. the game seems to want the world to move in certain ways, for certain outcomes to emerge, but also indifferent as to which ones, and I'm not sure what to do with that... I can have the landscape Disgorge Something, or Announce Badness, but what then?

did you encounter similar struggles before or know what the games are being opinionated about there? It feels like the answer should be obvious but I keep missing it, and like my issue somehow relates to the system's scalability. hope you can help!

So, this might be stating the obvious, but the key thing to understanding the MC Moves is that PbtA games have asymmetric mechanics. Players and the MC use different sets of mechanics to interface with the fiction, and this has to do with the game being structured as a back and forth between the players and the MC but also with the MC having control of more things, so the game has simplified mechanics for the MC. This stands in contrast to most traditional RPGs where the same set of mechanics formally applies to every character, whether PC or NPC, in the fiction.

In D&D when the GM announces that Goblin Steve (an NPC) is attacking Gonad the Barbarian, that's simply an announcement of an attack roll being invoked, and that mechanic is utilized by Goblin Steve identically to how Gonad the Barbarian would use it. In PbtA the MC announcing that Goblin Steve is attacking Gonad the Barbarian would be them making a move (Announce Future Badness, Goblin Steve's attack), and according to their principles they would then turn to the player and address Gonad with a "what do you do?"

That's an example of a "soft" move, a division that doesn't exist formally in most PbtA games, and that is how MC Moves work normally: the MC is always making Moves but never actually saying their name (in the above example the MC simply described Goblin Steve attacking Gonad in the fiction, they didn't say "I am Announcing Future Badness!") and most Moves will simply throw the spotlight on the character and prompt them to react. However, the MC is always at liberty to make a move that follows, and if the only move that follows from a character's action is "Make them Eat Shit and Die" then that's the only move the MC can make. Usually that move would probably only happen when a player rolled a 6- on a move, because that is one of the specific circumstances where the game asks the MC to make the hardest move they can.

In terms of the fiction and the mechanics, in D&D Goblin Steve is a medium through which the GM can make attack rolls at the player characters (using the same set of mechanics as the players); in PbtA Goblin Steve is a medium through which the MC can make their MC Moves (using their own set of mechanics).

Anyway so that's a really top down view of the structure, but MC Moves are really important to understanding what kind of things the game you're playing cares about, and a good, thoughtful set of MC Moves is as important to a PbtA game as a good set of basic moves and playbooks. They are effectively a checklist for the MC to the effect of "this is the sort of stuff that should be happening to the PCs in this game."

Apocalypse World has a really good example in it: it has an MC Move called "Make them buy it." Apocalypse World is a game about scarcity and Barter as a resource is not something characters can count on to be able to top off all the time. The game is telling you that if a character needs something, they should never just have it at hand, but they should have to purchase it. Can't afford it? Tough luck. What do you do?

Similarly, Dungeon World is a dungeon game, so of course it cares about resource attrition. This is why it has "Use up their resources" as a move.

Fronts are a bit more complicated a topic but to understand them you need to understand that PbtA games are insistent on the MC being as much a member of the audience to the story unraveling in front of them and not a singular person telling the story to everyone else, and as such it wants the MC to take part in keeping the story feral and unpredictable. Fronts are one of the few prep tools the game offers, with the point of them being that they are effectively a toolkit for the MC to draw badness from so that when making moves they will still be drawing them from somewhere.

They are a prep tool but a minimalist one for the sake of making sure the MC doesn't overprep and put the story on a set of rails: they have multiple ones to remind them that even if the characters might be singularly focused on a specific danger, there are others waiting in the wings.

Fronts and dangers are usually supposed to be established based on the first session: if the first session involved a gang of raiders, then the game is basically nudging you to say "hey remember those raiders? Wouldn't it be cool if they were, like, a part of your ensemble? So then when you use them again the players will be like holy shit, it's those raiders again!"

In some ways they are a tool for the MC to limit the focus of the story on those things that have turned out to matter for the player characters during the first session, to keep the cast relatively small. And they're a very effective tool for making sure that while the specific events of the story are still unpredictable, the cast at least stays within reasonable bounds.

Or you know that's how I see them. Anyway I hope that helped at all.

[collectivephilosopher]

ARCANE WASTED POTENTIAL (PART 6)

(An analysis of Arcane's missed opportunity and what could have been. The title might be a little confusing but since I've started by it, I've decided to stuck with it to avoid anyone feeling gaslighted :p)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

About Vi and the enforcer.

To be frank, I'm not against the idea at all. I knew she was a cop in the game so I figured she will be too in S2.

Didn't think they'll botch it but sure.

I made a post asking for anyone's opinion about Vi becoming a cop, specifically in act 1:

See the post here

And from there I can take some points as to most people's problem with this topic.

1. It could work but it was not handled well. I thought people would be against the idea altogether but I was wrong.

2. Vi's shift to my sister is gone was not shown/too fast.

3. Vi feeling sympathy for the councils makes no sense. And if the point was that she was feeling sympathy for Caitlyn instead, it still not believeable enough that she would wear the uniform of her oppressor.

As for me, mostly I agree with this reblog.

It would be believeable that she was guilt tripped into joinning the enforcer in act 1.

I do like the fact that Vi looked awkward and clearly doesn't really want to wear an enforcer outfit in episode 2. That character point was fine. The problem is whatever happened that leads to it.

1. The Jinx part

I agree that it's so jarring that Vi so quickly decided on her sister is gone. Even if this is a character trait (however you want to spin that), we need to see what lead Vi to this conclusion. Aka not having it happened off screen.

You can say Vi stopped seeing Jinx as her sister in the end of season 1 but like... why? Jinx never said they're not sisters anymore. Jinx just said they both have changed.

Even so again, I need to see the innerworking of Vi's mind. Show me her lamenting about Jinx, thinking about her sister for once because all the scene before that is Vi looking at Caitlyn and looking sad/guilty (which I will discuss more in the next part).

2. The councilors part

This is yes, I agree too. Why the hell is Vi feeling bad about dead council? Just in S1 she watched Jayce (accidentally) killed a child and her reaction was showing Jayce her knowledge about the reality of the shit happened in Zaun. She's aware of the councilors' doing. Like, it doesn't have to be her, just look at other Zaunites. No one gives a shit about the councilors dying (they give too much no shit in fact that it became another problem which i will not discuss here) and from episode 4 we know that Zaunites will jump at the chance if they have the strength like Jinx.

Mind you, Vi ending up in stillwater is because the councilors wanted a pound of flesh for Piltover (whether Marcus' doing or whatever lead to that).

"Oh she's feeling bad for Caitlyn not the councilors."

Okay but still not enough. Not enough for her to suddenly think her sister is gone, not enough for her to accept the badge. And it was true. Vi rejected the badge.

Until like, the memorial attack. I don't really get Vi's line of thinking here.

First, she really should be stoned that pilties have funerals and a fucking memorial. Second, I guess she feels bad for that one crying child...? Third, she accepted the badge because caitlyn said,

"Everywhere I slice it, if I go after your sister alone, one of us comes back in a box. It's all coming apart."

So what Caitlyn is saying is basically if she goes after Jinx alone, either Jinx or she will die. And she won't know which one will happen. And Vi's response was... I'll help you... to... what...? To make sure it's my sister who died instead...? I guess at this point she doesn't see Jinx as sister anymore... so... okay man.

3. The Zaun part

I need to see more of the grey too. First we're not gonna discuss Caitlyn's usage of the grey because I'm honestly tired of it. But I need to see how Caitlyn convinced Vi to do it to Zaun. Vi should know about the air quality down there. She grew up with it. But I guess the arguments is that they only use it against "criminals" and they "deserve" it. Y'know, if we ignore how gas works.

My quick fix to this is honestly? Just make Jinx go through with her promise of war. Make Jinx terrorize Piltover more. Make her bombed more enforcers daily. If the attack has not stopped, it would convince Vi more to stop Jinx. It would also help shaping Zaun's image of Jinx.

I don't usually bring League's lore but In Lol Jinx is the mad bomber that Zaunites have mixed feelings on. On one side she put Piltover on their place but on the other side, she also have hurt Zaunites too.

I'm not gonna talk too much about Jinx here since I'm gonna discuss about her in my next post.

And honestly about the entire Vi being an enforcer thing would've make so much better sense if the show showed us Piltover on interpersonal level. As in, showing us what it is like to be normal piltie, not just the high standing houses. The most we get is Jayce who was a toolmaker and Viktor who was a Zaunite living in Piltover. What about other piltovians? We were not shown them as individual but rather a system. And as a system, yes, they are in the wrong.

Enforcers too were only shown as monsters (in S1) and incompetent (in S2) except for caitlyn. We were never shown other type of people who joined the enforcer because let's be real here, they can't just be a collective group of monster.

And you know what? Thinking about that I can't think of any worst wasted potential than these guys:

First, why are they in the show if the show isn't going to expand more on them? I talked about how Isha's potential was wasted as narrative tool for Jinx's character arc but these guys are way worse because they don't provide any function for Vi's character arc.

The most they do is Maddie being Caitlyn's rebound and Noxus' spy. (But let's be for real, that happened just because the writter wants a "third person in a relationship" character to be hated on.

My poor sweet summer child was made to be hated and cheered when killed.

Oh hey it rhymed

Seriously we don't know their back story, their motivation as enforcer, their feelings, something that made them human. Scratch that, fish guy Steb doesn't even have a line.

Why were they even chosen to be in this super elite team? Hell Maddie was just a junior officer.

My quick fix to this is to just make them all Caitlyn's trusted friends or something. That'll give Caitlyn a motivation to choose them.

Imagine if these guys actually have a character. Imagine that they're actually super excited to hunt down Jinx because Jinx is this hot topic myth amongst the enforcer at the moment. Imagine if Loris joined the enforcer because he was from the undercity or knows someone from the undercity, or just someone close to him really, who were hurt by the mobs down there so he thought joinning the enforcer will make the undercity a "safer place". Imagine if Steb is actually Caitlyn's senior had it not been for Caitlyn's "DeCorATeD OfFiCer" thing and he had a brother who was falsely accused and was thrown in stillwater (SOMEONE would certainly relate to it) so now he joined the enforcer to reform the system but he's struggling. Maddie could openly have a crush on Caitlyn and her and Vi could bond together in that topic, idk. LITERALLY ANYTHING.

I honestly can't think of any other way of Vi's character to progress as enforcer (alright to be fair they did drop enforcer vi plot in the middle) without going with the Attack on Titan route.

Eren came to his enemy's land expecting to see devils. But he then he ate the same food as his enemies, sleep in the same bed and live in the same roof and he realized they're not devils but humans. Children who has been taught doctrines about their enemies. He understand that and still he chose to be a monster and kill all of them.

This could've been Vi's route. That she thinks oh not all of them is bad. There are normal people too like me. People who were working, struggling to make ends. People who are trying to fight, to make the system better.

Now with this information, Vi can then CHOOSE for herself (despite the maybe her rocky guilt tripped start as an enforcer). Whether she'll think these people don't deserve the grief and terror Jinx brings upon them OR she could even think of how these people, struggling as they were, still have ten times better lifestyle than Zaunite. And she can chose to go back to Zaun. But by then it'll be Vi's decision.

[theapexastrologer]

✨ The REAL Tea on Astro-Styling ✨ Part 1

There was a huge trend of "dressing like your Venus sign", but it was quickly followed up by the counter trend of "dress like your rising sign", so the major question became— "who do I listen to?"

Here's the TRUTH. They are both just two parts of the entire picture. In this series of post, I'm presenting you with a multi-part mini guide to curating your own unique style based on your personal astrology blueprint— not the generic stuff.

I will admit, this is going to take some work on your part, but I'm going to break it down over multiple posts. Once we get through the guidelines, I'll be following up with examples from real people's charts along with created looks for them based on what I see using ShopLook.

Let's get started!

♀️ Your Venus sign is what you're attracted to and serves as a way to attract what you desire— magnetizing yourself for abundance. Yet, only dressing like your Venus sign can be a bit superficial. Thus, the counter push of dressing like your rising sign.

🌄 Dressing like your rising sign is akin to donning your own unique essence in clothing form. It serves as an extension and expression of YOU. It's how you can dress that will make you feel most like you. However, this isn't everything you really need to know to create a fully informed astro-wardrobe.

Now, this is going to look like quite a bit at first, so don't panic. And don't worry if you don't understand everything right off the bat. I'm going to help you break it down. You can always ask questions in the comments/reblogs and feel free to message me. I will help as I can.

These are my guidelines for curating your personal astro-style—

Rising sign/1H, rising sign lord placement, 1H planets/points, tight conjunctions (☌) with 1H cusp and rising sign lord (≤2° orb) The rising sign is the foundation of your style and allows your essence to show through.

4H, 4H lord placement, 4H planets/points, planets/points ≤2° orb ☌ w/4H cusp and 4H sign lord The 4H is where you buy your clothes from, as well as the type of fabrics you prefer to wear.

Venus placement, Venus's sign lord placement, planets/points ≤2° orb ☌ w/Venus and Venus's sign lord Your Venus placement will speak to your outer wear (coats, purses/bags) and what you adorn yourself with (jewelry, hair pieces, and makeup).

Neptune placement, Neptune's sign lord placement, planets/points ≤2° orb ☌ w/Neptune and Neptune's sign lord Your Neptune placement will speak to the type of *glamour* you can choose to tap into. However, it's more like an aura or illusion that can add to your look, but it's subtle.

I know right off the bat, that seems like a lot, but not all of these things are going to happen in your chart, so keep that in mind. This is just to cover all the bases. And conjunctions with the sign ruler have less of an effect the bigger the orb to 2°. But I'll talk about this in the examples I present to you as I go along with this series!

✨ The Breakdown ✨

🌄 your rising sign, the ruling planet's placement (house, sign, & tight conjunctions), and any planets in the 1H— note if there are planets in a different sign, because their ruling planet is different and can also bring in more complex energies into the synthetization.

👉🏽 Why is This Important?

I'll use both of my kids as a good example. They're both Gemini risings, but Mercury, Gemini's ruler, is in two different signs for them and influences them differently already.

My daughter has Mercury debilitated in Pisces 10H and she loves feminine sparkly, flowy dresses. But my son has Mercury in Aquarius 9H conjunct Juno and his style is ... Well, it's a bit all over the place and he's got the soul of an old man sometimes. 😅 His style, especially as he ages, could be strongly influenced by his travels/other cultures or even spiritual/religious teachings he may follow.

Their Gemini energy comes through changing outfits multiple times a day. As a Virgo stellium mum, on the opposite side of the Mercury coin, I'll admit this drives me crazy and they know. But I also understand leaving room for them to experiment with their styles and have fun. Granted, they also have additional points in their 1H, which will change & shift the energies as well. But regardless, you can already see that even though they're the same rising sign, they're not created equal— this is why rulership placement is important.

Although the rising sign, its ruler, and other possible 1H planetary expressions combine to influence your style, the fourth house rules the type of place you'll buy clothing from and they type of fabrics you like to wear.

In my chart (tropical), I have Sagittarius on the 4H cusp w/Vesta, Uranus Rx, Saturn Rx, and Neptune Rx in Capricorn along with Jupiter exalted and joyful-- Cancer 10H/11wsH. And in the sidereal system, I have Hygeia in Scorpio in the 4H with Mars in Leo 1H. I tend to wear a lot of dark colors like black and burgundy/dark red, but not always. I also wear whites and golds. I prefer well structured garments that fit my body. When I'm able to, I get clothes made out of Khmer silk (main maternal ancestry), but I also love fashion from many Asian countries through which I have different branches of my maternal lineage (Indian, Chinese, Polynesian/Hawaiian). I prefer clothes that are built to last over fast fashion. I prefer traditional tailored clothing over clothes that are built for the collective as a one size fits all.

So the 1H and the 4H create the foundation of your style, but now Venus comes into play! We'll dive into this and more on the next post!

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 dream ossuary rookanis enjoy 🪶

Lucanis wakes with a start, with the unpleasant lightning strike through the body after dreaming of falling.

Only he doesn't find himself back on the raised courtyard between the big statue and the Lighthouse.

Instead, he finds himself back in the frozen, cone-shaped cell, so deep underwater that even the suspiciously clean air feels suffocating. He's so cold even the skin between his asscheeks stands up in goosehives.

Probably because he's naked, save for the shredded fabric that he snatched from the hips of the poor soul in the cell next to his, only moments after she (Nastia, he reminds himself) had succumbed to her starvation and her hunger demon had burst out of her like filling from an overcooked pie.

Not his finest moment, there.

Lucanis rubs his forehead with a sigh.

Of course he's still here. This entire business with blighted gods and archdemons and remote brain-parasites did always seem a tad too absurd to be real.

NO! Spite shrieks. He's circling him like a vulture waiting for its food to die. Gods were real! We killed them. We tore into Ghilan'nain with our teeth! We chased Elgar'nan into Minrathous! Stuck Solas to the Veil for snatching our Rook! OUR ROOK IS REAL. SHE'S SLEEPING, RESTING. IN OUR ARMS. WHERE SHE BELONGS. OUTSIDE YOUR STUPID STUBBORN SPONGEHEAD.

As if she'd walked out of the latest romance serial, took one look at his miserable self and thought I have to have him.

NO REASONING WITH YOU HERE. RESOLVE TO BE MISERABLE. WHEN WE COULD BE FREE. FREE AND - You're surprised? There's a reason you were once Determination, before we joined.

Spite rams his elbow into the back of Lucanis' head, then dissolves into thin air.

Lucanis huffs warm air into his palms, rubs them together for friction and then wraps his hands around his toes.

There's a commotion, somewhere between the space behind his eyes and the back of his head, and he feels as though he's prodded at in another plane of existence.

SEE? Spite pushes at somebody until they kneel down in front of him. ROOK IS REAL. If she were real, she wouldn't be in here with us. She'd be far above the surface, as she should. I WOKE HER. I BROUGHT HER.

Lucanis dreads what his demon might have told her to pull her from her precious rest and into his mind. Again. Judging their trajectory lately, it likely wasn't Help us, he listens to you this time.

"Hi." There's hands on his cheeks now, and whoever it is that Spite conjured up does look exactly like the woman from his escapist dreams. Her eyes are puffy, rimmed in red - has she cried?

"What's wrong?"

Oh, so. Only real if for you to fix? That's what's happening? Shut it. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE. THEN I SHUT IT.

"Spite brought me. He thinks you went back."

Lucanis can't bite back his dry chuckle. When he pointedly looks around, her hands slip from his cheeks, cradling his jaw now.

"Evidently, I did do exactly that."

"Has.. Did something happen today, before we went to sleep, that brought you here?"

"You don't need to do this. I don't need my own subconscious trying to fix me."

Fingers twirl the ends of his hair.

"I've been here before, remember? Spite brought me then, too. He - we - don't want you to feel as though you're stuck in here by yourself."

He doesn't need to tell her he did not willingly walk in here, that sometimes he still just finds himself back in his cell. She knows. She knows intimately, by virtue of caring to know him.

"I shouldn't keep returning here," he manages, eventually. "You broke me out. I'm done with this place. There's nothing left for me, here. Not even death."

When Rook stopped being a figment of his imagination, or when she'd shifted to rock the both of them left to right to left with her cheek by his hairline, he doesn't know.

"Maybe this place isn't done with you."

Letting this, however accurate and plain to see, suggestion sit with him makes him nauseous, like trying to eat after having been hungry all day.

"How do I stop coming back here, Rook?"

Her silence and her hands in his hair, strangely grounding him into the reality of this Fade-dream with the nails on his scalp, are answer enough.

Eventually, she sits back down, cross-legged, takes his hands.

He knows what that means; I have an idea.

Do it! Spite leans over her shoulder, pushing her deeper into her hunched posture with both hands on her back like he was trying to mount a horse from its backside. Rook has good ideas! Rook is smart! She will fix us. Splitting us is not in her repertoire. Breaking us out of here is!

"Well, for this specific instance, there's multiple options of what we can do," she starts. She's barefoot, too, the tops of her feet pushing into his soles. "If you'd rather be alone, I can leave - Spite won't like that, and neither do I, frankly. I don't want to leave you alone here."

She must be real, Lucanis thinks after all. How else would he know the way the space between her brows creases means But your feelings in this matter more than mine?

"But if that's what you need, you shall have it. We could leave this place together, too. Or, we could stay here together. Whichever you want. Whatever you need. If it's for me to give to you, you will have it. I promise."

He looks up from their feet, when her hand settles soft and warm and startingly familiar on his jaw, her thumb through his beard.

"I.. I can't get up."

Rook nods.

"Would you like me to stay?"

"I... If you'd rather leave-"

"I know. That's not what I asked."

Her eyes are wide and soft and endlessly loving.

"Stay. Please. Just a little longer."

"Of course."

It should be intimidating, the way she rises to stand before him, fingers working the cord that holds her dressing gown closed.

Were it anyone other than Rook, he would be, deep down. He'd never display it, of course, but he'd still feel it.

With her, though, he can freely display his - concern. Why is she undressing? In the prison of his brain?

"Rook, no. You're barefoot. We're encased in a cone of ice. You'll be so cold. Don't take off your dressing gown."

But he doesn't fight her, and the soft yellow silk-lined robe drapes warm and comforting over his shoulders.

"I am wearing more than a loincloth. I'll be all right."

Even here, somehow, in this nightmare prison that his mind keeps returning to, it's baffingly easy and natural to settle against her. She willingly offers her warmth to him, shifts with him like that's all she's made to do.

Eventually, he's curled up on his side, covered up to his eyes by the gown, her right hand rubbing his arm through the fabric and the other petting his hair.

As he closes his eyes, there's the start of a giggle in Rook's throat, hastily bitten back and covered with a breath.

"What?"

"Your ears are so small. And round. Small and round and cute."

"Is that.. good?"

"I think so. I tried to picture you with ears like mine and - no. Your ears are perfect like this."

"Thank you?"

Her body curves above him, and her lips press against his forehead. It must be a strain in her neck, how she's curling to meet him with his head in her lap.

But when he attempts to rise, to meet her halfways her hand slips from his arm to his chest and pushes him back down.

So he shifts until all his weight isn't squarely on the joint of his shoulder. Closing his eyes again under her gentle touch and soothing warmth is an easy thing. Even here.

Were he not so confused and tired and therefore sopping up her soul as though the Ossuary turned him into a wet biscuit, he might be a little scared of all that.

"How do you like your eggs?"

"I'm sorry?" He almost can't hear it, his left ear cushioned by her thigh on all sides, Spite trilling happily at her scratching over his scalp in the other.

"When we wake up, I'll make you breakfast, for a change. Something nice and simple."

"You don't have to. I know you don't enjoy cooking."

"I want to, Lucanis. Let me do something for you, just this once." He knows she'll say the exact same thing she resolves to cook for him the next time. And the time after that. And probably for the rest of all time, if she'll have him. "So: how do you like your eggs?"

"Sunny on bread."

Her thigh shifts under him, and her lips press against his right ear.

"Sunny on bread you shall have."

Instead of leaving, however, she settles down beside him, her thigh still cushioning his head, the crown of hers barely in his lap.

"After you wake up. After you have a long, long, well-deserved rest, and wake up in my arms at the Lighthouse. At home."

She says more, but he soon falls away into sleep, when she drapes her dressing gown over him like a blanket once more and reaches for his hand under the fabric.

-

He wakes again, before her, this time, though his face no longer lies squared in her lap.

There's no blanket covering him - it must be somewhere near the end of the bed - but Rook's body against his back is enough to to warm him through an entire Age of winter.

Her fingers are hooked into the seam of his pants, her breath warm on the back of his neck.

Sunlight filters through the massive fishtank, into the hidden corner where their bed sits.

A marvel, that. Their bed. For her and him.

See? Real. All of it. You're right. And thank the Maker for that.

A bare legs hooks over his hip.

Lucanis closes his eyes again.

🪶

directly influenced by this post by @lunammoon <3

@lanafofana this may be of interest to you

@manhattenstops p e r c e i v e

[~rina]

[reverieblondie]

Be Sweet to Me

Chapter 3

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara X Fem!reader

Warnings: Eventual smut, Pining, Teasing, Inquires, and Drinking Alternating POVs, What the hell is happening!!

Summary: You find him hurt and bleeding out... super hero or not you have to help him... he's your friend...

A/N: Oh hey... Miggy, I've missed you and this story. If your still following along we will be finishing this story... I have plans... teehee.

Chapter: 2 <- ///////// -> Chapter: 4

Series Masterlist, ATSV Masterlist

It feels like your lungs are on fire as you run through the dark streets. The red and blue lights of the officers' cars cascade over the dark pavement and glow against the buildings. You're careful not to call his name or look suspicious as you pass them, but once out of range, you're back to calling his name as you run down every dark alley. 

Part of you knows that you probably can't do much for the wounded hero, but you want to try…if there is a slight chance it's Miguel, you want to help him. 

Passing by an ally, you're about to rush past it, but a soft rustling causes you to pause from your sprint to look towards the ally. Your slow footsteps echo through the concrete walls, making the rustling stop suddenly. 

"Hello?…" 

Your timid question is greeted with nothingness. Though you are not deterred, you know you heard something. Walking forward, you strain your eyes through the darkness to scan around for any clue, and that's when you see the dark dribbles of blood on the pavement. 

"Spider-man?" 

-still nothing…

Scrunching up some courage, you ball your hands into a fist and try again, "Miguel…"

Doubt starts to swell in your chest, and you feel dread crawling through you. Are you…too late?

"Miguel… Please, if-if you're here I want to help you…please, Mig…" Your voice slightly gives as your worry is getting the better of you…Tears threatening to fall from your eyes. 

“You…You shouldn’t…be here…” 

The familiar voice calls from the darkness, making your eyes widen. Hearing the voice gives you a slight feeling of relief, but not fully; you still need to make sure he is okay, and from the sound of his strained voice, you're not too sure of his state. 

"Miguel!" You call out to him before rushing towards the groan he gives from you shouting his name -probably not the best idea… but you can't help from the relive you feel from hearing his voice. 

As you get closer, you pause when you see the two red glowing eyes in the darkness. 

Walking up slowly, you keep your eyes on his glowing ones. Finally, you get close enough to see him fully. Miguel's large body is slumped, leaning against the building for support. Those red eyes are narrow as he studies your approach. His breaths are labored as he clutches his bleeding side. The outfit is a hoodie that is stained by blood.

Your hands cover your mouth as you try to swallow down your growing panic. It doesn't look good, and fueled by your instincts, you drop to your knees, trying to reach him, to somehow help him up and get him to safety. However, as you try to cup his face, Miguel quickly turns away. Though littered with grim and bruises, his face is still in that same scowl like always. The immediate rejection hurts, but you know deep down he's just scared and unsure, and you can't blame him for that.

"Miguel, I-"

"Leave." His voice cuts you off, that habit of his that makes your eye twitch most days... 

Taking a deep breath, you meet his eyes again. You're not going to let him push you away, not now, not when he needs help. He's getting your help whether he

Like it or not.

Swallowing down your nerves, you reach out again, but this time, he catches your wrist, his intense eyes not breaking away from yours.

"I told you to leave..." -the distrust…

"No, Miguel... I know you don't trust me, but you're hurt, whether you like it or not. I'm going to help you." Miguel's face contorted with thought, and you ended up getting your wrist free and grabbing his arm instead. "Miguel, please trust me. If I really wanted to betray you, I would have done so already!"

Miguel stares at you. You can see in his eyes all the thoughts swirling in his head. Finally, he sighs, the one he does when he knows you've made a point. You smile on the inside, using all your energy to help him up. But you really doubt your much help. 

"Come on, I live close by. We need to get you hidden and patched up." Slinging his arm over your shoulder, you can't help but get a bit winded when you try to lift his weight. Your arm wraps around Miguel's waist, trying to avoid his bleeding side. Miguel lets out a muffled sorry, adjusting before you two head towards your apartment, trying your best not to seem suspicious.  

Though that might be hard, considering it looks like you're dragging a 6'9 man around…

He tries so hard to keep his breathing steady and his cool, but his situation is making it rather difficult…

"I know I have one somewhere, so just hold on!"

Miguel opens his eyes, taking a deep breath. "You're panicking, of course. You just found out your co-worker is Spider-Man, and now he's trying not to bleed out on your couch." Miguel would have been worried if you weren't panicking. That's not the only thing roaming through his mind. How did you figure it out? He had been so careful…

Then a shiver runs through him... What if you're one of those crazed stalkers, one that's been watching him for months and figured out his secret!

Miguel scans your apartment for clues, but everything seems normal and cozy. It's clear you don't have a lavish place, but it's homey. It's filled with things like nicknacks and art, pillows and blankets on every piece of furniture, and a bowl of fruit in your kitchen. Miguel assumes it's for anyone to just grab a snack whenever they get slightly peckish. Your apartment is a clear representation of you, friendly and inviting.

As he stands to take in your space further, he is reminded that even though he has regeneration, he still feels the pain fully. Due to his exhausted state, his body doesn't want to heal as fast as it usually does. This is going to be a long night…

"Found it!" Your voice cheers, and before Miguel knows it, you're rushing to his side with what looks to be a hardly used first aid kit. Though your voice is cheerful, your hands tremble as you try to open the kit. It looks like your panic is worse than he thought.

Miguel can't stand to look at you struggling much longer as he finally grabs your shaking hands. Of course, when he does, it feels like soft lighting warming through him. He meets your eyes and sees them as wide as saucers, though he can tell you're trying…

Miguel lets out a long sigh as he lets go of your hands, wincing as he does, "Do you have any alcohol?"

You keep your eyes in an unblinking stare as they slowly slide over to his side, still wet with blood. Then you nod, rushing off to grab it from its cabinet. Miguel hardly has a second to breathe before you run back in with a bottle of tequila. Well, that's one kind of alcohol…

"I-I... Well, I have this..." You say, lifting the bottle. Miguel must have made a face because you immediately start backpedaling. "Oh, wait, you probably meant rubbing alcohol!"

Of course, you start rambling again, and Miguel doesn't think he can take bleeding out and listen to your panic at the same time, so without saying anything, he simply leans forward, plucking the bottle from your fingers. Miguel winces from the pain before undoing the cap and taking big gulps from the bottle. He thinks this might have perfectly tuned you out for a moment, but when he looks over, you're just staring at him gobsmacked.

Once satisfied, he returned the bottle to you, saying, "Take some…" To his surprise, you actually did take a swig before coughing from the burn.

The sight alone is enough for him to forget this odd situation and scoff a quick laugh.

You look up at him, trying to mask your grimace, "Why did you have me do that?" 

Miguel keeps his face neutral as he looks down at the wound, starting to wipe away the blood with a towel. At least he's beginning to stop bleeding... 

"I didn't think you actually would… But it helps numb the pain, and hopefully, with enough, it will calm you down." You give him a frown at his quip. Miguel can tell you to give your own comeback, but before you can, he clicks his watch and makes the top of his suit disappear. He waits for your response as he begins to patch himself up, taking the alcohol and pouring it on his side before quickly wiping it away. The contact stings enough for him to hiss. It's not rubbing alcohol, but those lizards can be nasty, and he can't risk infection… 

Miguel looks up to see what your problem is, and that's when he sees your eyes wide on him and your face thoroughly flushed. He lifts a brow towards you, and all you can do is swipe up the tequila bottle for one more gulp before placing it back and excusing yourself. 

Well, at least he knows how to finally shut you up…

Your face feels like you have a fever, and now you're here. Hiding out in your bathroom. It's all so surreal; you were right... Miguel is Spider-man; this whole time, you thought drugs, or maybe he was sneaking off a quick fuck. But no, he's simply putting on a costume and fighting crime. Like that's normal... 

And what's with that suit?! Why is it just dissolving away? Revealing his immaculate build like that… Did he design it? Well, duh, this is Miguel the brain… is it nanobots? A hologram… is he wearing underwear? Because you have not seen one underwear line… 

Shaking your head, you force yourself to think about more pressing things, like what this means for you and for him. What is supposed to happen next? Does he trust you? Do you trust him? You want to, but is he hiding more secrets?

Not that you can really blame him for this huge secret... It's just so weird... Miguel is always so dependable, quiet, and hardworking. He's juggling a whole other life; how can anyone manage that without imploding? Then again, he has been tired lately…

Actually, the more you think about it,  the more obvious it is. They do have the same builds… same butts… and that's because it's the same guy! Guess people can recognize each other by their asses. 

Perhaps people just don't pay close enough attention to others...

With a breath, you look to your mirror and decide with everything you should wash your face to bring yourself back to reality a bit and hopefully fix your bright red cheeks in the process. As you splash water on your face, the cold water starts to ground you, and you feel the panic begin to fade slowly. Hopefully, he's done bleeding… Maybe you should look up how to stitch up someone? Or wait, doesn't he heal fast? Maybe make him some soup to get his energy up? -does he eat soup… there was a rumor he drank blood for energy…

You reach for your towel to wipe your face but can't find it. Peaking through one eye to see it, you meet with your towel... floating? Not only is your hand towel floating, but your toothpaste, hair brush, and hair dryer—everything is floating around like it's suspended in water or something. Looking over to the door, you see a kaleidoscope of colors shining from underneath. What the hell is Miguel doing now?!

Rushing out of the bathroom back to your living room, you see the floating happening everywhere. In the middle of your living room, you see an odd-looking, colorful portal pulsing. You look over at Miguel, who's just standing there watching the portal with a glare. Naturally, you do the wise thing and hide behind Miguel's back for cover. Sure, you're touching him while he's shirtless, feeling his smooth skin that is so incredibly hot. 

Miguel must feel your clinging because he suddenly speaks to you as he keeps his eyes forward: "Don't be scared. We're okay."

We're okay?! How is he so calm! You lean in further to look at the old thing, but you feel Miguel's large arm holding you back as his hand rests on your hip. Looking up at him he doesn't meet your eyes, but the furrow in his brow and the set of his jaw, you know this look… he's irritated.

"How can you say we are okay? There's a... thing in my apartment!" You say frantically, holding onto his massive arm like it alone could save you. 

"Because I know the people on the other side." 

Before you can ask anything further, a figure begins to appear, and you cling tighter to Miguel. The closer they get, the more you can make out its appearance. Tall with fluffy brown hair, he looks a little bit older than you and Miguel. Then his outfit—red and blue spandex—with a spider in the middle of the chest! Once fully through, you see the man smiling towards Miguel. 

"Miguel! You're okay; we were worried!" The man greets Miguel with a smile. He looks like he might go in for a hug until Miguel snaps at him.

"Peter, why are you here? You shouldn't be here!" Miguel's hand tightens on your hip. You swear you feel slight poking. 

Peter, apparently, tilts his head confused, asking why. Before finally taking a look around the space, the man lets out a quick, "Huh, no wonder it wasn't the usual place?" 

As the hazel-eyed man looks around, he spots you clinging to Miguel's arm. Peter lifts his brow, showing clear confusion before it changes to a mischievous smirk. 

"Am I interrupting?" Peter wags his eyebrows up and down for further effect. Miguel is not amused by the intruder, which only makes Peter laugh more. As he does, his gaze goes back to you before stilling. He observes you like he's thinking hard before suddenly snapping his fingers and pointing at you in recognition. "It's you! I thought you looked familiar your the-"

Before he can reveal more, Miguel is letting go of your hip and slapping his hand over Peter's mouth, restoring his spider suit to normal. "Peter, quite." He turns to you, his eyes intense. And you... you're coming with us..."

You blink at him for a moment before responding… "Where are we going?" 

Miguel steps closer, invading your space as he looms over you, "HQ." 

taglist:@oharasfilipinawife @aisyakirmann @spdrwdw @huniedeux @lazyjellyfish300 @rosegnome @straw-berry-ghoul @migueloharastruelove @skylertully @keiva1000 @mika-312 @lunablackcosplay @aroyalbirb @blueapplesiren @9-xx7 @gothicteddybearhugs @0bonnie-bunny0 @scaleniusrm @killjoyous @dekisugihan

[meadowfics]

Knock-knock! I'm the person who thanked you for the Kang Family Series earlier 🤭 First of all, thank you for answering my message, it is really lovely to hear from you! 💖 Second, angst and just drama in general have that something, right? Hahaha and last... I saw your status and I was like "this is my opportunity to ask for some dramaaaa", so here I go with my request (only if you are up for it, ofc!), well it is a question, but if you wanna write something angsty, be my guest, I'm all eyes 👀 Has Dae Ho ever been close to a full on mental breakdown while he is spending time with his family? He always seems so calm and collected, it makes me wonder if he's ever looked at them, at "reader" and asked himself "What would happen if I'm not here?" OR has he ever had a fight with reader that's so ugly and ended up considering breaking up with them? 👀👀

OF COURSE!! I try to answer most messages I receive <3 all requests are considered as long as they aren't too 'graphic'

has dae-ho ever been close to a full mental breakdown while spending time with his family:

daeho has never had a breakdown in front of the girls.

however, he has in front of you a few times.

lets go back to the past first...

before he met you, daeho was a mess.

after the ganghwa island shooting, where a corporal committed a massacre in his class 1140 unit, daeho was never the same.

he struggled with sleep, his anxiety worsened, and his ptsd became unbearable.

at first, he would break down completely. shaking, sweating, sometimes even screaming in his sleep.

now, though, his pain is silent.

he flinches at loud noises.

he zones out into a blank wall for hours, stuck in his own mind.

he forgets to respond when people talk to him because he’s mentally reliving things he never wants to remember.

meeting you helped, but it did not erase his trauma.

you were the first person who made him feel safe, but healing was never going to be a linear process.

when seo-ah and byeol came along, everything got worse in his head.

suddenly, he wasn’t just trying to keep himself together.

he had three people to protect.

dae-ho realized how ugly the world could be after the games.

he became obsessed with your safety.

sometimes, you think he worries more about your well-being than you do.

if you’re even five minutes late coming home, he starts spiraling.

he won’t say it, but he thinks about the worst-case scenario every time.

has daeho ever had a full-on breakdown when everyone is home, even with the girls in their rooms?

yes, but it’s always when he’s alone.

he never lets you see it. he goes into his office, locks the door, and just sits there.

sometimes staring at nothing.

sometimes gripping his head so hard his nails dig into his scalp.

he’s had moments where he’s thought, “what would happen if i’m not here?”

“would they be safe without me?”

but every time, he reminds himself that he has something worth fighting for now.

the closest you and daeho ever came to breaking up, or at least never getting back to how things used to be, was during the games.

you didn’t know the extent of his ptsd back then.

dae-ho always felt like he would be, 'too weak' if he told you about it.

you knew he had trauma from the military, but you never saw how bad it really was until the games.

it happened during the rebellion.

hyunju and everyone needed ammo.

gi-hun and the others upstairs were getting slaughtered and beaten by the thousands of guards.

when it was time for daeho to grab ammo, he freaked out.

before going back upstairs with the ammo that you and yong-sik helped him grab... he froze.

dae-ho's hands trembled with the walkie-talkie, and ran back into the room.

he backed himself into a corner of the dorms.

the man's entire body shook violently, his eyes unfocused, and he muttered “i’m sorry” over and over and over to nobody in-front of him.

you didn’t understand what was happening. you were confused, frustrated.

“why can’t you do something?!

“they’re going to die up there!”

“daeho, snap out of it!”

he couldn’t.

he physically couldn’t move.

hyunju came downstairs had to pull you away from him, because you were pushing him too hard without realizing.

you weren’t going to break up, but it was the first time you saw the full extent of his trauma, and you failed to respond the right way.

after that moment, guilt hit you like a train.

you didn’t know what to do, so you held him for hours.

you whispered apologies over and over, but he just laid there, exhausted, numb.

that night, during lights out, you didn’t sleep.

you kept your knife in your hands.

you held his knife too, just in case.

you were pregnant at the time, but you were okay in comparison to dae-ho.

you held onto him like you were afraid he’d disappear.

you hated yourself for how you reacted. but your pregnancy emotions at the time made it even harder to process everything.

today, dae-ho has gotten better with handling his PTSD and his emotions.

it took years of therapy.

it took accepting his past and realizing that healing isn’t about erasing the pain and learning to live with it instead.

dae ho reminds himself that he is loved, that he has a family, that he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

he’s not perfect.

he still has bad days.

he still gets too quiet sometimes.

he still overthinks every little thing when it comes to your safety.

however, he’s here. and that’s what matters.

[izzyfishie]

I'm thinking about the Hwang bros and how In-Ho's profession made him suitable to be a Front Man.

Cops dehumanizes people, targeting the most vulnerable sectors, the most "undesirable," really it's not much different, and given he convinced himself that they were not worth "saving," he just sits back and enjoys it.

HOWEVER, Jun-Ho doesn't percibe the world that way. He follows an idiolized version of his brother, one who couldn't do wrong, one who follows a sense of justice, one who would do sacrifices for others to live, even when it affects his own health. So he pretty much maintains a vision where cops help communities, taking down the bad guys and saving the day.

He literally goes all by himself to an island, vulnerable to kidnap or murder if he took the wrong steps, to the mission of doing justice for his brother. Single handedly gathering all the information needed to dismantle the games, but not achieving it because of bad signal.

Imagine what went thru his head when he found out that his own brother, his hero, was the one responsible for the disappearance and murder of 456 people, not counting the ones who died in between.

"Hyung... why?" Was left unanswered, instead getting shot and falling to the abyss.

The last memory he has of his brother was a failed attempt of murder (that we find out it wasn't the case and In-Ho hired an overpriced nanny to keep him safe and away, but Jun-Ho doesn't know this) and even then he avoids snitching on him.

Many interpret like he wants to cover up for him, but I disagree. As much as he loves his brother, he still wants to dismantle the games and insist on it, even against his interests.

However, he wants In-Ho to explain himself to him, the "why?" He knows if he tells Gi-Hun who is the frontman, he would kill In-Ho the second the recognize him, and that wasn't the idea, they both wanted to dismantle the games, but Jun-Ho needs the answer beforehand.

I think the finale would be a Good cop vs. Bad cop scenario, and ultimately, only one would win. And I'm not emotionally ready for it 🤧🤧🤧🤧.

man i just woke up why must you do this to me moot 💔💔 /silly

i personally have a belief that in-ho’s belief that humanity slowly whittled down more and more the longer he became a cop. he saw horrid things, had to deal with the inequality of the system, etc. he entered the games with a more cynical attitude than gi-hun, definitely more like sang-woo? and the games was what completely broke him. perhaps him seeing the inequality in the crime world was what pushed him to make the games “equal” as well.

i agree that jun-ho follows an idolized version of his brother, likely subconsciously putting him on a.. not a pedestal of some sort. he would definitely be in-ho’s biggest apologist. i think that that viewpoint definitely got shattered after he found out what was happening in the games. and while he still loves his brother so much, his view on him is far from the same.

but he doesn’t want him to die, of course! that’s his hyung. i firmly believe some part of him wants things to go back to the way they were when they were kids.

as for your interpretation of why he covered up for his brother, i think there’s a possibility that it could very much be a mix of the two. he does want to dismantle the games, likely due to that innate sense of justice, but he also wants A) answers, and B) his brother back. but part of him still wants his brother back. not this frontman version of him, he wants the in-ho he knew back. which, unfortunately, isn’t a possibility anymore. people change.

and tbh im slightly avoiding theorizing the hwang bros side of the ending of s3 because i don’t want to hold myself to any level of expectations, but i do hold the belief that in-ho is going to die in some way.

anyways! thank you for the ask!! 💗