#soft relationship

[aventurineswife]

Hi! Another beloved parenting request (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Basically the reader and the character(Aventurine, Sampo, Childe And dr.Ratio) have a 4 year old son who one night has a nightmare and asks both of them if they can sleep with them in the middle, In short the child sleeps with both parents. Take all the time you want with this, I mean it all! (⁠＾⁠∇⁠＾⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♪

-💤🩵 anon

Safe Between Us

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Childe x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Life, Parenting, Comfort/Wholesome Moments, Nightmare Comfort, Soft Relationships, Family Bonding, Established Relationship.

Warnings: Mentions of Nightmares (non-graphic), Mild Emotional Vulnerability, References to Past Trauma.

A/N: Someone's a bit obsessed with a certain hydro character here ahem ahem, can't blame you if I'm obsessed with a certain gambler here ahem ahem 🧍‍♀️ also Renny is used for gender neutral term of parent since it would've been weird if the child called you parent

The quiet hum of the city outside your window was a faint backdrop to the stillness of the room. You were beginning to drift off to sleep when you heard the sound of small, hurried footsteps padding down the hall. Moments later, a little voice called out, trembling with fear.

“Papa? Mama/Dada/Renny?”

You sat up immediately, your heart clenching. Your four-year-old son stood at the doorway, his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes brimming with tears. Clutching a small stuffed peacock—Aventurine's ironic gift—he sniffled.

“I had a bad dream,” he whispered. “Can I sleep with you and Papa?”

Aventurine, who had been lounging on the bed, glanced at the child. His ever-present enigmatic smile softened. “A nightmare, hmm? Well, dreams are just gambles in our sleep, aren’t they? Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. But tonight,” he said, patting the bed, “you’ve hit the jackpot, little man.”

You rolled your eyes at his theatrical explanation but moved aside to make room. Your son climbed into the bed, nestling himself between the two of you. Aventurine adjusted the covers with an exaggerated flourish, ensuring his boy was snug and warm.

“Tell me what scared you,” Aventurine said softly, his voice losing its usual playful edge. He reached out, brushing a few stray locks from your son’s forehead.

“There were… monsters,” your son murmured, curling against your side. “And they wanted to take me away.”

Aventurine’s smile grew tight for a moment—a rare crack in his facade. “No one’s taking you anywhere,” he promised, his tone firmer now. “Not while your parents are here.”

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to your son’s temple. Aventurine mirrored your gesture, his gaze meeting yours briefly. It was in these quiet, vulnerable moments that his guarded mask slipped entirely, revealing the man beneath.

As the three of you lay there, the child’s breathing grew steady, his fears banished by the warmth and love surrounding him. Aventurine murmured a soft, “Goodnight,” his hand lingering protectively on your son’s back. For once, there was no gamble, no risk—just family.

The air was cool, and the soft glow of the moon filtered through the curtains as you and Sampo settled into bed. His mischievous grin, as usual, hadn’t faltered even after a long day. But the peace of the evening was soon interrupted by the sound of your son crying out from his room.

Both you and Sampo bolted upright, exchanging a quick glance before hurrying down the hall. You found your four-year-old sitting up in his bed, his eyes wide with fear and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Hey there, champ,” Sampo said, crouching beside him. “What’s got you so spooked?”

“I—I had a bad dream,” your son stammered, his small hands clutching the blanket. “Can I sleep with you and Mama/Papa/Renny?”

Sampo’s playful grin softened. “Of course you can. What kind of dad would I be if I said no to my favorite little guy?”

Carrying your son back to your bedroom, Sampo made a show of fluffing the pillows and tucking him in. “Alright, bud,” he said as your son settled between the two of you, “you’re in the safest spot in the world now—between two top-tier protectors.”

“Papa,” your son whispered as he clung to your arm, “are you sure the monsters can’t find me here?”

“Monsters?” Sampo chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Not a chance. Besides, if they tried, I’d outsmart them in a heartbeat. You’ve got a merchant dad, remember? I’d sell them some fake monster repellent and send them running!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his antics. But it worked—your son giggled, the fear melting from his face. Soon, he was fast asleep, snuggled between you and Sampo.

Sampo leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple. “See? Problem solved. My charms work on everyone.”

The house was silent save for the rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the shore outside. You were just drifting off to sleep when a tiny knock came at the bedroom door.

“Come in,” Childe called, sitting up immediately. The door creaked open to reveal your four-year-old son, clutching his blanket tightly.

“Papa… Mama/Dada/Renny… I had a bad dream,” he said, his voice shaky. “Can I sleep with you?”

Childe was out of bed in an instant, kneeling to scoop the boy into his arms. “Of course, little one,” he said, his tone soft and reassuring. “Nightmares can’t hurt you when we’re here.”

Your son nestled against Childe’s chest as he carried him back to the bed. As the child crawled into the space between you, Childe tucked the blankets securely around him. “What was the dream about?” he asked, brushing his fingers through your son’s hair.

“There were… shadows,” your son whispered. “And they tried to take me away.”

Childe’s jaw tightened briefly, but his voice remained calm. “Shadows, huh? Well, they don’t stand a chance against us. Your parent and I are the strongest team there is.”

He glanced at you, his eyes softening as he reached over to take your hand. “We’ve got him, right?”

You nodded, smiling. “Always.”

Your son’s breathing slowed as he relaxed, lulled by the warmth and safety of your embrace. Childe watched him for a moment, his hand resting protectively on the boy’s back. “I’ll never let anything happen to him,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

The soft glow of the night lamp illuminated your room when the faint sound of sniffles reached your ears. Moments later, your four-year-old son appeared at the doorway, his small frame trembling.

“Mommy/Daddy/Renny… Daddy… I had a bad dream,” he said, clutching his blanket. “Can I sleep with you?”

Ratio adjusted his glasses, his intense eyes softening as he looked at the child. “A nightmare?” he murmured, rising to kneel before him. “Dreams are merely the mind’s way of sorting chaos. Let’s bring some order to this, shall we?”

You smiled as Ratio scooped the boy into his arms, his scholarly tone transforming into something gentle and warm. “Come,” he said, settling the child between you. “There is no safer place than here.”

As your son curled up, Ratio placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what frightened you,” he urged.

“There were big, scary shapes,” your son whispered, his voice muffled against your chest. “And they were chasing me.”

Ratio nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, shadows. A product of fear and imagination,” he explained. “But fear loses its power in the presence of love and knowledge.”

Your son’s eyes fluttered closed as you and Ratio soothed him with quiet reassurances. “Sleep now, my little prodigy,” Ratio whispered, his hand lingering protectively on the boy’s back. “Your dreams will find clarity, and we will always be here to guide you.”

[urbruisedgf]

please & thanks

[bennys-basement]

Hickeys? Hot. Bite marks? Hotter. The imprint of my hands left on your wrists after pinning them so hard that it looks like a burn? Fucking perfect.

[spectraling]

"They're soulmates" oh it's way worse than that

~ quote from marsadist

[dommelake]

just want to tie his arms to the bed frame and stroke his cock until he’s sobbing and wailing with every agonizing orgasm that rips through his body

[ann0yed-b0yfriend]

Do you think you can out smoke me? How cute, come, sit on my lap as you light it for me, let me praise you every time you take a bigger hit, let me put the joint in your mouth and force you to get too high, let me punish you each time you cough making you strip, or when i feel like it, you won't notice, you are too high and can only think about how much you crave my dick.

Let me stretch your holes in ways that sober you couldn't dream of, let me make you do disgusting things while you're so stoned you thank me for it and begg for more, let me make you experience so much pleasure that sober sex wouldn't be enough anymore.

Let me corrupt you, for both our pleasure.

[spoiledbygraves]

okay but if bf!simon or husband!simon is in love with you he would never keep his mask on during sex.

you've told him that it's fine. maybe that it even turns you on

but he just can't help but see it as disrespectful not to let his pretty girl see his face, ESPECIALLY because he's clingy and needs to be kissing you at all times.

smth about respect. smth about honor. whatever it is, you can't seem to convince him that it's okay so it becomes you're goal in your relationship for a few weeks til he finally does give in. (because he will always give in for his girl)

[greykolla-art]

Alastor: “Now, let’s talk about literally anything else please!”

Me: “Good! Cause I don’t know where you went so I can’t go further with this!😂”

[aventurineswife]

Hihi! I was wondering if I could request Dan Heng, Jiaoqiu, and Sunday with a s/o who is non-binary but has been struggling to tell them?

To be known and loved is to be truly seen

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, AE!Sunday x Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Conversations, Gender Identity Exploration, Non-Binary Reader Insert, Acceptance and Support, Soft Relationships, Found Family Themes, Light Angst

Warnings: Discussions of gender dysphoria (brief), Mild emotional distress, Anxiety themes, Supportive yet sensitive handling of identity issues(?), Comfort after emotional vulnerability.

Dan Heng stood at his post on the Astral Express, his usual calm demeanor betraying no sign of emotion. His fingers lightly gripped the hilt of his spear as his sharp gaze scanned the horizon through the train’s viewport. It was a quiet, tranquil moment—the kind he often sought in the midst of his hectic duties. Yet, there was a quiet tension in his chest, an unease he couldn’t quite place.

It had been several weeks now since he’d first met you, a quiet, introspective soul who had quickly become an integral part of his world. You were always there, by his side, whether he was patrolling, meditating, or simply walking the halls of the train. Dan Heng couldn’t deny the subtle warmth he felt when you were near—something about your presence put his mind at ease. But recently, a subtle shift had occurred. He noticed you fidgeting, speaking less, as though burdened by a weight you refused to share.

“Is something wrong?” he asked one evening when you found yourselves alone in the train’s quiet corridor.

Your gaze flitted to the floor, a hand nervously tugging at the edge of your sleeve. “It’s nothing, Dan Heng. Don’t worry about me.”

He didn’t press further, but something in your voice felt off. There was something you weren’t saying, something that hung between you like an unspoken truth. He had a feeling that it wasn’t nothing at all.

Days passed, and the quiet unease gnawed at him. He’d seen you hide it behind your smiles and soft laughter, but your unease was palpable to him. For all his stoic nature, Dan Heng had always been able to sense when something was wrong—when people around him needed something they weren’t saying. But this? This was different. His mind wandered through the possibilities. Was it something to do with your past? Or perhaps you were frustrated with your role on the Express?

It wasn’t until a late-night conversation in the dimly lit cabin that the truth came to light.

“I—I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while,” you began, your voice almost a whisper. Your hands trembled as you clasped them tightly in your lap, a nervous habit Dan Heng had come to recognize. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Dan Heng’s expression softened, and he turned toward you fully, his attention fixed entirely on you. “You don’t have to explain everything at once. Take your time.”

There was a long pause, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the train. Finally, you spoke again, your words slow but deliberate. “I’m non-binary. I don’t fit into either the role of a man or a woman, and… I’ve been struggling with how to tell you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. Dan Heng remained silent for a moment, his gaze searching your face, trying to read the emotions beneath the words. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes, the vulnerability in your posture. Slowly, he reached out, gently placing a hand on yours.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said quietly. “You are you. And I am honored to stand by your side, no matter what.”

A quiet relief washed over you, and you looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. A faint smile tugged at your lips, and Dan Heng felt a warmth fill his chest.

“I’m glad you told me,” he murmured, his voice low. “You can always be yourself around me. I’ll never judge you for who you are.”

In that moment, the weight you’d been carrying seemed to lift, if only for a little while. Dan Heng’s quiet support meant more to you than any words could express.

The soft scent of herbs and medicinal oils filled the air. It was a quiet evening, and the flickering light of lanterns cast gentle shadows on the walls as Jiaoqiu worked, grinding the ingredients for his latest formula. His fox-like ears twitched as he adjusted the flow of alchemical concoctions, his mind focused on the precision of his work. But despite his calm exterior, his thoughts often wandered back to you—the person he had been thinking about all day.

‘You haven’t been yourself lately.’ Jiaoqiu thought, stirring the potion in his hands. He had known you for a long time, admired your strength, but recently there had been something… off. You had been quieter, more withdrawn, as if there was some burden weighing on your heart. The compassion that guided Jiaoqiu in his work extended beyond the physical, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was troubling you.

He looked up from his work, and there you were—standing just inside the doorway, your figure framed by the dim glow of the lanterns. The hesitation in your gaze was evident.

“Are you alright?” Jiaoqiu asked, his voice gentle yet sharp with concern. He set down his mortar and pestle, his perceptive nature already picking up on your discomfort. “You’ve been distant.”

You shifted uncomfortably before slowly walking towards him. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something, Jiaoqiu. I… I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

Jiaoqiu raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. His expression softened, his hands resting by his side. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

The words came slowly, and there was an almost tangible tension between you. “I’m non-binary. I don’t identify as either male or female, and… I’ve been so afraid to tell you. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Jiaoqiu’s expression softened, his ears flickering with understanding. He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out gently to rest on your shoulder. “Disappoint me? You could never disappoint me.”

You hesitated, but Jiaoqiu gave a small, reassuring smile. “I understand. I don’t expect you to fit into any mold. You are who you are. And I appreciate you for exactly that.”

A sigh of relief escaped you, and you looked up at him. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” Jiaoqiu replied. “In fact, I’ve always admired your strength. The way you carry yourself, how you face every challenge. That’s what matters.”

For the first time in a long while, a genuine smile appeared on your face, and the tension seemed to ease from your shoulders. Jiaoqiu’s smile widened, and he gently squeezed your shoulder. “You’re not alone in this. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

Sunday sat in the quiet room of the Astral Express, his fingers delicately tracing the patterns on the edge of his golden ornament, the glimmer of the halo behind his head casting an ethereal glow. His thoughtful gaze rested on the view outside, but his mind was far away, lost in the complicated emotions that lay beneath his composed exterior.

There was a problem that had been on his mind lately. You had been acting strangely—distant, hesitant. He’d seen you flinch at the smallest things, and your silence had grown more pronounced. He couldn’t help but feel concerned, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny the twisted part of him that wondered if you were simply afraid of what he was.

But even as he questioned your distance, he knew there was something more. Something deeper.

“Sunday...” your voice broke through his thoughts, soft and tentative.

He turned toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with a gentle, almost serene gaze. “Yes?”

There was a long silence as you stood there, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “I… I’ve been meaning to tell you something important.”

Sunday’s expression softened, his tone warm but serious. “You know you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, it won’t change how I feel about you.”

You bit your lip, and after a long pause, you finally spoke. “I’m non-binary. I don’t identify as male or female, and I’ve been struggling to find the right way to tell you.”

Sunday blinked, his halo subtly shifting behind him as his mind processed your words. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady as he took in your vulnerability.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but firm. “You are exactly who you are, and that is all that matters. I do not view you through any lens other than the one that sees your worth and your spirit.”

His words were simple, yet there was an undeniable warmth in them, a sincerity that reached deep within your heart.

“You are perfect just as you are,” Sunday continued, his expression softening. “In this world, where everything seems to crumble under the weight of suffering, the only thing that matters to me is that you’re here. With me. And that we’re together.”

The softness in your gaze grew, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to truly relax in his presence. His acceptance was unwavering, a balm to the wounds you had carried for so long.

“Thank you, Sunday,” you whispered.

He smiled, a quiet, knowing smile. “Of course, dove.”

[urbruisedgf]

cnc but with a fake safeword you're supposed to ignore

[lipikkawrites]

A lot will go wrong before everything goes right.

Keep moving forward.

-@lipikkawrites

[narcissisticsmokers-blog]

Touch her like she’s a sin you’re proud to commit.

[dommelake]

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but he’d let me do it anyway so i could enjoy myself.

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but i felt the way he swallowed as i wrapped my hand around his throat and squeezed in rhythm with biting his lip during a kiss

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but i heard his quiet whines and saw the way his back subtly arched as i squeezed and twisted his nipples from under his shirt

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but i felt his cock harden and throb underneath me as i sat on his lap and pulled his head back my the hair so i could have better access to the sensitive skin at his jaw

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but the way he cried out and moaned desperately as i pinned his big strong arms above his head and rode his cock like it was a toy made just for my pleasure

he said he wasn’t into being dominated and played with, but he stared up at me with teary eyes after he sobbed from cumming inside me 4 times in a row and shyly asked if he could stay inside for just a little bit longer

[ccomelantartidee]

“Too well tangled”🤍

[retiredteabag]

Pre-relationship use of first name

Including: Gojo, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, Toji, Yuuji, and Megumi

Synopsis: they tell you that you should use their first name

(Sukuna still is using his last name as nobody calls him by his first name)

my smau masterlist

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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