#EnemiesToLoversVibes

[cloudyluun]

Silver Springs | (famous!harry x famous!reader)

Summary: Falling for Harry Styles was never part of Y/N’s plan. As the daughter of Stevie Nicks, she’s spent her whole life running from the spotlight, carving out her own identity in the indie rock scene. But when fate keeps pulling her back into his orbit, resisting becomes impossible.

A slow-burn friends-to-lovers romance filled with stolen glances, whispered lyrics, and a love too big to keep secret forever. Featuring: a dramatic rain-soaked love confession, a very public grand gesture, and enough Fleetwood Mac references to make Stevie proud.

Because some love stories are meant to be legendary.

A/N: Okay, but why was this request everything I’ve ever wanted in a fic?? The slow burn?? The secret relationship angst?? The messy, desperate, I-can’t-breathe-without-you love confession?? And let’s not even talk about that post-confession smut scene because I need a moment. To the lovely soul who requested this, thank you for feeding my drama-loving heart. This was so much fun to write, and I definitely got way too emotionally attached. (Also, I need a rockstar AU in real life ASAP.) ALSO I’m sorry, I definitely overdid the scene dividers oops.

Word Count: 8,5k

Warnings: 

Slow-burn tension that hurts (but in a good way)

Secret relationship chaos

One rain-soaked love confession

One hot, messy, emotional SMUT scene (18+)

Paparazzi stress & PR nightmares

A duet so romantic it might ruin your standards

Fleetwood Mac lyrics used as emotional warfare

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Y/N had been born with the weight of a legacy she never asked for.

From the moment she took her first breath, the world had already decided who she was. The daughter of Stevie Nicks. Rock royalty. A ghost of the past in a modern world. The media had never let her be anything else. They picked apart her features, searching for traces of her mother—the same high cheekbones, the same wild hair. They hunted for echoes of Fleetwood Mac in the songs she wrote, dissecting every lyric, every melody, desperate to find a connection. And when they couldn’t?

They made one up.

Her father’s identity had been a secret from the start, a mystery wrapped in whispered rumors and unanswered questions. Some tabloids swore he had been a rockstar, a fleeting love affair lost in the haze of the ‘70s. Others speculated he had been someone ordinary, someone her mother had chosen to protect from the chaos of her world. Y/N had stopped wondering a long time ago. Her mother had always said, "You don’t need to know where you come from to know where you’re going, baby." And maybe that was true. But sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she wished she knew which parts of her belonged to Stevie Nicks and which belonged to a stranger.

Still, despite the world’s obsession with her past, Y/N had built something of her own.

Her music was raw, poetic—a fusion of indie rock and dreamlike lyricism that belonged entirely to her. She wasn’t interested in stadiums or radio hits; she wanted songs that lingered in the bones, the kind that made people ache without knowing why.

And yet, no matter what she did, the headlines always found a way to reduce her to a footnote in her mother’s story.

"Stevie Nicks’ Daughter Haunts the Music Scene—Can She Ever Escape Her Mother’s Shadow?" "The Princess of Rock ‘n’ Roll: Y/N Nicks Inherits a Legacy of Magic and Tragedy."

She ignored them. Mostly.

But some nights, when the whiskey burned too much and the music wasn’t enough, she wondered if she’d ever just be herself.

The first time Y/N met Harry Styles, she was fifteen.

It was a warm summer night in Los Angeles, the kind where the air was thick with nostalgia, humming with the remnants of a golden era long gone.

Fleetwood Mac was playing at The Forum, and backstage was a haze of cigarette smoke, laughter, and the scent of aged leather. It was a world Y/N had always known, one that felt like home and yet never quite belonged to her.

She had been curled up on one of the velvet couches, her combat boots propped up on a glass table, flipping through an old notebook of half-written lyrics.

Her mother had walked in then, a force of nature even in her sixties, wrapped in flowing black fabric, rings glinting under the dim lights. And beside her—

Harry.

He had been twenty, freshly cut from the boyband machine but still unmistakably him. Messy curls, dimples carved deep into his cheeks, a floral button-up that hung loose over his chest. There was an ease to him, a confidence that most people his age hadn’t yet earned.

Stevie had smiled, her voice all warmth and amusement as she introduced them.

"Harry, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, sweetheart, this is Harry Styles."

Y/N had barely spared him a glance, disinterested in the way only a fifteen-year-old girl could be.

She had looked him up and down, unimpressed, before muttering, "Oh. You’re the boy with the hair."

There had been a beat of silence. Then—

Harry had grinned, wide and unbothered. "And you’re the girl who hates the spotlight."

That had made her pause.

She had finally looked at him properly then, taking in the twinkle of mischief in his green eyes, the way he had spoken to her like he knew her, like he could already see the edges of her soul.

She had hated that.

So she had rolled her eyes, shutting her notebook with a snap. "Yeah? What gave it away?"

Harry had only chuckled. "Just a feeling."

They hadn’t known it then, but that moment—that first careless exchange in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms—had been the beginning of something that would follow them for years.

They had drifted in and out of each other’s lives after that, their paths crossing at industry events, in backstage corridors, in places where music and fame blurred the lines between strangers and something more.

But they had never been close.

Not yet.

That would come later.

And when it did, neither of them would be able to stop it.

It was a city built on illusions, a place where the past and present blurred under neon lights and whiskey-soaked conversations. People changed here, or they lost themselves trying.

Y/N had spent years learning how to exist in the industry without letting it consume her. She had built walls, wrapped herself in the armor of cigarette smoke and sharp words, refusing to let the world shape her into something she wasn’t.

But some nights—nights like this—she felt the weight of it all pressing against her ribs.

She had been in the music industry long enough to know that these parties weren’t really about music. They were about power. Influence. The quiet, calculated dance of networking, where every glance and every handshake meant something.

Y/N hated it.

And yet, here she was.

The party was in the Hollywood Hills, tucked away in a mansion that reeked of old money and new fame. The kind of place where people got too drunk on tequila and promises they wouldn’t remember in the morning.

She had come because she had to—because being seen mattered, even when she wished it didn’t.

She was twenty-five now, no longer the sharp-tongued teenager who had met Harry Styles in the glow of The Forum’s dressing rooms.

She had grown into herself.

And so had he.

She saw him before he saw her.

Harry was in the center of the room, as he always was, laughter spilling from his lips as he leaned against a marble bar, his rings catching in the dim light.

He looked different now—older, surer, carved out of something stronger.

The curls were shorter, but still wild. The tattoos more visible, inked stories along his skin. He wore a suit, something sleek and expensive, but the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a silver cross against his collarbones.

Even here, surrounded by actors and musicians and people who pretended they belonged, he was the only one who looked like he truly did.

Y/N had spent years pretending she was immune to the charm of men like him.

But as she stood there, watching the way he moved, the way people gravitated toward him, she felt something stir in her chest.

Something she didn’t want to name.

She turned away, heading toward the bar, but it was already too late.

She heard his voice before she felt his presence.

“Well, if it isn’t rock royalty.”

Y/N exhaled, bracing herself, before turning to face him.

Harry was smiling, that slow, lazy grin that had made girls weak in the knees for over a decade.

“Pop star,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow.

His dimples deepened. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

Y/N shrugged, lifting her whiskey glass. “It isn’t.”

Harry’s gaze flickered over her, assessing. “Then why are you here?”

“Same reason you are,” she said, taking a slow sip. “To remind people we still exist.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to remind anyone, love. They never forget a Nicks.”

There was something in the way he said it—something almost… knowing.

She tilted her head, watching him. “And they never forget a Styles.”

His smirk deepened. “Touché.”

The conversation between them felt effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that came with years of shared history, even if most of it had been from a distance.

She had always liked that about him.

That he could meet her wit for wit. That he never backed down.

That night, they danced around the past without ever acknowledging it, teasing each other between sips of whiskey and stolen glances.

He called her "rock princess" like it was a private joke.

She called him "pop star" with just enough mockery to make him laugh.

The undercurrent of something more was there—tangible, electric, waiting to be acknowledged.

But neither of them touched it.

Not yet.

Later, when the party had thinned and the air inside had grown heavy with heat and smoke, Y/N slipped outside.

She kicked off her heels, stepping onto the cool stone of the balcony, and lit a cigarette with steady fingers.

The view of the city stretched before her, a glittering sea of headlights and broken dreams.

She inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine settle in her lungs, humming a familiar melody under her breath—one of her mother’s, an old Fleetwood Mac song that had been stitched into her bones long before she was born.

She didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Still hate the spotlight?”

His voice was softer now, missing the teasing edge from before.

She exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night. “I hate what it does to people.”

Harry leaned against the railing beside her, silent for a moment, as if turning over her words in his head.

Then, he huffed a quiet laugh. “Still the girl who hates everything?”

Y/N smirked, side-eyeing him. “Still the boy with the hair?”

Harry grinned, running a hand through his curls. “I like to think there’s more to me than that.”

Something unspoken passed between them then.

A shift. A breath.

A moment on the edge of something inevitable.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them said a word.

But in the silence, they both felt it.

A crack in the walls they had spent years building.

A spark that had always been there, waiting for the right time to catch fire.

Harry called her three weeks after the party.

It was late—too late for anything that wasn’t trouble.

She had been sprawled across her bed, an open notebook balanced on her stomach, trying to piece together a song that didn’t want to be written, when her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

She didn’t need to check the name.

There was only one person who would call her at this hour, as if he knew she’d still be awake.

She let the phone ring twice before answering. “You lost, pop star?”

Harry chuckled, his voice low and lazy. “Not lost, no. Just… thought of you.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Oh? Should I be flattered?”

“Dunno.” He paused. “Wanna come to the studio tomorrow?”

That made her sit up.

She knew Harry was working on a new album. The industry had been buzzing about it for months, but he had been careful—secretive, even—about who he let in.

And now, he was inviting her.

Y/N hesitated for only a second before saying, “What time?”

She arrived at the studio the next evening, her guitar slung over her back, dressed in a well-worn Fleetwood Mac t-shirt just to mess with him.

Harry was already there, sitting on the edge of a couch with a notebook in his lap, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the cover.

He looked up when she walked in, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Y/N dropped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like she owned the place. “Didn’t think you actually had a studio. Thought you just wrote love songs in expensive hotel rooms.”

Harry chuckled, flipping the notebook shut. “Maybe I do both.”

The night unfolded in quiet moments and half-sung melodies.

She watched as he disappeared into the recording booth, slipping the headphones over his ears, eyes fluttering shut as the music took over.

And for the first time, she let herself really listen to him.

Harry had always been a good singer. That much was obvious. But there was something about watching him like this—seeing the way he poured himself into every lyric, the way his voice carried a rawness that no amount of polish could hide—that made her breath catch.

He was singing something new, something unfinished.

And as his voice curled around the notes, thick with longing and something unspoken, he looked up—straight at her.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her whiskey glass.

The booth’s glass separated them, but the way he stared at her—intense, knowing, like he could see straight through her—made her feel like there was nothing between them at all.

She swallowed hard, looking away first.

Harry smirked.

One studio session turned into two. Two turned into three.

And then, before she knew it, she was on a plane with him, tucked into first-class seats as his tour swept across the country.

She told herself she was just tagging along for inspiration, a creative escape.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

But the late nights in hotel rooms told a different story.

They fell into a rhythm—drinking whiskey on balconies, trading lyrics like secrets, letting conversations slip into the kind of honesty that only existed between two people who didn’t want to admit what they were to each other.

Some nights, they wrote.

Some nights, they just existed—stretched out on hotel carpets, hands brushing when they passed the bottle back and forth, staring at ceilings like they held the answers to questions neither of them wanted to ask.

She hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected the way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Hadn’t expected the way she wanted to memorize the shape of his laughter.

Hadn’t expected the way she craved him, in the quiet, in the spaces between words, in the way his voice curled around her name like it was something sacred.

One night, she fell asleep in his hotel room.

They had been listening to records, the vinyl crackling in the background, the bottle of whiskey between them half-empty.

She had kicked off her boots at some point, curling up on the couch, his hoodie draped over her shoulders like she belonged in it.

Harry had been mid-sentence when he noticed she wasn’t answering.

He turned, finding her tucked into the cushions, her breathing soft, her hair spilling across her face.

Something in his chest tightened.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, telling himself to let it go.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, brushing her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering a second too long.

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

And for the briefest moment, Harry let himself want it—let himself imagine what it would feel like to close the space between them, to taste the whiskey on her lips, to see if she’d kiss him back or push him away.

He hovered there, so close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back.

Shoving a hand through his curls, he let out a quiet curse, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over her instead.

Not now, he told himself.

Not yet.

He sat back, forcing himself to look away.

But even in the dark, even in the silence, he knew.

He was already in too deep.

London was cold, the kind of damp chill that clung to bones and made her wish she was still waking up in different hotel rooms, still stealing sips of his morning coffee, still pretending she didn’t care when he hummed her songs under his breath.

The withdrawal was annoying.

But not unexpected.

She had just finished scribbling notes for a new song when her phone rang.

“You still in town?”

She smirked, setting her pen down. “Didn’t know you missed me so much, pop star.”

Harry chuckled, that deep, lazy sound that made something twist in her stomach. “Not even denying it, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Styles?”

“Dinner.”

That made her pause.

Sure, they had spent weeks living in each other’s pockets—whiskey-soaked late nights, studio sessions stretched into dawn, long looks across dimly lit dressing rooms—but this felt… different.

Intentional.

Like he was asking for something neither of them were ready to name.

Still, she played it cool. “Where?”

“I’ll text you.” A pause. “Wear something nice.”

She showed up to the restaurant in a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and her mother’s old silver rings.

Let him try and tell her what to wear.

Harry was already there, tucked into a quiet corner, a half-full glass of red wine in front of him. His curls were messier than usual, his sweater hanging loose on his frame, and the moment he saw her, his dimples deepened.

“Very fancy,” he teased, flicking the collar of her jacket as she slid into the seat across from him.

Y/N smirked. “If you wanted a date, you should’ve said so.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

The air shifted.

She ignored the way her pulse quickened, instead reaching for the menu. “So. What’s good here?”

They fell into easy conversation, talking about the tour, the highs and lows, the stupid inside jokes they’d collected along the way.

But somewhere between the laughter and the second glass of wine, the mood softened.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers.

Harry tilted his head. “Of what?”

“Being… this.” She gestured vaguely at him, at the world outside the restaurant doors, at the weight of fame that followed them both. “The cameras, the expectations, the pressure. Do you ever just wanna disappear?”

Harry studied her, running his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I remember why I started. And it’s not about all the noise. It’s about the music. About…” He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “About moments like this.”

Y/N felt her heart lurch before she could stop it.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smirk. “Sappy.”

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You love it.”

She did.

That was the problem.

They should have known better.

A quiet dinner in London? No such thing.

The next morning, the headlines were everywhere.

Harry Styles and Rock Royalty: A New Power Couple?

The Fleetwood Mac Connection—Is Y/N Following Her Mother’s Footsteps in Love, Too?

Spotted: Harry & Y/N, Cozy London Date Night or Just Old Friends?

Y/N groaned, tossing her phone onto the kitchen counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry’s name lit up her screen.

She answered without greeting. “Tell me this will blow over.”

Harry chuckled. “It’ll blow over.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” Another laugh. “We could deny it.”

“Obviously.”

“Or…”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

Harry’s grin was practically audible. “Could always lean into it.”

She snorted. “You wish, Styles.”

He hummed. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Her stomach flipped.

Before she could respond, there was a knock on her door.

“Gotta go.” She hung up quickly, shaking off the warmth curling in her chest.

Then she opened the door.

And found her mother standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Y/N barely had a chance to step aside before Stevie breezed past her, silk scarves trailing, the scent of patchouli and incense filling the space.

She made a beeline for the kitchen, plucked Y/N’s phone off the counter, and squinted at the headlines.

Y/N sighed. “Good morning to you, too.”

Stevie hummed, tapping a red-lacquered fingernail against the screen. “So… you and Harry Styles.”

Y/N groaned. “For fuck’s sake, it’s nothing.”

Stevie arched a delicate brow, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that.”

Y/N scowled. “It’s not love.”

Stevie’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Love is messy in this business, honey.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, snatching her phone back. “I wouldn’t know.”

Stevie just laughed, something soft and far too smug in her gaze.

Because she knew.

Long before Y/N was willing to admit it to herself.

She spotted him immediately.

Harry.

Leaning against the marble bar, whiskey in hand, dimples out in full force as he laughed at something Lizzo said. He looked too good, annoyingly good, all effortless charm and understated power in his black suit, his sheer shirt open just enough to tease golden skin and the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Y/N swallowed hard.

It had been weeks since the headlines. Since her mother’s knowing smile. Since she had convinced herself she wasn’t thinking about him like that.

But now, with the golden glow of the chandeliers casting shadows over his cheekbones, his green eyes flicking up to meet hers across the room—she felt it.

The pull. The inevitable, undeniable pull.

She found herself at his side before she could think better of it, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

Harry glanced at her, eyes flicking over her outfit—a silk slip dress in deep navy, barely-there straps, silver chains glinting against her collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers tightening around his whiskey glass.

Interesting.

Y/N smirked, plucking an olive from the garnish tray and popping it into her mouth. “Enjoying yourself, pop star?”

Harry exhaled a laugh, tilting his glass towards her. “Was just about to ask you the same thing, rock princess.”

She arched a brow. “You clean up well.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “So do you.”

Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a slow sip of her drink.

They fell into easy conversation, but the teasing was sharper tonight, laced with something dangerous. He was closer than usual, his knee brushing against hers, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist when he reached for his drink.

And every time she laughed, his eyes flickered to her lips.

Sometime after midnight, when the party was loudest and the drinks were strongest, Y/N felt the walls closing in.

She had spent the last hour with his hand on the small of her back, his voice low in her ear, his eyes dark and unreadable whenever she so much as looked at someone else.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

So she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

Harry blinked, surprised, but let her lead him through the crowd, up a grand staircase, and through a side door that led to the rooftop.

The city stretched out below them, glittering in the darkness. The muffled bass of the party throbbed beneath their feet, but up here, the air was crisp, cool against flushed skin.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. “Y’finally had enough of all that?”

Y/N scoffed. “I just needed to breathe.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think about it too, don’t you?”

Her stomach clenched.

She turned to him, arms crossed. “Think about what?”

Harry took a step closer. “This.”

Her heart hammered. “Harry—”

“I think about you too much,” he admitted, voice quiet but firm, like he had been holding it in for years.

The air crackled between them.

Y/N’s nails bit into her palms. Her voice was steady when she said, “Then do something about it.”

Harry moved before she could take it back.

His hand found her jaw, fingers tilting her face up to his. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his breath fanning against her lips—giving her a chance to stop it, to pull away.

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to savor the moment. His lips were soft but firm, tasting like whiskey and warmth, like something she hadn’t realized she had been starving for.

And when she kissed him back, something inside him snapped.

A groan rumbled in his throat as he deepened it, his other hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The cold rooftop wall pressed against her back, his body against her front, caging her in.

She melted.

Her fingers tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to make him growl into her mouth. She felt his smirk against her lips before he kissed her harder, licking into her mouth like he wanted to learn every single inch of her.

The city blurred around them.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only the moment they had spent years pretending they didn’t want.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N was breathless, lips tingling, her hands still fisted in his hair.

Harry smirked, eyes dark and hazy.

“Was wondering when you’d let me do that.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her fingers tracing his jaw.

“Shut up and do it again.”

And so he did.

They didn’t talk about it, not really.

They just acted.

And once that line had been crossed, there was no going back.

The secrecy of it all was intoxicating.

It turned the smallest moments into something electric—her fingers grazing his when she passed him a drink, the press of his palm against her lower back as he guided her through a crowd.

They stole kisses behind dressing room doors, in dimly lit hallways, in the backseat of a blacked-out SUV. It was a game neither of them acknowledged but both played with fervor.

It was thrilling.

It was dangerous.

It was them.

Harry had sent her nothing but a single text:

Room 1107. Door’s open.

So she went.

The moment she stepped inside, he was already reaching for her.

His hands were warm as they slid around her waist, pulling her in. His lips found hers before she could even make a remark about his audacity, and suddenly she was backed up against the wall, gasping softly into his mouth as his fingers gripped the hem of her hoodie—the one she had stolen from his suitcase weeks ago.

It smelled like him.

It felt like home.

“Missed you,” he muttered against her lips, his voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something softer, something sweeter.

She smirked, her fingers curling into his T-shirt. “You saw me three hours ago.”

Harry hummed, dragging his lips down the column of her throat. “Still too long.”

She rolled her eyes, but the shiver down her spine betrayed her.

But sleep had other plans.

Y/N woke up tangled in crisp white sheets, her limbs a lazy sprawl across the mattress. The scent of Harry—cologne, whiskey, and something distinctly him—wrapped around her like a second skin.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Her eyes flew open.

Harry groaned into the pillow beside her. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Harry? You up?”

His assistant.

Shit.

Y/N scrambled upright, heart racing. She barely had time to throw on his hoodie before Harry was tugging her off the bed, dragging her toward the closet.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” she hissed.

He just grinned, pushing the door open. “Get in.”

“Harry—”

“In, love.”

She barely had time to flip him off before he shut the door behind her, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, crouched between his suitcases, her bare legs chilled by the cool air inside.

She could hear everything.

The door creaking open.

Harry’s voice, rough from sleep. “Morning.”

The assistant’s knowing tone. “You sound like shit.”

A pause.

Y/N could feel the smirk in Harry’s response. “Yeah, well. Long night.”

Her glare could have burned through the door.

From the other side, she heard rustling—probably his assistant rifling through a bag.

Then—

“Oh, and by the way? If you’re gonna sneak someone in, maybe don’t leave two pairs of shoes by the door next time.”

Silence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Harry, to his credit, barely missed a beat.

“Right. Yeah. Noted.”

The door shut a moment later.

She barely had time to breathe before the closet door swung open, revealing Harry’s smug, dimpled grin.

“Next time,” he murmured, offering his hand to pull her up, “you’re hiding under the bed.”

Y/N smacked his chest.

And then kissed him.

It was meant to be quick—just a press of lips in playful retaliation—but Harry wasn’t one to let a moment slip away. His fingers curled around her waist, holding her there, deepening the kiss. It was languid, familiar, the kind of kiss that tasted like late nights and secrets, like comfort and hunger all at once.

She sighed against his mouth. “I should go.”

“I know.”

Neither of them moved.

It was only when the morning light began creeping through the curtains, spilling over their tangled limbs, that she forced herself to untangle from him. Harry stayed in bed, arm draped over his forehead, watching as she slipped into her jeans and pulled on his hoodie—her own top lost somewhere in the haze of the night before.

His voice was hoarse from sleep. “At least let me get you a car.”

“I’ll call one,” she assured him, raking her fingers through her messy hair.

Harry sat up then, brows knitting together. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, flashing him a small smile. She pressed a last kiss to his cheek, inhaled the warmth of his skin, and slipped out of the room.

And right into a camera flash.

The second she stepped onto the pavement, she knew.

The street wasn’t exactly swarming, but one paparazzo was enough. He was already snapping rapid shots, the sound of the shutter slicing through the dawn stillness like a guillotine. She didn’t run—that would make it worse. Instead, she pulled up the hood of Harry’s sweatshirt, kept her chin down, and slid into the waiting car.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached her apartment.

Maddie: Shit. Have you seen TMZ??

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t even shut the door behind her before she was pulling up the link.

The headline screamed at her in bold print:

Y/N Nicks Spotted Leaving Harry Styles’ Home—Rock Royalty & Pop Prince?

Her pulse pounded as she scrolled. Dozens of pictures. Some from last night when they arrived separately at his house. Some from this morning, catching her in the same outfit.

And then the comments.

Not surprised. The tension in that interview was insane. She’s not even that famous wtf. Fleetwood Mac and One Direction crossover??? Didn’t she date that bassist last year? She’s literally wearing his hoodie. IT’S HAPPENING. Harry can do better tbh.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

She should have known.

By noon, it was everywhere. Entertainment news, gossip sites, even actual journalists weighing in on the implications of her and Harry. She ignored the notifications, silenced her phone, but then came the email from her publicist.

And worse—Harry’s PR team.

We need to get ahead of this. No comment is best for now. We’re drafting a statement.

It was bullshit.

By mid-afternoon, she was at his house.

Harry was pacing the living room, phone in one hand, stress written all over his face. He looked up when she walked in, exhaling heavily. “They want me to deny it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “What?”

“They think—” He dragged a hand through his curls. “They think we can ride it out, wait for something else to distract them. If we say nothing, it dies faster.”

Something bitter lodged itself in her throat. “Say nothing? Or lie?”

He hesitated. And that was enough.

“You said we were in this together,” she said, voice sharp.

“We are,” he insisted. “But you know how this works, Y/N. It’s different for me. The fans.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Oh, the fans.”

“That’s not—” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Harry. I don’t.” She crossed her arms. “Because last I checked, I’m in this industry too. I’ve had my entire existence scrutinized since birth. Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have people picking apart my every move?”

His jaw clenched.

She pressed on. “But I’m not ashamed of you. And I sure as hell don’t want to pretend this isn’t real just because some PR team is scared of a few bad headlines.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said, voice low.

“Then why are you acting like you are?”

Silence.

Her heart hammered.

Finally, she exhaled shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “I want us to stop hiding. Please.”

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was her answer.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, nodded once, and turned for the door.

The quiet thud of the door closing behind her felt heavier than it should have.

It wasn’t dramatic—no slamming, no storming out. Just the quiet finality of leaving.

And yet, it echoed.

She didn’t cry in the car. Didn’t cry when she got home. Didn’t even cry when she scrolled through Twitter and saw her name still trending, the discourse evolving by the hour.

What does Harry see in her anyway? She’s just another nepotism baby. She’s so private—does she think she’s better than his other exes? She’s clearly using him for clout. She’s lucky to have him, but he deserves someone who actually appreciates him.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she locked her phone and tossed it onto the couch.

Let them talk. Let them spin their stories. It wasn’t like the truth mattered.

She went silent.

No Instagram stories, no late-night tweets, no cryptic lyrics. The press called it a calculated move, the fans called it suspicious, but in reality?

She just didn’t have the energy.

She slept too little and drank too much coffee. She ignored calls from her publicist. Ignored texts from mutual friends who wanted to check in but were probably just fishing for an inside scoop.

And Harry?

Harry didn’t reach out.

Not once.

Which, of all the things, hurt the most.

It had been three days.

She was at her mother’s house when it happened.

Stevie had always been able to tell when something was wrong, no matter how good Y/N thought she was at masking it. She hadn’t pried, though. Not yet. Instead, she let Y/N exist in the space, offering quiet company rather than questions.

But Y/N knew she wouldn’t escape forever.

That night, the house was quiet except for the hum of the wind outside. Stevie had gone to bed hours ago, leaving Y/N alone in the dimly lit living room, the grand piano standing in the corner like it was waiting for her.

She didn’t even realize she was walking toward it until her fingers brushed against the keys.

She sat down.

And she played.

It started as muscle memory, the chords slipping out in a familiar pattern, soft and haunting. The kind of song that lingered in the bones, that carried the weight of something unfinished.

"You could be my silver spring..."

The words came out quieter than she intended, but they were there.

"Blue-green colors flashing..."

Her voice wavered.

"I would be your only dream..."

Her fingers trembled over the keys, the melody filling the empty room.

"You will never be my lover..."

The tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

God.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the pictures leaked, not when the headlines turned ugly, not even when she walked away.

But here, under the weight of this song—her mother’s song—she broke.

She barely heard the footsteps approaching behind her.

But she felt the presence.

A hand, warm and familiar, rested gently on her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop playing.

Stevie sat down beside her on the bench, saying nothing.

She just listened.

And when Y/N’s hands finally fell away from the keys, when her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her mother reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, baby," she murmured softly.

And that was all it took for Y/N to shatter completely.

She turned into her mother’s arms, hiding her face against her shoulder as the heartbreak spilled out in ways she hadn’t allowed before.

Stevie just held her.

She didn’t say I told you so, didn’t say you knew this would happen, didn’t say I warned you, love is messy in this business.

She just let her cry.

Because what was there to say?

Y/N had been willing to fight for this. She had been willing to face the noise, the scrutiny, the world dissecting her every move—for him.

And he hadn’t even reached for her when she walked away.

She had loved him. Had let herself believe, even just for a moment, that they could exist beyond the secrets, beyond the fear.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he was never hers to begin with.

Meanwhile...

Harry hadn’t slept.

He had spent the last three days running on autopilot, going through the motions of studio sessions and meetings, pretending like everything was fine when it wasn’t.

He had tried to tell himself that this was the right move. That letting the story die on its own was the best way to protect them both.

But nothing about this felt right.

He had checked his phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over her contact, but he never typed anything. What could he say? Sorry I didn’t fight for us? Sorry I let the fear win?

He wasn’t sure what finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was the lack of her name in his messages, the absence of her voice. Maybe it was the fact that he had spent years wanting her and only had days before she slipped away completely.

Or maybe it was the video.

It wasn’t even a full clip, just a fifteen-second snippet someone had posted online.

Y/N, at a piano. Playing Silver Springs.

It was grainy, the lighting dim, but he knew her silhouette anywhere.

And he knew what that song meant.

His stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just the weight of the media or the PR teams or the fans that mattered.

It was her.

It had always been her.

And if he didn’t move now, if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose her for good.

The rain was relentless.

It hit the pavement in steady sheets, washing the city in silver streaks and the glow of streetlights. It soaked through Harry’s clothes, plastering his shirt to his skin, curling his hair against his forehead, dripping down his jaw like the storm itself was trying to pull him under.

But he didn’t care.

His heart was hammering, his chest tight with something wild and desperate as he stood in front of her door, fist poised to knock.

This was it.

No more hiding. No more silence. No more pretending like he could live without her.

His knuckles hit the wood. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

He swallowed hard, knocking again, harder this time, rainwater slipping down his wrist.

Still nothing.

His stomach clenched. What if she wasn’t here? What if she didn’t want to be here—what if she had already left, had already moved on—

The door swung open.

And there she was.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair damp, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

She hadn’t been expecting him. That much was obvious.

Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly as she took him in—the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way water dripped from his curls, the way his breath came ragged and uneven.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“Fuck the PR,” he blurted, voice raw. “Fuck the headlines.”

She blinked.

“I love you.”

The words hit the air like a lightning strike, sharp and electric.

A breath. A pause. A crack in the silence.

The rain hadn’t let up.

It streaked down the windowpanes, tapping a steady rhythm against the glass, pooling in the crevices of the street outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and something electric, something on the verge of breaking.

He stood there in her doorway, dripping onto the hardwood floors, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, darkened by the rain, molded to the sharp lines of his chest and the ridges of his stomach. Water curled at his jaw, trailing down the hollow of his throat. His breaths were heavy, ragged, like he’d run here in the downpour, like nothing in the world had mattered more than making it to this moment.

And she—

She just stared.

Chest rising and falling, lips slightly parted, fingers trembling at her sides.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, every unspoken word, every unshed tear, every almost hanging in the space between their bodies.

Her fingers fisted in the damp collar of his shirt.

She yanked him inside.

The door slammed behind them, but neither of them noticed.

His back hit the wood, a sharp inhale punched from his lungs as she pressed against him. Their bodies were a tangle of heat and desperation, a collision of limbs and longing, the storm outside nothing compared to the one building between them.

Her hands slid up, skimming over his shoulders, gripping the nape of his neck, pulling.

Their mouths crashed together.

It was rough. Messy. Clumsy in the way only something utterly inevitable could be.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, and he groaned into her mouth, his fingers threading into her damp hair, tugging just enough to tip her head back. His lips slanted over hers, deepening the kiss, tasting her like he was starved for it.

She gasped when his mouth trailed lower, down the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat. He bit down, just enough to leave a mark, just enough to make her shudder against him.

Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but the fabric was stuck to him, refusing to give. Frustration twisted her features.

“Off,” she demanded, voice breathless, thick with need.

He barely pulled back long enough to shove the wet fabric off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a damp slap.

She pressed her palms against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the erratic beat of his heart beneath her touch.

Then, she leaned in, running her tongue over the rain-slicked skin at his throat.

His whole body tensed.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Losing Control

They didn’t make it far.

They stumbled through the flat, hands desperate, mouths never parting, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Her sweatshirt was the next casualty, pulled up and over her head, landing somewhere behind them. His hands were on her skin instantly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of her spine, dragging down, down—gripping the back of her thighs and hoisting her up.

She gasped against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist.

He walked them backward, moving blindly, guided only by instinct and the sound of her breathing, the little whimpers she made when he kissed the hollow of her throat, the way her hips shifted against him.

They hit the couch.

She was weightless for a moment, air rushing from her lungs as he dropped her onto the cushions, hovering above her, chest heaving.

His hands spread over her bare thighs, sliding up, up, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts. He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

“I’ve wanted you since that first night,” he murmured, voice rough, wrecked.

Her breath caught.

A single heartbeat. A moment suspended in time.

Then she was tugging him down, capturing his mouth with hers.

Heat.

That was all she could feel.

The press of his body, the weight of him between her thighs, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed a path down her stomach.

Her nails raked down his back, catching at the waistband of his jeans, tugging. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushed himself lower.

His lips ghosted over her navel, down further, until—

Her back arched, a sharp inhale punched from her lungs, a curse whispered into the air.

And then everything blurred.

A tangle of limbs, clothes stripped away piece by piece, moans swallowed in kisses, bodies moving together, frantic, unrestrained, the storm raging both outside and between them.

He pressed inside her with a shuddering breath, forehead dropping against hers, their hands gripping, clutching, desperate.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice hoarse, raw with something deeper than lust.

She did.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, bodies tangled.

Her cheek rested against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare spine.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but all she could hear was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly—

“You didn’t stop me from walking away.”

He exhaled, his lips brushing over her temple. “I wanted to.”

She glanced up at him. “Then why didn’t you?”

His throat bobbed. “Because you deserved more than that.”

Her heart ached.

She shifted, fingers trailing over his jaw, over the curve of his mouth. “And now?”

His hand tightened on her waist.

“I’m done running.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

And when she kissed him, soft and lingering, he knew—

So was she.

The world could burn. The headlines could scream. The fans could theorize. The PR teams could scramble.

None of it mattered anymore.

Because they were done hiding.

They chose the timing.

They chose the words.

They chose each other.

The cameras were set up in a cozy, softly lit studio, with plush chairs and warm lighting that made everything feel a little less staged, a little more intimate. She sat beside him, their hands resting on the space between them—not quite touching, but close.

The interviewer, an older woman with kind eyes, smiled at them both.

“So,” she began, “I think it’s safe to say the world has been dying to know. What’s the truth?”

Harry exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. He glanced at Y/N, his dimples peeking out as he grinned, then looked back at the camera.

“The truth?” he repeated, voice playful, teasing.

She nudged him, a silent Behave.

He ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m in love with her. Always have been.”

The interviewer made a sound of delight. The world outside exploded.

She turned to Y/N, who was smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

“And you?” the interviewer asked gently.

Y/N looked at Harry.

He was already looking at her.

“I’m in love with him too,” she murmured. “Obviously.”

The arena was packed.

The energy in the air was electric, a chorus of cheers and music and flashing lights. The setlist was nearly done, the concert winding toward its final moments. But before the last song, Harry paused.

“Alright,” he murmured into the mic, stepping back from the center of the stage. “I’ve got something special for you all tonight.”

The crowd roared.

His eyes found her, standing just offstage, watching him with an amused smile.

And then—he extended his hand.

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because, for the first time, this wasn’t just between them. This was in front of thousands.

He must have seen it in her eyes, because he smiled—soft, reassuring, knowing. He wiggled his fingers, beckoning her.

“C’mon, love,” he said. “Duet?”

The audience screamed.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous,” she mouthed.

But she took his hand.

The moment she stepped onto the stage, the noise doubled, an eruption of cheers and chants and camera flashes.

But none of it mattered.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

The first chords of the song played, slow and sweet, the melody wrapping around them like something sacred.

And then—

He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Soft.

Lingering.

Devoted.

The crowd melted.

But in that moment, as the lights bathed them in gold, as their voices wove together, as their fingers stayed entwined—

It wasn’t about the world watching.

It was about them.

Because for once, it didn’t matter who was looking.

They had each other.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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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[noobiestnoober]

Fallout & Feelings (Sequel to "Matrimony Mayhem") (Carlos X Reader)

What started as a joke—a fake marriage between you and Carlos to boost team morale—has spiraled wildly out of control. Now HQ thinks it’s real, HR’s scheduling couple’s counseling, and the team is planning a surprise reception. But amidst the chaos, one problem grows harder to ignore: you’re starting to like being married to Carlos a little too much. And worse? He might feel the same.

Fake vows. Real feelings. Team-wide delusion. Welcome to the fallout.

Welcome to the Aftermath

There was no escaping it now. By the time Monday rolled around, the HQ announcement board had a digital banner that read: CONGRATS TO THE NEWLYWEDS! 🎉 right above a reminder about proper biohazard disposal. No one questioned it anymore. It had become part of the landscape—right next to the “All-Clear” drill notifications and mission success tallies.

The breakroom TV kept glitching into a slideshow of wedding-themed stock photos with your and Carlos’s faces lazily Photoshopped onto them. You tried to shut it off. Twice. It rebooted itself both times. Someone—likely Jill—had also programmed it to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” every time the coffee machine was used, meaning an emotional Elvis serenade every fifteen minutes.

You could handle the Elvis soundtrack. You could even tolerate Leon’s theatrical interpretation of slow dancing with an invisible bouquet every time you entered the room. But when Rebecca compiled a “training retreat” proposal that suspiciously resembled a honeymoon itinerary—complete with “couple trust-building exercises” and a scenic lake cabin? That’s when it got real.

You could ignore the monogrammed towel set. You could tolerate HR’s weekly “Marital Wellness” check-ins—even when they made you and Carlos fill out compatibility quizzes that sounded suspiciously like dating app surveys. But the part that was really getting out of hand?

You were starting to like it. All of it. Carlos was… good at being fake married. Too good.

He saved the last dumpling for you without asking. He carried your gear even when you didn’t need help. He casually touched the small of your back like it was second nature. He called you “wife” with that relaxed drawl that made it sound less like a joke and more like a fact. And worst of all? He smiled like he meant it when he called you mi esposa.

What had started as a laugh was turning into… something else. The line between fake and real was blurring faster than you could process. Somewhere between the shared meals, the inside jokes, and the casual touches, your heart stopped remembering where the act ended and the truth began.

The Turning Point

It happened after a particularly rough mission. Long hours. A close call. You were scraped up, exhausted, and coming down from the adrenaline high with a crash. Blood on your sleeve, dirt under your nails, and a dull ringing in your ears from the last explosion.

Carlos sat next to you on the infirmary cot. Wordlessly, he reached for your hand and held it. Not for the bit. Not for the team. Just for you. His hand was warm and solid. Familiar. Steady.

“You scared me today,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.

Your throat tightened. “Wasn’t planning on dying, if that helps.”

“Still,” he said again, softer this time. “I don’t think I could handle losing you. Even as a fake wife.”

You turned toward him slowly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and real. The fake wedding ring on your finger felt heavier than it should’ve, like it suddenly meant more than plastic and poor decisions.

“Carlos… do you ever wish it wasn’t a joke?”

He went still. The kind of still that usually meant danger. Except this time, the only thing in danger was your heart. Instead of deflecting, instead of making it weird, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

“All the time.”

Your pulse skipped a beat. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. You just looked at him—and he looked right back, like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Operation: Team Chaos

The team was spiraling. Spectacularly. Jill had set up a Pinterest board labeled “Reception Vibes.” It had categories. Subfolders. Color palettes. She was serious.

Leon was aggressively researching “Best Man speeches for emotionally stunted sharpshooters,” and had started leaving half-written cue cards in random places. One ended with: “...and if anyone objects to this union, speak now or shut up forever, because Carlos will shoot you.”

Chris looked five minutes away from a full bureaucratic collapse. His desk was buried in a mountain of paperwork he’d printed out to “fix this mess.” Every time someone asked what he was doing, he just muttered about protocol breaches and chain-of-command violations while shaking an HR handbook like it was gospel.

Rebecca? Oh, she’d escalated. She drafted an HR-approved marital health form titled “Love on the Front Lines: A Wellness Journey” and began scheduling sessions like a wedding planner on a mission. Her latest suggestion was a “Communication & Conflict Resolution” workshop. Mandatory.

There was talk—actual, serious talk—of a surprise wedding reception at the base cafeteria. Jill had a playlist. Leon was practicing a toast. Someone even requested cake options from the mess hall staff. You didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry.

And amid the chaos, you caught yourself smiling. Because this wasn’t just about the prank anymore. Somewhere in the whirlwind of well-meaning lunacy, the team had started rooting for you. For real.

Carlos caught you on your way to the shooting range, eyebrows raised.

“So, uh… do we fake-renew our vows or actually do it this time?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Let’s survive one more mission first.”

He nodded. “Deal. But next fruit basket? I’m picking the contents. No more weird kiwi jam.”

“Agreed. And I get veto power on towel embroidery fonts.”

He grinned, and it felt different now. Real.

[burntsecrets]

Flames of the Solstice

Pairing: Zuko x Katara Word Count: 816 Prompt:  For Zutara Week 2024 | Day 6: Festive @zutaraweek Author's Note: Zuko and Katara are in mid-20s in this Warnings: mild fantasy violence, competitive behavior, mild romantic tension, fire usage, and public confrontation

The lanterns swayed in the breeze, their golden light casting a warm glow over the Southern Water Tribe's Solstice Festival. Katara stood at the edge of the bustling courtyard, her arms crossed as she watched the celebration unfold. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mixing with the rhythmic beat of drums. The air smelled of roasting sea prunes and sweet iceberry cider, and the sound of water bending demonstrations crackled like a melody against the night.

"Are you planning to stand there all night, or are you actually going to enjoy the festival you worked so hard on?"

Katara turned, already smiling, as Zuko approached. His crimson scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, though she knew he didn’t need it. The Firelord didn’t get cold. Ever. A fact he reminded her of more often than necessary.

“You’re always warm. You don’t even need that scarf,” she said, nodding at the accessory.

Zuko smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that always managed to fluster her. “It’s not for warmth. It’s because it looks good.” He paused, pretending to inspect the scarf. “Don’t you agree?”

Katara rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop her grin. “You’re impossible.”

Zuko stepped closer, and she caught the flicker of fire sparking to life in his palm. He held it up, the flame small but steady, its light dancing across his sharp features. “Want to warm up? Or are you going to keep pretending you’re fine standing out here in the cold?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not.”

Zuko chuckled softly and extinguished the flame with a flick of his fingers. “Suit yourself.”

Katara took a moment to glance at him. His presence always stood out—his dark hair catching the glow of the lanterns, his confident stance, and the faint ember-like glow that seemed to radiate from him, even in the dimmest light. He fit in here as much as a firebender could at a Water Tribe festival, and yet somehow, with him at her side, it all felt… right.

“I saw you watching the bending games,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Thinking about jumping in?”

“Tempting,” Katara said, her eyes narrowing playfully. “But I’d hate to show everyone up.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Zuko teased, his tone light. “You’re Katara. Showing people up is kind of your thing.”

She gave him a mock glare but couldn’t hide her laugh. “Careful, Firelord. I might take that as a challenge.”

Zuko tilted his head, amber eyes glinting. “Maybe it is.”

The playful tension between them hung in the air, broken only by the cheer of the crowd near the central firepit. A group of benders was showing off, water and earth weaving together in a chaotic, mesmerizing display. Zuko followed Katara’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“Not bad,” he admitted. “For amateurs.”

Katara smirked. “Oh, you think you can do better?”

“I know I can,” Zuko said simply, his voice steady with that infuriating confidence.

She drained the last of her cider and stepped toward the firepit, turning back to toss him a challenging look. “Then prove it.”

The crowd parted as the two approached, their whispers turning to cheers as they realized who was stepping up. Katara pulled water from a nearby barrel, the liquid swirling around her hands with ease. Zuko responded by lighting a flame in his palm, the fire growing brighter and hotter as he stepped closer.

“Ready, Katara?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Always,” she shot back.

The first clash of water and fire lit up the night, the elements colliding in a burst of steam. Katara’s water whip lashed toward him, but Zuko countered effortlessly, fire flaring from his hands. Around them, the crowd cheered louder, but neither seemed to notice. Their focus was locked entirely on each other, the playful competition charged with energy.

Katara’s movements were swift and fluid, a dancer’s grace woven into her bending. Zuko moved with precision and strength, each strike deliberate. For every wave she sent his way, he countered with a burst of flame, the heat brushing her cheeks even from a distance.

As their bending intertwined, it wasn’t just a duel—it was a dance. Fire and water spun together, opposites in perfect harmony. The lanterns above seemed dim compared to the light they created, their movements drawing gasps and applause from the crowd.

When they finally stepped back, both slightly out of breath but smiling, the crowd erupted into cheers. Katara turned to Zuko, her cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from the exhilaration of the moment.

“Not bad,” she said, her voice breathless but teasing.

Zuko smirked, his golden eyes softening as they met hers. “Same to you.”

And in the glow of the festival, with firelight and lanterns dancing around them, the world felt as warm as the fire he carried within.

[kikiswriting7]

Seoul Connection ✈︎ JJK ✈︎ PJM

CHAPTER 1

Authors note: Been having a lot of fun writing this one. Hope you enjoy it too! :) Let me know what you think <3

Chapter 1 You are midway through your flight, almost getting back to Seoul after so long apart. You are going back to live there for your internship, which you got very last minute as one your best friends, and the one who was supposed to come, had a family emergency which didn’t allow her to come. You are Korean, spoke solely at home too with your parents as you imigrated to Europe when you were young, but this is the first time actually visiting the coutnry you heard so much about. You were a mere baby the last time you were in your home country, so you had to live your whole life through the telling of others.

The seats on this plane are set weird for business class. You definetly wouldn’t be able to afford to sit here normally, that’s for sure. So you are very thankfull the misterius company that works with your school is paying for everything during this internship.

You unfortunetly didn’t get a window seat and had to settle to following the plane in the small map screen as you are sure that is the best enterteinment on a flight anyway. The man sitting next you arrived late almost as the doors where closing to sit down and sink into his chair.

Suddently the plane starts shaking and you grasp your seat tighter. The signs in the cabin together with the annoucement of the pilot of “fastening seatbelts and put your chairs in upright position” make you more anxious as this means more is to come. You are not a terrible flyer but you definetly cannot handle turbulances very well.

You whine as brace again as the airplane shakes and your tension only rises.

The guy in nexy to you looked up and into your seat “You don’t have to worry about it. It always happens around this time of the flight”

“Yeah, I try to tell myself that but it’s a bit hard” you close your eyes again whining more “when the plane feels like this” I look at him as he takes his mask. his face is familiar but cannot quite place it. He feels bad for you, and understands your situation.

“I am arriving in seoul for the first time in a long timeand I really dont know where to go haha do you have any tips? I am a nervous flyer I talk a lot when im nervous sorry you seemed approachable”I blurt out fast as I try to look at him with a nervous smile forming on my lips

He is suprised that you didn't recognized him and as he thinks about how to answer, he finds it cute how nervous you are

"Oh, okay. Don't worry about it, I don't mind. To which area of Seoul do you go? There are many good hotels around."

“Uhh.. I’m not sure yet? I’m going there for an internship and I’m not familiar with the areas yet, not really had a lot of time to research it either.” I tell him. He nods and thinks for a moment*

"I see. Well, if you are looking for a good location, I would recommend Hongdae. It's a trendy district and is surrounded by many hip restaurants, bars, shops and all. The clubs there are actually quite nice.”

“Cool! I heard its full of fuckboys though” You immediately want to cover your mouth with your hand for speaking maybe too much but they are rather busy with you holding for your life

He laughs a little which surprises you and he shakes his head. "Yeah, you're not wrong. Hongdae are full of boys who love to flirt." He couldn't help but smile, he could tell that you were a nervous but he thought it’s cute.  “But, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll be popular there.” He’s smiling now, clearly entertained by your bluntness. "But I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ll probably be popular there."

You raise an eyebrow. "Thanks?" You’re not entirely sure if he means popular in Hongdae or just in Korea in general, but you chuckle anyway. For Jungkook, It’s rare for him to meet someone who talks to him so naturally, without hesitation. He finds it refreshing.

"I hope to make friends soon," you add, realizing you’ve been oversharing but unable to stop yourself. "It feels weird moving across the world, but I’m happy I did it."

"That’s a good mindset. It can be hard, but it’ll be worth it. You’re brave. I like that."

You smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sorry—I won’t interrupt your flight anymore."

He shakes his head. "It’s okay. Talking to you was… nice. If you need anything, you can text me." He pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to you.

You blink down at it. That was smooth.

"You’re not one of those Hongdae boys, are you?" You narrow your eyes playfully, waving the paper slightly. "Because this? This was a pro move."

He laughed again and shakes his head no, clearly amused. “No, I’m not.” He answered and found it funny that you questioned that. He was used to have girls swarming around him but he found you different and interesting.

“Good because I dont save number of” I do air quotes as I say this “boys who love to flirt with anything that moves”

He laughs at your behaviour since he thinks it’s adorable. “Is that so? Well, I’m glad I passed your test then.” He said jokingly and tilted his head.

I smirk “well see about that….?” I say with a tone waiting for his name at the end of the sentence.

He smirks as he realized what you’re trying to do, he couldn’t deny that it’s making him a little excited. You really didn’t know him?

He said in a low voice, making sure no one else could hear them “Well, my name is Jungkook.”

I smile and raise an eyebrow. Also whispering in reply “Nice to meet you Jungkook. Why are we whispering?”

“Nice to meet you too.” He said softly before he answered your question “Well, you see, if other people found out I’m giving my private number to someone… I’m going to get a lot of questions.”

“why would it matter?” Suddenly the plane goes through a rough patch of turbulence again and I shriek grasping the seat once more.

He couldn’t help but chuckle before gently putting a hand on your hand “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s just turbulence, it’s harmless.”

“Its like jelly right?” I try to laugh it off with a joke I saw on a video before boarding

He smiled as he heard your joke, clearly amused. “Yeah, that’s right.” He replied and chuckled before continuing “The plane is made to endure the turbulence as it's completely harmless. Although it can be scary at first, but you will get used to it.”

“Thanks Mr Aviation. Are you a pilot or something?” I sit back on my seat as the seat belt sign turns off and smile at him.

“No I just travel a lot” Jungkook says brushing it off.

“wow I wish I traveled a lot. I dont think I could ever get used to turbulence even if I flew every week”  you smile but get a bit shy. I wonder what he does to travel a lot

He nods and smiles at you, understanding your feelings, “It’s okay, not everyone enjoys flying and I understand, turbulence can still be intimidating even after you get used to it.” He notices that you seemed a bit shy, and he found that adorable.

“So, you said that you’re going to Seoul for an internship? What kind of internship is it, if I may ask?”

“Well I study management and” you lean closer to also make it sound like a secret like he did before “I will work for a big music label, don’t know which one yet cause they said we will get to know where we are assigned once we arrive. So I cannot give you any free concert tickets or anything” I say it whispering trying to sound nonchalant

He chuckled and shook his head at your attempt of sounding nonchalant. Also, he was a bit surprised that you don’t know which label you’re going to be assigned yet, since it was pretty unusual for companies to let the people they hire to work with them in the dark “Oh, you’re a management student? That’s great! But, I’ve never heard of labels hiring people before telling them what label they will be working for.”

I lean closer to say it in a low voice again “You see, the nature of my job will require top secrecy, and since I havent signed any documents yet as I need my korean IDs and all…so they haven’t said which one exactly I’m going to”  you shrug “I am sure they have it all arranged but we just dont know it yet”

He leans in as well, his curiosity piqued by your answer. He found it intriguing and even a bit exciting, his expression showing interest “Top secrecy? That sounds pretty interesting. I take it that it has to do with a big Kpop label then huh?”

“Uhum … but as I say no free concerts mister”  I laugh and lean back

He laughs and shakes his head, clearly amused by your response “Oh, come on, not even one ticket? Not even a single concert?” His big eyes sparkle, and pouting a little, making a show of being disappointed as he asks for a concert ticket and even though you know he is only playing your game your heart skips a beat for the beautiful man sitting next to you.

You am about to reply as a man approaches him and whispers something in his ear which I cannot understand. You take it as my cue to be silent again and stop bothering.

He nodded at the man who approached him and whispered something in his ear. His smile dropping and he looks a bit annoyed as the man was clearly informing him about something, he shook his head but said nothing to him. He then looked back at you and notices that you just went back to playing solitaire on your phone. He watches you for a second before continuing.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to be quiet, you weren’t bothering me.” He says, his eyes glued on you

“Oh no its ok! I mean you must be tired as well since you travel so much. I dont wanna interrupt anymore.”  You smile but I also know when its my turn to stop talking

“No, really, it’s fine. Traveling a lot can be exhausting, but honestly, talking to you has been a pleasant break for me. I feel more relaxed” Jungkook reassures you, his expression soft and his eyes never leaving your face

You smile and give a small reverence with your head “I’m glad I could be of service”

He laughed softly at your little bow, enjoying the casual conversation he has been able to enjoy with you. No photos or autographs or nervous chat.

“Thank you for your service.” *he replies jokingly and smirks at you, his gaze locked on you, he was beginning to feel drawn to you, something he didn’t often feel, specially to people he just meet.

You keep smiling. Also enjoying the way Jungkook has been sharp on his tongue when replying and playing it off with you. Also, doesn’t hurt that he is gorgeous.  “So, if you dont mind me asking what was james bond on about?” I ask again pointing for the few rows back where the man who came to talk to Jungkook came from

He laughs at your comment of the “james bond” nickname for the man who approached him, finding it witty. His bodyguard would probably laugh knowing that someone called him James Bond.

He leans a bit closer and replies in a low voice so only you could hear him “Well, it’s nothing really, just some management stuff about my job…” he shrugged, downplaying the issue, not wanting the conversation to take a more serious turn. Also hoping that you would not catch on to the fact that he is in Fact an Idol and suddently change.

“hmm I see… I hope everything is alright” You offer a small supportive smile  “When you are back in Seoul what do you normally do?”

*he can’t help but return your smile, appreciating your concern. He thinks for a moment before answering your question, trying hard not to give away his job. “When I’m back in Seoul, I just do normal things like anyone else. Hang out with friends, explore the city, visit the clubs…” he replied and instantly cringing for his reply, but he also couldn’t help but be curious about you as well

I didn’t take you as I a party animal, jungkook” You say raising an eyebrow in a playfull way, teasing him for“visiting the clubs”

He feigns an offended look and places a hand on his chest, pretending to be hurt, but still with the cheakiest grin playing on his lips as he looks your way unable to hide the amusement in his eyes  “Oh really? And why is that? Don’t I look like a party animal to you?”

You laugh “hmm no you dont really… something about “Im not like the other hongdae boys” really stuck with me”

He couldn’t help but laugh as well, clearly amused by your banter. He raised an eyebrow at your comment and leaned back in his seat, a playful glint in his eyes “Well, I stand by my words, I’m not like those Hongdae boys.” he says matter-of-factly, his smile still present as he looked at you, his gaze a little intense.

“I’m glad you are not because otherwise there would be a minus chance of me adding your phone number” You also say matter-of-factly. It feels like shameless flirting and Evi, your friend who could not come, would be kicking her feet if she would be here seeing this interaction.

He couldn't help but burst into laughter at your response, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. There was something undeniably charming about the way you said it—equal parts witty and endearing, making it impossible for him to resist a smile.

“Oh, I see, so my chances would have gone down the drain if I were one of those ‘players,’ huh?” he said, his voice filled with humor, he was surprised how easy it was for him to banter back and forth with you

“yup. but I also only know you for an hour so you can still -unfortunately- prove me wrong.” we lock eyes and we both smile. before he can reply the pilot asking the cabin crew to take their seats as we are landing soon

Both of you couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment, wishing the conversation could last just a little longer.

As he buckled his seatbelt, he glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting forward. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

"Looks like we’ll have to put our chat on hold for now. But don’t worry, I’ll try not to prove you wrong." he adds, still amused and clearly enjoying your company.  Jungkook couldn’t shake off the feeling of wanting to know more about you

You smile at his comment but stay quiet as the plane begins its descent, the familiar weightless sensation making my stomach twist. The turbulence doesn’t help.  Your fingers tighten around the armrest, knuckles turning white as you stare out the window, willing myself to focus on the glittering city lights below rather than the way the plane shudders.

Jungkook notices. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something reassuring about his presence beside you, like an unspoken understanding.

The moment the wheels touch the ground, he shifts. Gone is the relaxed, playful man you’d spent the flight talking to. Instead, he moves with quiet efficiency, reaching for his facemask just as a sharp-suited man—the one I’d mentally dubbed the James Bond type—steps into the aisle. Without a word, Jungkook nods, rises from his seat, and follows him.

No one else has even unbuckled yet.

And just like that, he’s gone.

A strange emptiness settles in my chest as you watch his retreating figure. It’s ridiculous—you only just met, barely spoke beyond a few hours, and yet… you already miss his company? There was something easy about talking to him, something warm. It would’ve been nice to have a friend in Seoul.

As you sit there, still processing the abruptness of it all, you feel it.

A fleeting moment.

Just before disappearing down the jet bridge, Jungkook glances back.

His dark eyes find yours across the cabin, unreadable yet lingering, like he wants to say something but knows he can’t.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he turns and walks away, shoulders squared, slipping effortlessly into whatever world he belongs to—one that, I suspect, is very different from yours.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time our paths will cross.

✈︎ Chapter 2