#basically the dynamic changes across time

[marauroon]

hiii i saw that u were asking for reqs and i loved reading ur best frenemies fic with remus, i was wondering if you would be open to writing about that dynamic more. like maybe they're in the same friend group so they're in close proximity but they can't stand one each other and maybe the reader got stood up or something and remus is there or really whatever you want. Anyways thank you for your work, i really enjoy it

── .⏾ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

you didn’t even really invite him, but the fact he didn’t show up still put a damper on your mood. remus thinks it’s killing the whole room’s vibe.

remus lupin x frenemy!reader | 1.2k | h/c? | masterlist.

a/n | went back to the og og ship for this one, shout out to blackinnon

There’s something aggravating about someone who’s simultaneously the smartest in the room and also the most infuriating. Sure, maybe he’s handsome in a very I-read-sad-poetry-by-lantern-light way, but that only really makes it worse.

And, unfortunately, thanks to Marlene’s thing with Sirius (on again, off again, like the world’s most emotionally exhausting lumos charm), you are now in proximity to said infuriating boy far more often than you’d like to be.

It’s become a balancing act, really—sitting at the Three Broomsticks with your best friends on one side and the Marauders on the other, trying not to glare directly at Remus every time he says something clever. You think you’ve managed rather well. Mostly. Until now.

Because today, of all days, your maybe-date didn’t show.

You’re not even sure you’d call it a date. You’ve been talking with Michael Rossiter in Herbology for a couple of weeks, mostly about plants but sometimes—when he was feeling cheeky—about music or Quidditch or the way you looked when you were annoyed with your mandrake.

He wasn’t brilliant, but he had nice eyes and a decent laugh and said, when you told him you were going to Hogsmeade with your friends, “Maybe I’ll see you there then.”

You'd smiled. Told yourself not to get too giddy. And yet, here you are. Giddy, then deflated.

The booth you’re all crammed into is loud—Marlene is practically on Sirius’s lap, Mary and Dorcas are exchanging knowing looks, and James is loudly arguing with Peter over the latest Wimbourne Wasps game. And Remus—Remus is directly opposite you, because of course he is, because of course Sirius just had to say, “Oi, Moony, let the ladies have the bench side, be a gentleman,” and Remus just smirked and obliged, sliding in across you like he belonged there.

You’ve been waiting. Watching the door. Laughing too loudly at Mary’s jokes. Pretending to sip butterbeer just to keep your hands busy. And when Michael doesn’t show—when it becomes obvious he’s not going to—you shrink a bit. Quiet. Withdrawn.

And Remus notices.

Of course he does.

"You know, for someone who supposedly convinced a boy to change his Hogsmeade plans just for her,” he drawls, not even looking up from his drink, “you’re doing a marvellous impression of someone who’s just been stood up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the steam fog up the panes.

Remus pauses.

Usually, this is the part where you snap something back—about his sad little jumpers or the way he chews the ends of quills like a stressed-out academic or how he’s basically a walking dissertation on how not to relax. But you don’t. You sit still, hands clenched in your lap.

The silence between you grows taut.

Remus frowns. He nudges you with his foot under the table—annoying. Like a brother, if your brother was your intellectual rival and also kind of handsome in a way you wish you didn’t notice.

“Oi,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t want you to.”

That gives him pause. He turns toward you fully now, leaning on one elbow. “Alright, that’s a bit harsh.”

You shrug.

Then he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “Who was it? The boy. No, don’t tell me— Rossiter?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How did you—?”

“Everyone saw you flirting over flobberworms in class last week,” he says, deadpan. “He told Sirius he was thinking about asking you out. Got all red-faced about it, too. It was tragic.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Merlin.”

“He’s a right sod, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “That your professional opinion?”

Remus shrugs, grinning slightly. “My personal one. But it’s backed by a great deal of observational research.”

You huff. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know him better than you do,” Remus says, slumping back into the booth. “Do you know his mum still buys his underwear?”

You blink.

“I’m serious. Thomas the Tank Engine ones. We saw them last year when someone hit him with a jelly-legs jinx and his trousers fell down on the Quidditch pitch. Looked ridiculous.”

You can’t help it—you snort. It’s brief, but it’s real.

Remus perks up like a cat that’s just caught movement under a curtain. “And I once caught him picking his nose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish,” he says, grimacing. “We were in the library and he was just mining. Like he thought no one could see him. It was vile.”

You giggle. You actually giggle.

Remus looks triumphant. “And they say I’m the wild animal.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re awful.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” He pauses, then adds, more gently, “You really thought he was coming?”

You nod, shoulders drooping. “I mean… he said maybe. He was sort of flirty about it. I thought—” You cut yourself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Remus doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his head back against the booth, watching you. “I hate that you’re sad,” he says eventually. “You’re annoying when you’re sad. It’s harder to make fun of you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s still there. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm again. “Still sucks, though.”

The warmth in your chest surprises you. You look at him again, properly this time, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t match the usual sardonic glint.

It’s disarming.

You blink, glance away. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grins. “Don’t get all emotional on me. I might have to start being nice to you regularly and that’s not good for my image.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” you say dryly.

“Unimaginable.”

Sirius leans over suddenly, draping an arm across Remus’s shoulders and nearly spilling his drink. “Oi, Moony, you pulling or pining?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. “Trying to comfort someone after being disappointed by the tragic shallowness of her romantic prospects, actually. Something you’d know nothing about.”

Sirius pouts. “Rude.”

Marlene snorts. “Let her be. She got stood up, she’s rightfully upset,”

Sirius frowns. “Who stands you up?”

You wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Remus answers anyway. “Michael Rossiter.”

Sirius sits back like he’s been slapped. “Rossiter? No. That absolute knob?”

“You see?” Remus says, gesturing. “It’s not just me.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters. “Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance.”

“You did hex him,” Remus points out.

“Not enough, apparently.”

[sup-its-cat]

INTRODUCING THE ONE AND ONLY Y/NNNNNNNN

I love them sm pls ask me questions abt them

Also made a ship chart using the template from @magpiepaws

[platos-babygirl]

So along with ToaM I have two wips that I'm working on. The first is basically easy because its more after the After rather than During which gives me heaps of creative freedom.

The second one though is really annoying me so I've been searching and I've realised that fundamentally the way I read a lot of Spiderman fics and particularly the way I see Peter & Tony fics written, tend to fall into an area i consider to be overly invasive and creepy (and thats not even considering both the age dynamic, the power dynamic of Tony being significantly more famous and higher on the socioeconomic ladder)

but at the same time, I don't want to portray Tony as a predator who takes advantage of a young teenager and blackmails them into lying about the true nature of their relationship and taking advantage of the fact that this young teenager clearly idolises them and would walk off the face of the earth for them.

Added context is important when we discuss these subject matters and it's definitely something I'm thinking of every time I work of ToaM (since Harry is 11rn and a vulnerable person) but theres also a point where added context leads to jumping to conclusions or even not seeing the whole picture.

I feel as though I work a lot with self reflection and what the characters are seeing verses that they are saying. I've never been good at 'Show Don't Tell' as a result. I'm also aware that the way I write probably shows a lack of being able to connect with my readers or hold a line of conversation. (although I blame the tism on that one)

So (although i doubt anyone would read this anyhow) whats your opinion of the way Peter and Tonys relationship is handled by the fandom? Are there any aspects of their relationship (or arguably lack thereof) that you would like me to experiment with.

[fxrheisenn]

Andrus Laansalu talked about making Disco Elysium at EKA (Estonian Academy of Arts)

"Initially, the church wasn't a focal point. There were certain characters that needed to visit this location, and I asked, "Seriously, what do we have in our church?" The others replied, "Nothing at all. Our church is completely bare—just a wheel, really. It's quite basic."

That's when I decided to unleash my creativity in the design. For example, they chose to install a glass structure at the top of the church to create a reflective surface. It was like placing an optical clock up there. Therefore, one of the most crucial aspects of designing the church was ensuring the lighting was just right to create the desired atmosphere."

"Let me show you an example of Baroque architecture, which is rich in detail. We're also designing the interior of the church based on large cathedrals. However, the foundation you use might not yield the expected results, because the church itself doesn't require such intricate details. Sometimes, it's about simplifying the design."

"I used Articy for the initial scriptwriting of Disco Elysium. The image only represents a tiny fraction of the text and choice variables involved. This system was also the reason I eventually abandoned the project after a year of outlining the script and shifted my focus to becoming a sound designer. My mind struggled to keep up with the dynamic graphic rules, but fortunately, a more talented writer took over afterward."

"In terms of sound design, it's essential to develop different layers to bring out the charm of the church as a cohesive space. Although this represents only a small portion of the overall design, each layer actually requires a significant amount of time to compose the whole....... Whenever there's a shift or a change due to the dialogue itself, you need to adjust the background sounds. Each time you modify the details in the dialogue, I have to refine the background audio, ensuring that these elements build upon each other like an intricate layer of work."

"It's funny how many scenes involve characters getting smacked in the face. My job was to recreate those, so I locked myself in the bathroom with a recorder and hit my forehead until it turned red.

As a sound designer, I really dig those unsettling, drill-like sounds. So, I mixed in creepy lectures, metal scraping, moans, and cries of pain—because I just love that stuff! (laughs)

Players will be moving through all kinds of areas, so it's super important to make the sound transitions feel natural, trying to create a more immersive vibe in certain spaces.

With all the scenes featuring big cranes, you can hear them from far away, and I wanted to capture that eerie ringing in your ears. That's going to be a thing throughout most of the game. I've found ways to really mess with players while they're playing!"

"I've come across a lot of old objects (like phones and radios) that I needed to perfectly replicate the sounds. I started to become a bit of a hoarder, buying up different models of old phones whenever I found one to add to my collection. The sound effects I can simulate from them are really impressive."

"Some of the devices don't actually exist in real life—just a mix of architecture and tech. When I need to create sound effects, I first look for something similar that exists in our world, then I try to simulate what the sound and appearance of that thing might have been like a century ago.

Towards the end of the game, there's a character carrying a fuel canister. We needed the sound of the canister, so we dug one up from our garage—it had been sitting there since it was five! I realized this would make the sound perfect. So, it had been there for 50 years, and after 40 years, it finally found its purpose.

In some places, I needed unique sound waves, and recreating them was a real headache until one day I happened to walk by a swimming pool and stumbled upon an old wartime torpedo. You can rotate the torpedo's probe, and it slowly rises up, like a proud zombie head. The sounds it made were exactly what I needed!"

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

"Well, since we're in Estonia, you just need to know a wealthy person. You don't need five people—just two who can network, hang out together, and convince them to keep investing! (laughs) Back then, we constantly ran out of money and would tell them, 'Oops, looks like we spent it all! Can you invest a bit more?' That's how we made it through!"

🙋How did you all come together to make the game?

"Luck. It usually doesn't happen this way, and that's the key difference. It has to be. If not, you couldn't create a game of this scale - well, I mean in terms of budget. But creatively, Estonia definitely has writers and artists who can pull it off. With such a small population, there are a lot of quirky folks who are good friends. We were really lucky, though - lots of fortunate circumstances came together. It brought the right people together, allowing those talented fools to collaborate with us. They had experience but hadn't tackled projects of this magnitude before. So yeah, luck is pretty important!"

Lecture experience shared by 白兔YIYANG SUN on 小红书, reposted & translated by me with her permission.

[hancorys]

m.jh — the egg project

genre: enemies to lovers, idiots to lovers, crack (bonedo dynamics mentioned) pairing: jaehyun x afab!reader wc: 4.6k warning: they're both a mess, non-stop banters. they kissed at the end. fought because of an egg. listen: antukin — rico blanco, i like me better — lauv, gusto ko lamang sa buhay — itchy worms, but i like you — boynextdoor

you don’t even remember the last time you and jaehyun had a normal conversation. not that you ever really did—because for as long as you’ve both been part of your respective sports teams, the only thing you’ve ever exchanged were complaints.

it started with the mess.

“seriously?” you had scoffed one evening, walking into the gym after the basketball team’s practice, only to find discarded water bottles, sweaty towels, and even an empty sports drink bottle rolling across the floor like a sad little tumbleweed.

the volleyball team had practice right after, and nothing pissed you off more than stepping onto a court that looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

so, like any responsible captain, you took it upon yourself to find the root of the problem. and that root had a name: myung jaehyun.

“hey, jaehyun, clean up your team’s mess next time,” you had called out after one of your shared gym sessions.

jaehyun, who was in the middle of chugging a bottle of water, raised a brow at you. “our mess?”

“yes, yours.” you gestured to the abandoned pile of trash near the bench. “you leave the place looking like a hurricane hit.”

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged. “not my fault you’re allergic to a little dirt.”

“not my fault you guys are allergic to basic hygiene.”

leehan, who had been dribbling a basketball nearby, snorted. “dude, she’s got a point.”

“whose side are you on?” jaehyun shot him a glare before turning back to you. “we don’t even leave that much of a mess.”

you let out a short laugh, stepping forward and kicking an empty bottle toward him. it rolled to a stop right by his foot. “oh yeah? then whose bottle is this?”

sungho, who had just been passing by, took one look at the scene and immediately pointed at jaehyun. “definitely his.”

jaehyun gave him a betrayed look. “are you serious?”

“i mean, statistically speaking, it’s more likely to be yours than mine,” sungho said with a lazy shrug. “i actually clean up after myself.”

“that’s a lie and you know it.”

“okay, but do i leave sports drink graveyards on the court? no.”

you crossed your arms and smirked. “see? even your own team thinks you’re the problem.”

jaehyun groaned, bending down to pick up the bottle before lazily tossing it into the trash can. “there. happy now?”

“ecstatic,” you deadpanned. “now do that, but every time.”

from then on, it became an ongoing battle. jaehyun’s team kept leaving behind their junk, and your team kept glaring at them from across the gym. you never actually fought, not really, but there was an unspoken war between the two of you—one built entirely on glares, sarcastic remarks, and aggressively wiping down volleyballs while jaehyun walked past you like he owned the place.

one time, after another particularly messy practice, you had stormed into the basketball team’s locker room, ignoring the immediate groans and complaints from the players inside.

“again?” you huffed, pointing toward the gym doors. “why do i have to keep reminding you guys to pick up after yourselves?”

leehan, who was in the middle of changing into a fresh jersey, blinked at you. “damn, i thought we locked the door.”

“she probably kicked it open,” riwoo muttered, adjusting his towel around his neck.

jaehyun, who was seated on the bench, barely looked up as he tied his shoelaces. “maybe if your team spent less time complaining and more time training, you’d actually win more games.”

your jaw dropped. “excuse me?”

he finally glanced up, a teasing glint in his eyes. “just saying.”

taesan whistled lowly. “oh, you’re dead.”

woonhak patted jaehyun’s shoulder like he was saying his final goodbyes. “it was nice knowing you, man.”

you took a deep breath, shaking your head as you turned on your heel. “you know what? forget it. next time i see even one of your bottles on that floor, i’m chucking it at your head.”

“looking forward to it,” jaehyun called after you, clearly amused.

god, you hated him.

as if the universe wasn’t already laughing at you, things got even worse when your teams had to start training together.

your school had decided that since both the basketball and volleyball teams shared the same gym, you might as well train under the same program for conditioning sessions. this meant early morning drills, weight training, and endurance exercises—together.

it was hell.

not because the training was hard (you could handle that), but because it meant spending more time around him.

the first morning session was already off to a bad start.

“alright, everyone, pair up,” the coach announced. “we’ll be doing partner drills for today’s endurance training.”

immediately, you turned to find one of your teammates, but before you could move, a familiar presence slid up beside you.

“guess we’re stuck together,” jaehyun said, his voice way too chipper for someone who just ran two miles as a warm-up.

you scowled. “who says?”

he gestured around. sure enough, all the pairs had already been formed, leaving you and jaehyun as the only ones unpaired.

“unless you want to run laps alone, i’d say this is fate,” he added, smirking.

you groaned. “curse.”

the drill was simple—one person would hold a plank while the other jumped over them repeatedly. then, you’d switch. simple in theory. infuriating in practice.

you started first, dropping into a plank position while jaehyun jumped over you. the first few were fine. but by the fifth jump, you were sure he was messing with you.

“are you—” you gritted out, arms burning from holding yourself up, “—doing this on purpose?”

jaehyun landed smoothly before hopping over you again. “doing what?”

“jumping so damn slow.”

“you should be thanking me. i’m giving you more time to work on your arm strength.”

you clenched your jaw. “i swear to god—”

“switch!” the coach called.

you got up, shaking out your arms before shooting jaehyun a glare. “watch how it’s actually done.”

he smirked, lowering himself into a plank. “looking forward to it.”

you took a step back, bounced on the balls of your feet, and leapt.

you might’ve landed a little too close to his back.

“jesus—are you trying to kill me?” jaehyun yelped, bracing himself.

“oops,” you said, not looking the least bit sorry.

from then on, training together became a battle of who could annoy the other more.

— 

but the worst part? meal times.

since both teams had the same conditioning schedule, the coaches thought it would be a great idea for you all to eat together in the dining hall. something about team unity and bonding.

you called it suffering.

because every single meal, without fail, jaehyun would find a way to sit across from you.

like today.

“morning, partner.”

you didn’t even look up from your tray of eggs and rice. “go away.”

“nah, i like it here.”

you stabbed at your food aggressively. “why are you like this?”

“like what?” he asked, reaching over to steal a piece of your egg with his fork.

you smacked his hand away. “like that!”

leehan, seated next to jaehyun, chuckled. “dude, one day she’s gonna actually throw hands.”

“and i’ll be ready,” jaehyun said, grinning at you.

you rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to your food, determined to ignore him. but then—

clink.

you glanced up. jaehyun had casually placed his sports drink on your side of the table.

you frowned. “what?”

he smirked. “just marking my territory.”

sungho nearly choked on his juice. “bro, that sounds so wrong.”

taesan snickered. “he means his half of the table.”

you glared. “i hate you all.”

━

and then there was the winking.

the first time he did it, you thought it was an accident.

the second time, you realized it definitely wasn’t.

but by the fifth time? you were convinced he was just doing it to piss you off.

during games, during practice, even in the hallways—jaehyun had made it his personal mission to wink at you whenever he got the chance.

like during one of their practice matches.

you had been forced to stay behind in the gym, waiting for your team’s turn. so, unfortunately, you had a front-row seat to watching jaehyunshow off.

you sat on the bleachers, arms crossed, watching as jaehyun dribbled past a defender with ridiculous ease. he moved with that effortless confidence, quick on his feet, spinning past his opponent before driving straight to the basket.

the ball swished through the hoop, nothing but net. his teammates erupted into cheers.

jaehyun turned, scanning the gym, and then—

wink.

you scowled immediately. “oh, for fuck’s sake.”

your teammate, yuna, who was sitting beside you, snorted. “what is his problem?”

“he is the problem,” you muttered, gripping your water bottle with unnecessary force.

yuna hummed, clearly entertained. “you know, for someone who ‘hates’ him, you sure do pay a lot of attention.”

“i have to! someone needs to keep his ego in check.”

as if to prove your point, jaehyun jogged back to his side of the court, smug as ever, and made direct eye contact with you again.

you knew what was coming.

another wink.

you groaned dramatically, throwing your head back. “i hate him.”

woonhak, who had overheard from the bench, grinned. “that’s funny, ‘cause he sure loves pissing you off.”

you shot him a glare. “gee, really? hadn’t noticed.”

━

the winking didn’t stop. if anything, it got worse.

during practice, in the dining hall, even when you passed him in the hallways—he somehow found a way to send you that stupid, infuriating wink.

like today, after your volleyball practice.

you had just finished a brutal set of drills, sweat dripping down your back, when you spotted the basketball team lingering near the entrance. they must’ve been waiting for their turn in the gym.

and, of course, jaehyun was right at the front.

you barely spared him a glance as you grabbed your water bottle from the bench, but that didn’t stop him.

“looking good, captain,” he called out.

you narrowed your eyes. “shut up, jaehyun.”

he laughed, raising his hands in surrender before winking.

you swore you saw red.

leehan, standing beside him, sighed. “dude, what if she actually kills you?”

“nah,” jaehyun said, grinning, “i think she’d miss me too much.”

you threw your towel at his face.

━

but as much as you hated to admit it, life was never boring with jaehyun around.

even when the two of you were forced into situations that made you want to rip your hair out—like the latest disaster your biology professor had cooked up.

the day had started out normal enough. until you got your test results back.

you stared at the glaring red F on your biology test, feeling your soul leave your body.

beside you, jaehyun whistled, holding up his own paper with an identical F. “ouch.”

you turned to glare at him. “why are you failing?”

he shrugged. “dunno. wasn’t paying attention.”

“of course you weren’t.”

before you could spiral into a full-blown academic crisis, your professor cleared his throat, looking way too pleased for someone who had just failed half the class.

“since many of you didn’t do well on the test,” he began, eyes twinkling mischievously, “i’ve decided to give you all an opportunity to redeem yourselves.”

murmurs filled the classroom. you remained suspicious.

“you will be given a partner—someone who also failed.”

you immediately got a bad feeling.

“together, you will complete an assignment on responsibility and care. an experiment, if you will.”

you glanced at jaehyun, who looked just as confused.

the professor smiled. “for the next week, you will take care of an egg.”

silence.

then—

“a what.”

the professor clasped his hands together. “an egg! consider it a simulation of caring for a delicate, fragile life. you must protect it at all costs and document your progress. and, of course, your partner will be chosen randomly.”

your stomach dropped.

and then—

“y/n and jaehyun,” the professor announced.

you slammed your head onto your desk.

jaehyun, meanwhile, let out a low whistle. “well. this should be fun.”

you turned your head slightly to glare at him, cheek still pressed against the desk. “i swear to god, if you break our egg, i’m breaking you.”

he grinned. “relax, partner. we’ve got this.”

you groaned. “this is literally my worst nightmare.”

jaehyun leaned back, crossing his arms. “nah. your worst nightmare is me leaving the gym extra messy just for you.”

you lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “don’t test me.”

he winked.

you nearly flipped your desk.

“now listen carefully,” your professor continued. “your assignment is simple. you must keep your egg safe for one full week. if it cracks, you fail. if you forget it somewhere, you fail. if i so much as suspect that you’re not taking this seriously, you fail.”

you felt a headache forming.

professor lee’s eyes narrowed. “and trust me, i’ll know.”

a collective shudder ran through the class. professor lee was infamous for his unconventional teaching methods. last semester, he had made students carry around cabbages as part of a psychology experiment. cabbages.

you glanced at jaehyun, who was still grinning like he had won the lottery.

he thinks this is a joke.

you groaned. “i’m so screwed.”

“nah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “we got this.”

you turned to him, deadpan. “jaehyun. you literally failed this class.”

he placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “so did you.”

“yeah, but at least i actually tried.”

he snorted. “right. well, don’t worry, partner. our egg’s in good hands.”

you didn’t believe that for a second.

“one last thing,” professor lee added, holding up a basket. “before you leave, come up and receive your child.”

you almost choked.

child?

yuna was practically vibrating with laughter beside you. “you’re gonna be a great mom.”

“shut up.”

jaehyun, on the other hand, was already making his way to the front, completely unbothered. when he returned, he was holding the egg in his palm, studying it like it was some ancient relic.

“alright, partner,” he said, plopping into his seat. “meet our kid.”

you stared at it.

it was just a normal egg. nothing special. fragile, small, and already giving you anxiety.

“we’re so failing this,” you muttered.

jaehyun scoffed. “have a little faith.”

you gave him a pointed look. “jaehyun. be honest. how long do you think you can go without dropping it?”

he paused.

then—

“...three days?”

you groaned again.

this was going to be the longest week of your life.

—

the first day of the project was already testing every ounce of patience you had.

you and jaehyun sat at one of the library tables, your so-called child resting in an old coffee cup between you. professor lee had made it clear that this assignment wasn’t just about keeping the egg safe—you had to document everything. feeding schedules (which made zero sense), bedtime routines, and even bonding activities.

you hated every second of it.

“this is the dumbest thing i’ve ever done,” you muttered, tapping your pen against the table.

jaehyun, who was busy doodling little lightning bolts around the word thunder in your shared notebook, smirked. “that’s because you lack vision.”

“oh, i have vision. i see our grades plummeting.”

he leaned back in his chair, tossing his pen in the air before catching it effortlessly. “relax, co-parent. we just have to act like responsible adults for a week.”

you squinted at him. “you literally left the egg unattended five minutes ago to go buy chips.”

he waved you off. “our kid was fine. independent.”

“it's an egg.”

“it's our egg.”

you exhaled sharply, choosing to ignore him as you scribbled in the notebook. but then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught him reaching for the cup.

you tensed immediately.

“what are you doing?”

“holding my child.”

“no. no touching.” you moved the cup further away. “i don’t trust you.”

he looked genuinely offended. “wow. you were the one who almost knocked it over earlier.”

“because you distracted me!”

“because you were making that stupid face while writing.”

“stupid face?” you gawked at him. “i do not make a stupid face.”

he shrugged. “if the shoe fits.”

you smacked his arm with the notebook. “contribute to this or i’m making you do the whole thing by yourself.”

“fine, fine,” he sighed, taking the pen from you. he twirled it between his fingers before scrawling something next to your notes.

you glanced at the paper.

“bonding activity: jaehyun teaches the egg how to shoot a three-pointer.”

you stared at him.

“you’re a menace,” you said.

he grinned. “and yet, here we are. bonded for life.”

you groaned, dropping your head onto the table.

and somewhere in the distance, leehan and taesan—who had been watching from another table—exchanged glances before bursting into quiet laughter.

the first time you stepped into jaehyun’s room, you had one goal: check on the egg, make sure it was intact, and leave.

but of course, nothing was ever that simple with him.

“welcome to the nursery,” jaehyun said, kicking the door shut behind him.

you rolled your eyes. “nursery? it’s your room.”

“our son lives here now,” he replied, completely serious. “show some respect.”

you sighed, stepping past him. his room was… surprisingly neat. you expected a mess—basketballs lying around, clothes thrown over furniture, maybe even an unmade bed. but aside from a few scattered notebooks and a pile of hoodies in the corner, it was normal.

too normal.

“where is it?” you asked, crossing your arms.

jaehyun walked over to his desk and held up a small shoebox. he lifted the lid, revealing the egg nestled in a bundle of socks.

you blinked. “you put it in a box?”

“i made a crib,” he corrected, placing the box gently on his bed. “cozy, right?”

you sat down at the edge of the bed, peering inside. "you could’ve at least used a tissue or something instead of Nike socks."

“those are premium cushioning. only the best for our kid.”

you scoffed, but you couldn’t deny that the egg was perfectly fine. untouched. safe.

and then, jaehyun did something unexpected—he sat next to you. not across from you, not at his desk, but right next to you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.

the usual chaos, the usual bickering, the usual tension that made you want to strangle him—it was still there. but something else settled in between the silence.

it was different here.

“so,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “how’s it feel knowing our son sleeps in my room?”

you turned to glare at him, but the second you did, you realized just how close he was.

your breath caught.

he was leaning on one arm, watching you with a lazy smirk, the kind that usually annoyed you to no end. but here, in this room, on this bed, it felt like something else.

something you didn’t want to name.

“i don’t care where it sleeps,” you muttered, looking away. “i just don’t want it broken.”

“i’ll take care of it,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone.

you swallowed. “good.”

but when you tried to stand up, he didn’t move.

“jaehyun.”

“hm?”

“move.”

he grinned. "say please."

you shoved his shoulder, and he finally let you go with a laugh, flopping back onto the bed as you practically sprinted for the door.

“same time tomorrow, co-parent?” he called after you.

you slammed the door behind you, heart pounding.

your hell starts the moment you start noticing things about jaehyun that you shouldn’t be noticing.

it’s the way he moves on the court—fast, precise, like he already knows exactly where the ball will land before it even gets there. it’s the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s frustrated, the way he rolls his shoulders before a free throw, the way his eyes flicker to you after making a perfect shot, as if waiting for your reaction.

and it’s infuriating.

because now, even when you’re supposed to be focusing on your game, your team, your own plays—jaehyun lingers at the back of your mind like an annoying pop song you can’t get rid of.

but the worst part? it’s not just at the gym.

it’s when you’re in his room, sitting on his bed, checking on the egg like always. except now, you’re hyperaware of how close he sits, how he sometimes lets his arm rest against yours like it’s nothing. how, when you pout at him over something stupid—like the way he insists on calling your egg “junior” instead of a normal name—his gaze flickers to your lips for half a second too long.

and jaehyun?

he’s in denial.

because this was not supposed to happen. he wasn’t supposed to want to kiss you when you scolded him. wasn’t supposed to feel heat creeping up his neck when you absentmindedly played with your necklace while talking. wasn’t supposed to care that your team captain from another school once called you “impressive” after a practice match.

he wasn’t supposed to want you.

and unfortunately for him, his friends have noticed.

“so,” woonhak drawls one afternoon, lazily dribbling a basketball as they sit on the bleachers, watching you and your team wrap up practice. “when are you gonna admit it?”

jaehyun doesn’t even look up. “admit what?”

leehan snorts. “that you like her, dumbass.”

“i don’t,” jaehyun scoffs, leaning back against the bench.

sungho raises a brow. “right. that’s why you’re staring at her like she personally offended you by existing.”

jaehyun looks away immediately, only for leehan to chuckle.

“you do realize she probably feel the same way, right?”

that makes jaehyun freeze for a second.

taesan hums. “she still argue with you, sure. but i see the way she get all flustered when you compliment her. she didn’t used to react like that.”

jaehyun opens his mouth to deny it again, but then he thinks back.

to the way you stumbled over your words last week when he casually told you your spike was getting better. to the way your breath hitched when he tucked your hair behind your ear. to the way you hesitated before leaving his room the other night, as if you were starting to feel this too.

maybe his friends were right.

and that’s when jaehyun decides: it’s time to test the waters.

so he starts pushing boundaries—just a little.

at the gym, after practice, he doesn’t just wink at you like usual. he lingers, waiting for you to react, grinning when you groan and shove him away.

when you come over to check on the egg, he always has food ready, pretending it’s no big deal when he slides a plate toward you.

“i didn’t ask for this,” you huff, poking at the meal he made.

“didn’t say you did,” he shrugs, sitting across from you. “but you always look tired after practice. eat.”

and that confuses you.

because what the hell is he doing? what the hell does he want?

you’d always known jaehyun as the annoying basketball captain who drove you insane, but now…

now he’s holding your hand a second longer than necessary. now he’s calling you “co-parent” with a lazy grin that makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. now he’s casually running a hand through his hair while watching you in between classes, like he knows something you don’t.

and you hate that it scares you.

because if this is just another game to him, if he’s just messing with you—then why does it feel so real?

the egg cracks.

not metaphorically—though, honestly, it might as well be—but literally.

you’re standing in jaehyun’s room, holding what used to be your child (as he so dramatically called it), staring at the jagged fracture running across the eggshell. your breath catches in your throat.

“oh, shit,” you whisper.

jaehyun, who had been leaning against his desk, looks up from his phone. “what?”

you slowly turn to him, the broken egg cradled in your hands like a crime scene.

“we killed junior.”

for a moment, there’s silence. then—

“oh my god,” jaehyun breathes out, eyes widening.

“we’re failures.”

“we’re murderers.”

“professor lee is going to slaughter us.”

“okay, first of all,” jaehyun says, quickly moving toward you, “you’re the one who dropped it—”

“don’t you dare pin this on me.”

“—and second,” he continues, ignoring you, “we just need a replacement.”

you blink at him. “you want to… replace our child?”

“wouldn’t be the first time people switched babies at birth,” he shrugs.

“you’re insane.”

“do you want to fail?”

you purse your lips. no. but—

jaehyun sighs. “look, we can sit here mourning an egg, or we can fix the problem. your call.”

you scowl at him, but he’s right. begrudgingly, you set the cracked egg down and grab your bag.

“fine. but if we get caught—”

“we won’t,” he grins, already grabbing his car keys and intertwining his hand with yours, “let’s go, co-parent.”

—

you manage to replace the egg. you turn in your project. you pass.

but that’s not the ending.

the ending is this:

it’s late, and you’re at jaehyun’s house, sprawled out on his bed like always. the ceiling fan hums softly overhead, casting slow-moving shadows against the walls. the scent of his cologne lingers in the air—clean, familiar, a little too comforting. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, lazily spinning a basketball on his finger, gaze half-lidded with concentration.

you’re supposed to feel relieved. the project is over. the ridiculous assignment, the stress, the stupid arguments—you survived it all. but your head is still spinning, not from exhaustion, but from something else. something heavier.

because things have shifted. you don’t bicker as much anymore. the teasing has changed. the tension isn’t sharp—it’s something softer now, something unspoken that curls around the edges of your conversations. something that lingers in the way his eyes stay on you a little longer than they should.

“so,” jaehyun says suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet. “you’re still thinking about it.”

you blink at him. “thinking about what?”

he finally looks at you, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s amused.

“us.”

your stomach flips. you sit up too fast, the mattress dipping beneath you. “there’s no us.”

jaehyun smirks. slow. knowing. like he’s heard the lie in your voice before you even said it.

“sure,” he hums, spinning the ball again. “but i think about it.”

your breath hitches.

“what?”

he tosses the ball aside. it rolls off the bed, thudding softly onto the carpet, but you barely hear it over the sudden rush of blood in your ears. because he’s shifting, leaning in, invading your space in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

closer than necessary. closer than friends should be.

“i think about how much fun it is to piss you off,” he murmurs, and his voice is different this time—lower, rougher. “i think about how much i like having you around.”

his hand lifts, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. the touch is barely there, but it burns.

“and i think about how, if i kissed you right now, you wouldn’t stop me.”

your breath catches.

because he’s right.

but the worst part? you don’t want to stop him.

you don’t move when his gaze flickers down to your lips. you don’t push him away when his fingers graze your jaw, thumb tracing slow, feather-light circles against your skin.

and when he finally tilts his head and closes the distance, when his lips press against yours in something hesitant but undeniably real—

you kiss him back.

© hancorys, 2025.

[josephquinnswhore]

Little bird - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel is a merciless hunter for sport, seeking many anew victim when he comes across you. who changes everything.

word count: 3.8k

content warning: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE CONSUMING. joel is basically a psycho? he kills for sport, control freak, stalking, murder, dubcon, age gap, power dynamic, manipulation, gaslighting, forceful face fucking, reader spews on Joel’s cock, blood play, forced proximity, m orgasm, fingering, m and f oral receiving, f orgasm, pet names such as; little bird, birdie, princess, daddy.

Joel had adapted to the outbreak effortlessly, without thought, like a bird jumping from its nest, like instinct. It is in his nature alike to theirs, to adapt through the conditions to ensure survival for their species without second thought for consequence. Even after what had happened to his daughter.

The instance of her unnecessary death had sent Joel spiral into this mindset, serial killing and torture. Not even out of necessity, supplies, he just found a sense of control in the act.

He is constantly covered in blood, his hands, neck and clothes all had stains on them. But he found comfort in the act of squeezing his large hands around someone’s frail neck, seeing the light fade from their eyes.

Paired travellers were his preference. The men always tried to be heroes, and Joel found it amusing that they always thought they’d beat him in battle, underestimating Joel's pent up rage and obsession for control. His strength is unmatched—survival skill and pure animalistic rage is channelled with each plea for mercy.

He’d seen many people around him change, good hearted folk who had clawed so far deep into the instinctual rage of strength and determination within themselves. Just so they had what it takes to survive this world.

But Joel—this darkness was raging inside of him before the outbreak, before any real need to access this side for survival had even come into play. With decades of experience, he had become skilled at stalking, especially. Observing.

Often he had thoughts about doing bad things to women and men that he acted out on. He couldn’t find a goddamn ounce of sympathy within himself as he hunted people, stalking his next victims through every state and terrain.

It was sport for Joel, a comfort as he realises that everyone’s life is in his hands, that he gets to decide who lives and dies. That he remained victorious. Too brutal and savage for anyone to defeat.

Notoriously good at what he did, he had more blood on his hands than probably anyone, finding the stalking as exhilarating as the kill.

It had never been anything more than that, until now.

Until he had seen you, two days prior.

He had taken one glance at you, and his feet of their own accord, had started trailing you. Following from a distance as the memorises the size and depth of your footprints in the snow. Since then, he’d been listening in on the two of you bickering about how lost you were, namely you—terrified about where you were, and where you were going.

Walking through the thick snowfall of the mountains, carrying that overloaded bag that made your shoulders sag. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d see your face crumble in pain as you try to adjust the straps of the bag, or beg the young man you traveled with to put some items into his own bag to take some weight off your shoulders.

Watching every interaction between you and this man from the past two days, he could conclude that he was your boyfriend. He hated this boy, the way he walked ahead of you, made you keep first watch after a gruelling day of travelling.

You don’t argue or seem to mind which Joel concedes is a product of this being a constant for you.

He gathers that more than likely, you didn’t understand how you were being taken advantage of. That this boy didn’t care about you, not the way he did.

The thought infuriated him, sending a rush of heat through his body as he clutched onto the falling bark of a tree he had hidden behind, observing you through the forest, the only thing that separates you from him, is a small clearance of flat ground to your small, makeshift camp.

A natural formation of a cave like structure made of rock. All you had to keep you warm was a freying sleeping bag and the arms of the boy wrapped around you.

Joel thinks about all the ways he’d take care of you. Giving you his thick, insulated winter coat, lighting a fire for you in his cabin. Keeping watch the entire evening so you could rest your fragile body.

The more he thinks, the more he fuels his own obsession. He wonders what your skin feels like under his own sinful ones, wonders what your cries would sound like, if you’d give into him or run.

For the first time in years, he doesn’t want to kill, he doesn’t plan on wrapping his thick hands around your neck to crush your oesophagus. He doesn’t think about reaching for his sharpened hunting blade and driving it to the hilt into the soft, warm flesh of your neck.

No, you were different. So pretty, so mistreated. He had to take care of you. Bring you into his warm hands like an injured bird in need of delicate care.

You’re exhausted beyond belief. The old boots you wear are barely holding together, even with the duct tape you’d wrapped around the collapsing soul, and even that was wearing off the front of the shoe.

You know you can’t risk sliding them off for a moment to dig your fingers into your heels to relieve the ache, in fear of infected, or people.

It’s not ideal to stop here, in the middle of the snowfall, freezing your asses off. You’re so lost, and afraid.

There’s a sense of bitterness rising inside of you as you watch your boyfriend sleep, you love him, with each beat of your heart… but you needed to sleep too. If only.

Hours pass of you staring into the clearance of trees and snow, of nothing. Not a bird, not a wisp of wind. The lack of anything happening only fuelled the burning in your dried eyes, lulling them to close, just for a moment.

You don’t know that you’d fallen asleep, standing upright against the tree you were keeping watch from until you’re awoken by a blood curdling scream.

Shaking you out of your slumber, you turn to see your boyfriend is gone from the makeshift camp.

A sense of dread buries itself deep into your skin.

“No.. fuck.. no! Jacob!” You cry out, ignoring the ache in your feet as you run back the way you heard the scream. Holding your handgun in front of you cautiously, there’s another scream.

But it sounds like it’s encircling you. Surrounding you from every direction.

“Jacob!” You scream back, tears welling your eyes.

This was your fault.

A spec of blood catches your eye, like a trail of a clue leading you to a horrific mystery. But you follow, urging yourself to run as you come to see your boyfriends body tied to a lonesome tree in front of a small nearby cabin.

“Jacob… Jacob it’s me,” your voice cracks, tossing your gun down onto the snow as you reach for the tightly knotted ropes that had him restrained against the tree. Jacob’s voice is muffled by a rope fastened into his mouth, keeping his head upright against the tree.

Despite his desperate attempts to warn you of the looming predator behind you.. it’s hopeless.

The blood has created a small pool around him, seeping into the snow. “I’m gonna help you okay? I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’m gonna get you out of this.”

A sound behind you makes your fingers freeze in place around the rope, the familiar sound of the hammer of a gun being pulled back—ready to fire.

Frantically, you look to the ground and realise that your gun is no longer where you’d tossed it. The only evidence of it was a deep imprint in the snow.

A deep, southern voice carries strong through the short distance between you, sending a nauseating shiver down your spine. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

You raise your hands above your head, kneeling on the ground, eyeing your boyfriend with tears in your eyes, mouthing to him with a tremble of your jutted bottom lip. “I’m so sorry.”

“Turn around.” The deep voice instructs.

Obeying, you turn your body towards your captor, on your knees with your hands still in a surrendering gesture. Eyes stuck on his shoes that were in much better condition than your own, practically new looking.

The cool metal of your own gun traces the shape of your chin, lifting your face upward to meet the gaze of an older man. His dark brown eyes shift as he takes in every feature of your face, committing every detail to memory.

You’re even prettier up close.

“Please don’t do this, I .. we don’t have anything to give. We’re starving as it is and our supplies are worn.” The plea goes ignored, but you’re desperate.

“I’ll do anything, just help Jacob, don’t let him die like this,” you beg, fat tears rolling down past your waterline.

So pretty when you cry. Those bright, big eyes begging him to help you. It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Oh? You’ll do anything will you?” Darkly, he chuckles. “Remember this promise, little bird.”

The man holds your gun in his hand and grabs at you, one hand grasping the back of your head and bringing it flush to his crotch, rubbing your soft face over the hard bludge of his cock.

A breathy moan escapes him at how you protest, the palms of your hands against his thighs attempt to push him away.

“Tss. Maybe you don’t care about your little boyfriend after all, do you?” He scolded you.

A dry sob slips past your cracked lips, seeming to give up against the harsh grip of the man. A twisted rumble from within his chest vibrates against your palms splayed on his jeans.

“Unbutton my jeans and take out my cock,” the older man sneers, in a means to humiliate you.

Your cold, trembling fingers work at the tight button, and it pops open with a sense of release as his stomach slightly overhangs the right fitting denim. The zipper is freezing—but you manage to keep your fingers pinched around the small zip enough to pull his jeans down to expose him.

More tears fall down your face as you fail to accept what was happening.

“Tell me you want this cock, little bird.”

At your silence, the man redirects the barrel of your gun to your boyfriend. “You think I won’t fucking shoot him again?”

With his booming, threatening promise of violence against Jacob, you utter nonsense.

“I want your cock,” voice cracked thickly as you force the words out.

The man growls in approval, bringing the gun back to you, tracing the barrel of the weapon against your lips in a tantalising threat.

“If you try anything, including biting.. I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out princess.” The utterance through gritted teeth sends your blood cold.

He had no intention of actually killing you, but the way you were trembling beneath him was a good sign you believed it.

“Now be a good girl and swallow your daddy’s thick cock,” he hums, forcing the thick, blunt tip through your parted lips.

It burns, how far his cock has stretched your lips wide open, the intrusion so far deep into your mouth makes you gag around him, but that doesn’t deter him at all. Pushing further into your mouth, down the back of your throat.

“Fuck little bird, knew your mouth would take me perfectly.”

Tears, snot and saliva all accumulate at the base of his cock, urging his hand to force you closer to him. Holding his cock down your throat, legs trembling beneath him at the feel of you struggling, gagging against him and the palms of your hands frantically trying to push him out of your mouth so that you could breathe.

He pulls halfway out of you, and with that a small amount of bile from your throat coats his cock. Your mouth was so perfect, warm and stretched out for him. Taking him so well. Nothing deters this man from taking exactly what he’d dreamt of you these past two days.

The constant reminder of the gun pressed against your temple was forcing you to endure this. It would save Jacob, it would ensure survival for the two of you.

It hurts, the way he’s fucking himself into your throat relentlessly. The pace is brutal and each growl makes your stomach feel sick.

The worst part is that your body is reacting to this, the slick between your legs is gathering and becoming incredibly uncomfortable.

“Gonna swallow my cum, birdie, fuck.. can feel my cock down your throat.” He can see the thickness down your throat too, swollen full of him. He cums with a strangled groan, the sight of his cock twitching down your throat sent him over the edge.

“Such a good girl, ain’cha?”

You’re completely fucked out. Eyes blown wide and red from the tears you shed. He pulls his cock out of your mouth to trace the outline of your plump lips.

“Please let us go now,” the hoarse request is met with a twisted cackle.

The man stuffs his hard cock into his jeans, the outline of it is impossible to ignore as you look up at him with a pleading gaze.

You had done everything he’d asked, and perfectly too.

Which is why he had to do this.

“Sorry, birdie. But I can’t let you go now.”

He brings your gun upward to Jacob and pulls the trigger. Five pounds of pressure against the trigger causes your boyfriend's head to fall limp against the tree, a gaping, bleeding hole in the middle of his forehead.

“No!” Your voice cracks as a guttural scream tears through the air.

No part of your body is listening as you will it to move, for your legs to carry you to stand and run, but they’re numb from being knelt on the icy ground so long.

The man shoves you onto the soft, snow. Your head is right beside your lifeless boyfriend’s body. “Jacob.. Jacob please,” you beseech, hoping that he’d somehow be able to save you.

Your arms are flailing against his chest as he crawls on top of you, the weak attempt gains a thick hand down the front of your cargo pants, and a hot growl against your lips.

“Maybe I don’t need to clip your wings after all, birdie, seems this pretty fucking pussy is already wet. Don’t pretend to fight me, princess. She wants this.” Without warning, one thick finger pushes inside of your weeping cunny, before pulling it out.

A protesting whine rolls off your tongue as he removes his finger, before you could stop yourself. He sucks your juices off the digit. And his eyes darken.

“Been thinkin’ bout how this sweet pussy would taste, knew it would be perfect.”

The older man sticks the same finger that had just been inside you, into one of Jacob’s stomach wounds, coating his finger in the warm, red blood.

He thrives off the mortified expression that causes your face to scrunch up, wiggling as he brings the bloody finger down to your lips, forcing it into your mouth.

But as he retreats his finger past your lips it’s now stained red, albeit clean. But you reject it, gagging against the metallic taste, spitting the blood onto the snow in a messy spatter, some of it sticking to your cheek and chin.

“You’re sick!” A crooked smile stretches the man’s lips at your accusation.

“No, no little bird. This is exactly what you need. A real man to protect you, so that this..” he gestures to your boyfriend. “Doesn’t happen to you, I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

The condescending tone is lost on you as the griping reality of fear ensnares you.

Your throat aches at your attempt to swallow the saliva in your throat, bobbing thickly. The small notion of you shaking your head appeases him greatly.

“I’ll take care of you. All I ask is that you don’t run, or I will clip your wings, understand me little bird?”

A second nod seals your fate.

“Believe me when I say you made the right choice, you were comin’ with me either way.”

Turns out that the small, wooden cabin belonged to this man. He had kept his large hand on the small of your back the entire time he showed you around. His homestead was fully furnished with food, supplies, furniture, even toilet paper.

“This is where you’ll sleep.” He opens a door, and there’s no windows, just a bed. Accompanied by a giant lock on the outside of the door.

He wouldn’t need to clip your wings, if he could cage you in.

“Sit down,” he orders, and you obey, still in shock as your brain tries to swallow the past hour of events whole, not allowing you to process it.

The wooden stool creaks, and he silently fills a bucket of warm water and sits across from you on a chair at the dining table.

Delicately scrunching a small cloth in his hands to wipe the dried blood off of your face, he leans in toward you, an almost soft expression plastered as he concentrates.

“If you’re good f’me we’ll give that friend of yours ‘o proper burial. Would you like that?”

The sweetness of his voice lured you in, to stare into his deep brown eyes, to take in the concerned shape of his pinched brows.

“I.. I would like that.”

He hums, you were learning quickly. Once he’s happy with your face being cleaned, he stands, picking up the aluminium bucket by the handle and pouring it down the sink. Clunking as he sets it back on the floor.

“Let’s go bury him then.” Before he changes his mind.

The snow was too thick for Joel to penetrate the soil with his shovel, so he had just cleared a foot of snow and tossed the young man into it, burying him under the frost, stacking a few rocks on top of the unmarked, unnamed grave.

He’s impressed and grateful you don’t run away though the process. That would implicate some serious issues and more importantly, require some kind of punishment.

Joel was willing to do anything to train you, to ensure that you never ran from him. In that regard, since you did stay, he felt he would reward you.

His bed is warm, the duvet is thick and the smell of him brings a sense of security to you for some reason, despite all that had happened.

“When you appease me, as you have today. I’ll reward you.” He coos, gently lying you down onto his soft bed, crawling between your legs, hastily shuffling your pants down your legs.

His face is directly between your thighs, and he parts them softly.

“I can smell how badly you need me, little bird.” He groans, pressing hot, open mouthed kissed to your inner thighs, slowly, agonisingly closer to your core.

He’s surprised when you impatiently nudge the back of his head closer to you. “That’s my girl.”

The curve of his nose rubs against your swollen clit, his tongue darting upward and into your pussy with a newfound passion.

He growls against you, the notion sends a vibration through you, and you let out a soft whimper. Thick hands ground themselves in your hips, dragging you downward in the bed so his face could delve deeper into your hole.

The wet muscle is skilled in it’s explorative ministrations, licking a long stripe from your core to your swollen clit.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get some attention too.” The promise he utters to your neglected clit is fufilled as he clamps his mouth around the bundle of nerves and sucks on you, the pressure causes a suction that feels electric.

Your fingers stiffen as they grasp onto his unruly curls. Coaxing him for more, more more more.

And he gives—the tip of his tongue skilfully, slowly working you closer and closer to the edge you’d never been brought to before.

Your thighs instinctively clamp shut around his head, keeping him buried there, not wanting him to stop.

“Please, please, please need more,” your unintelligible begging implores him to double down on his ministrations.

He can feel that you’re going to burst against him, slowly, and slowly he was winding the burning hot coil inside of you, the pressure was becoming unbearable as your thighs quake and tenable at his command.

Two of his thick fingers are swallowed by your constricting cunt, clamping down as you cry out at the intense sensation. His fingers expertly work you, pumping deep inside of you, calloused fingertips hitting the spongey flesh inside of your slick hole.

“Fucking.. need you..” you’re slurring your words, and he’s convinced that your hole would swallow him if you pushed him far enough between your legs. He could feel how greedily your pussy was swallowing his fingers. Desperate for release.

In an act of desperation, you begin to forcibly rut your pussy against his face as you raise your hips, tiring of his pace not being quiet enough to give you what you needed.

“Please.. please I want to cum.. gonna cum..”

At the increase of friction, and him allowing you to use his face your orgasm comes crashing over you. Your pussy constricts around his fingers as he works you at a slower pace through your climax.

A delicious string of babbling moans and praise roll past your lips.

Thighs jittering with a delicious tremble as they finally relax from their tight vice around his head.

“Thank you.. thank you..” the faint, inarticulate cry was all he needed for him to grin against your pussy.

You’re left heaving, and he’s mesmerised by the way your chest rises and falls at his performance. It’s something he has become enticed with—seeing you alive. Breathing.

It’s unusual for him, admiring the life within you when he was so used to taking it.

And now, as he pulls away from your pussy, lying beside you in his bed. Your body in his arms.. he knew he’d made the right choice to keep your life.

“You did so well f’me little bird.” The praise falls on your ringing ears, but all that’s returned is a vulnerable whine.

Not bothering to correct him after a moment of silence, you can’t help the words that feel petulant to ask. “Who are you?”

“Joel. And this—is your new home.” He croons into your tangled hair.

All for a moment, in the blissful ecstasy you forget how you ended up here.

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

WC: 21K

Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

She paused, turning back with a questioning look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question caught him off-guard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't think—" he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he had his answer. She remembered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Twelve years earlier

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

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

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

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

He was early. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unable to answer, he'd lashed out again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · · 

 “What do you mean she’s crying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But sir, your meeting—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight would be no different. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Us

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

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

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

The dining room had fallen into a familiar rhythm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

we

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The statement wasn't entirely truthful. 

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

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

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

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

Temporary

Arrangements

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brief warmth of his hand on her elbow.

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

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

"You lied."

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

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

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

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

Harry's jaw tightened. "About what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N went still, her back to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N stiffened. "What concerns?"

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

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

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

"And the label executives agreed with her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

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

As always, thank you for reading <3

Masterlist

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

[marvelstoriesepic]

Misfire

Pairing: Sergeant!Bucky x Corporal!Reader (Modern Army Au)

Summary: A new transfer to his unit has Bucky utterly distracted from the training simulation he is meant to lead.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: military themes; combat training; simulated violence; weapons/firearms use; higher rank dynamic (respectful/consensual); possible references to death, war, emotional detachment; Bucky is smitten

Author’s Note: Ahh I loved this so much!! It was so much fun to write. This is based on this lovely request!! Thank you my sweet anon for sending me this. I hope you enjoy what I made of it ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The sky is the color of steel and something bruised. It can’t seem to decide whether to rain or burn. It smells of both. Dust kicks up in clouds, collecting at Bucky’s boots and the back of his throat, swirling around the gravel field.

His lungs are full of cold air and caffeine.

The chill of the early morning hasn’t even burned off the mountain air yet, and the base is already alive with motion. Soldiers run drills. Boots pound the dirt. Orders are shouted across the open field.

Bucky stands with his arms crossed, a scowl deeply shadowing his face. He hasn’t gotten much sleep the night before, same with the night before that, and the night before that. It’s hard to get some rest when sharing the same sleeping space with Sam fucking Wilson. So basically, he’s drained, he’s moody, and he’d like to yell at someone already.

Then you enter the line of his vision. You walk right into it. Up to him. Not trudge. Not scuff. Walk. Certain and confident, as if the ground moves for you. As if the noise of the base is just scenery.

Your file said you've been transferred from the South Carolina base. He’s read it many, many times. Much to Steve’s amusement. You are combat-experienced, it said. Highly recommended. All the usual praise.

But the file didn’t say you looked like this. Didn’t say you held your shoulders like command was your middle name. Didn’t say your mouth twitched as though it held back fire.

The file didn’t mention you would be the most beautiful woman he’s ever come across. The most interesting. The most alluring.

His jaw ticks. He feels it and he can’t change it. His fingers jerk. He feels it and still, he can’t make his body stop reacting.

With your head held high, and shoulders squared, you make your way over to him. Your boots meet the ground in clipped footsteps. Until you stop in front of him. Bucky knows he doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second, but he can’t let you acknowledge it. His expression remains stony. You don’t seem deterred.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you say with a respectful tone. Your salute is automatic. “Corporal Y/n, reporting for assignment.”

Voice steady. Gaze steadier.

So many flinch on their first day. Especially when he’s giving them his bitch face as Sam has called it. He waits for it. Watches for the break behind the eyes. Watches for the falter in the stance.

But nothing wavers in you - not fear, not awe. Just something that tells him you are measuring him right back.

He hates that he’s impressed. Hates that he likes it.

He returns the salute formally. “Corporal.”

A pause. A beat held too long. Why can’t he just send you on your way and shut his mouth?

“Hope you packed your appetite.”

A brow of yours lifts. That’s all he gets of you. His pulse picks up. And he doesn’t like that at all.

“For what?” you ask in a calm tone.

His lips curve just like that. “Pain.”

And you smile. Not sweet. Not cocky. Something that’s dangerous for him if he doesn’t turn away right now.

And for the first time all day - maybe all week, hell, probably so much longer - he feels like he could forget how tired he is.

The training field is filled with movements only shortly after. It’s a sprawl of brush and boulder, tree trunks that don’t care if you walk or bleed past them.

Bucky moves, gives orders, feels the mud on his boots, the simulation gear over him. It’s just another habit. Just another training session.

Wind whistles through branches. Leaves scream beneath boots. The drill is half chaos, half choreography. All noise.

Soldiers dart between cover. Voices overlap on comms. Someone misses a callout. Bucky clocks it all.

You move like you never did anything else. No hesitation. Hands move cleanly through checks. Posture sharp. Breathing even. Your presence is rooted.

Most people come into this unit to prove they are good enough. You move as if the question bores you.

He’s distracted. He can even admit that to himself because it’s just a simple fact. He should not be, but he is. You are mesmerizing.

Your uniform is pressed and perfect, shaping over your shoulders, hugging the small of your back, and the muscles of your thighs when you crouch behind cover. He’s looking too close, too long, too hard. He feels it in his blood.

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

Not in the middle of the drill. Not with your voice threading through comms, low and calm and fucking hot. Not with dirt in his teeth and training bullets singing past his head. They couldn’t kill him, of course, but if he lets himself get hit by one in front of you, he might as well die out of embarrassment.

He is trying to track the team’s positions, trying to read the wind, the angles, the threats.

But then you speak and his body misfires.

He finds himself looking for you, watching your mouth when you talk. Watching the shape of it, the precision of your words as if you are folding the world into place one syllable at a time.

There is no room for this. No space for such a thing in his life. And still, he unwillingly finds himself listening not to what you say, but how. That cool clarity. As if your voice is made to lead men into fire.

And he would follow.

God help him.

Frustration rises. He wants to be annoyed. Wants to shove the feeling into a box, slam the lid, move on.

You should be cocky. Should be sloppy. Should be trying too hard.

But you are not.

You are not trying to prove anything. It’s like you already survived a dozen lives and came here just to keep your hands busy.

Maybe that’s what rattles him.

Maybe it’s the way you don’t ask to be seen, and yet he can’t look away.

But there’s a break in the simulation. The right flank stumbles. Someone botches the angle, leaves the unit vulnerable. Shit. He might have lost a little control over his men there. Another is about to call retreat.

“Fall back and sweep right.” Your voice is calm. Sure. But firm. “Cover fire on my mark.”

Not panic. Not doubt. Just command. You take charge without thinking.

It works.

His head turns before he can hold himself back. His eyes narrow slightly, ignoring the way his heartbeat picks up. Whether out of admiration or irritation, he doesn’t know. “You plannin’ to give orders, Corporal?”

You don’t blink. “Only if you want to win.” And suddenly you are already repositioned. Already calculating. Already speaking again.

Bucky doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct. Just listens.

And hell, if it had been anyone else, he would feel utterly exasperated. But that feeling won’t come.

Every sound you make goes somewhere dangerous inside him, filling something empty. Every glance, every shift of your weight, the way your fingers curl when you wait, patient and ready - he is memorizing things he has no business remembering.

He watches you crouch low, form poised, posture perfect, the line of your spine curved like poetry in motion. His mouth goes dry.

“You gonna stare all day, Sergeant Barnes,” you say, voice a breath shy of smug, but your tone somehow also dry as bone, “or are we taking that bunker?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You don’t even look at him when you say it.

“They sent you here to test me?” The words slide out low, under his breath, half a joke. Half a confession. He fights the urge to drag his hand down his face.

Finally, you glance his way. That smile again. Slow. Almost cruel in the way it knows. You tilt your head as if you’re listening for more. There is a glint in your eyes.

“Depends,” you say, voice dusted with daring. “Are you passing?”

Something old comes undone in his chest. It’s a choking feeling. Because you say it so damn easily. As if you are not even aware you just reached inside him and touched something he didn’t know was still awake.

Jesus.

His mouth feels like sandpaper. His tongue seems too big behind his teeth. He swallows and tastes adrenaline and longing and the faintest trace of panic.

You are close now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to imagine it. Close enough to smell the faint hint of you - soil, gunpowder, something sweeter. Not perfume. Just skin and fire.

And the uniform. God. Usually, it’s boring. Olive green and gray. But on you, it looks like a goddamn weapon. It pulls along your waist, hugs your biceps, the collar loose enough to show the slope of your throat. And suddenly it’s not just a uniform. It’s a fucking distraction. A challenge. A sin with a name tag.

He blinks hard. Shakes it off. Fails.

“Punk coulda fuckin’ warned me,” he grumbles lowly to himself. Steve already gave him that look when he read your file more times than needed and back then he didn’t even know you looked like a woman not from this world.

He ignored it. Just like always. But he knows that Steve and Sam won’t drop this any time soon.

No one ever warns him about the things that matter until they’re already in his bloodstream.

“That a compliment?” you ask in a way that’s almost sultry. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

Of course, you heard him. Why the fuck not.

And again, you aren’t even looking at him, your eyes scanning the ridge. Beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful - if you’re just far enough away not to get burned.

And well, he’s way too close. Maybe he won’t ever be far enough away.

He is crouched beside you. Too close. Not close enough. His knees ache. His jaw aches. His thoughts ache.

His throat doesn’t work right the first time. The second, either.

“Depends if we make it outta this sim alive,” he counters, trying his best to put lots and lots of his charm in his voice. Because he is going to need his ability to flirt now more than ever.

“Then keep up,” you say easily, snapping your gaze away, and Bucky feels like whining. Popping up from the cover he watches you signal the rest of the team.

He follows. Of course, he does. Not because he has to. But because he suddenly really, really wants to.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hi! do you know how to show the progression of a relationship (from strangers to friends to that awkward stage of not yet dating but mutual feelings)?

Writing Ideas: Relationship Progression

Create a Relationship Arc

Static characters produce static storylines.

Just as your main plot needs an arc from beginning to end, so do the relationships between your characters.

Readers respond to dynamic characters who change over the course of a story.

Examples of dynamic main characters include Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Charles Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge.

When a dynamic character changes, their relationships with the different characters in the story also change.

If you load your novel or screenplay with dynamic characters, you’ll find all sorts of occasions for both internal change and interpersonal arcs.

A character arc is how a character grows or changes through the story. And a relationship arc is how a relationship grows or changes through the story.

Kinds of Relationship Arcs

Two directions a relationship can grow:

Closer, through love and respect (Positive)

Apart, through dislike and disrespect (Negative)

Two ways this can happen:

The relationship changes

The relationship remains steadfast (strengthening in resolve)

While we can get more complicated and specific from there, at the most basic level, any relationship should, theoretically, fit into this breakdown.

Tip: Consider Specific Labels to Map the Arc

It's useful to look at generalities and the basics, but it can also be helpful to get more specific.

One of the influences of September C. Fawke's post, came from her running into people online who would identify tropes like this:

Enemies to lovers

Friends to lovers

Lovers to exes

. . . and she realized they were essentially describing relationship arcs.

She advises that it might be helpful to look at the relationship arc in your story, and map it out in a similar way:

Strangers -> best friends Enemies -> allies Allies -> rivals Brothers -> enemies Friend -> frienemy Classmates -> found family

Read the full article here with some examples.

The Relationship Trajectories Framework

A metatheoretical framework that conceptualizes how human mating relationships develop across their complete time span, from the moment two people meet until the relationship ends.

The framework depicts relationships as arc-shaped evaluative trajectories that vary on 5 dimensions:

shape (which includes ascent, peak, and descent),

fluctuation,

threshold,

composition, and

density.

Read the full article & some related articles here: 1 2 3 4

3 Basic Layers in a Relationship

Chemistry

Commonality

Compatibility

Read the full article here, which focuses on the creation and execution of a love story: two people meeting, discovering they really like each other, and deciding to stay together for the foreseeable future. They include common tropes for inspiration, some pitfalls you can avoid, and more helpful information.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, here are some tips and references that you may use as a guide to create your character's relationship progression. There are a variety of tips from different sources. Choose which ones you would prefer to use in your specific story, and find more details and examples in the links. Hope this helps with your writing!

[pbaz7]

AGAINST THE TIDE: PART SIX

paige x azzi

word count: 4.7k

A/N: This is just a cute little chapter to show how much their dynamic has grown/changed. There will be a few time jumps after this because we’ll never get anywhere otherwise 😭. I love all the live reactions and comments I’ve been getting, they’re actually hilarious.

—————————————————————————

After spending the night in Paige’s room, the two of them got impossibly closer. When they woke up the next morning, Paige invited Azzi to tag along to her physical therapy session. Azzi of course agreed, and from that moment on, they spent every waking hour together for the rest of the short winter break. Whether it was in rehab, watching movies in Paige’s room, or going out for a sweet treat in the middle of the night at Azzi’s request, they became inseparable.

When they returned to UConn after Christmas, it was the exact same. It was rare to see one without the other. Both of them were sidelined with injuries, which only gave them more excuses to stay close. During games, they sat on the bench together, Paige talking Azzi’s ear off about strategy, stats, and whatever random thoughts crossed her mind. Azzi didn’t mind; she found Paige’s rambling endearing, even when it meant missing part of the game on the court.

Off the bench, they poured themselves into helping the team however they could. They watched hours of film together, analyzing plays and finding ways to improve their teammates’ performance with so many of them sidelined with injuries. Huddled around a laptop in the locker room or sprawled out on the floor of Paige’s dorm, their heads often ended up leaning close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither pulled away.

Neither of them brought up the new dynamic between them. It was like there was a silent agreement to ignore the feelings simmering just beneath the surface. They told themselves it was easier this way, to focus on recovery and basketball. But the excuses only went so far.

Their stolen glances during film sessions lasted a second too long. The casual touches—Paige nudging Azzi’s knee when she made a good point, or Azzi grabbing Paige’s forearm to drag her somewhere or emphasize her own thoughts—left feelings between both of them. Paige’s heart raced every time Azzi’s hand lingered on hers, while Azzi found herself melting into a puddle by the way Paige’s voice softened when they were alone. A softness she only seemed to have for Azzi.

Still, they stayed in the safe lane of ‘friendship’ burying their feelings beneath layers of banter and shared routines. To them that seemed to work but to anyone else looking at their dynamic it definitely seemed like they were in a relationship. The two of them basically teased and flirted with one another nonstop.

January 2022

Today was no different. They were currently on the road, heading back to Connecticut after taking a quick trip to see Paige’s surgeon for her check-up. The car was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the faint sound of music playing from the speakers. Paige was driving, her hands relaxed on the wheel, and Azzi was trying her best to focus on anything but her.

It wasn’t easy. Azzi wasn’t used to seeing Paige behind the wheel—usually, she was the passenger, sprawled out and carefree. But now that Paige could drive she insisted on doing it every time and Azzi could never stop glancing over at her. The way Paige’s jawline looked when she would clinch it at someone doing something stupid in front of her, the subtle furrow of her brow as she concentrated on the road, or, worst of all, the way her long fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles flexing slightly.

Azzi swallowed hard, her thoughts wandering somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t be. She blinked, forcing herself to look straight ahead, but her gaze betrayed her almost immediately, drifting back to the blonde.

Paige caught her. She glanced over, catching Azzi’s lingering stare, and a slow smirk spread across her face. “What?” Paige asked, her voice laced with amusement.

Azzi groaned at being caught, throwing her head back against the seat. “Stop driving like that.”

Paige laughed, the sound warm and teasing as she gave her a quick side glance. “Like what, Azzi?”

Azzi waved her arms in Paige’s direction, clearly flustered. “Like that! You know what you’re doing.”

Paige grinned wider, unable to hide how much she was enjoying this. “I’m literally just driving. You’re the one making it weird.”

Azzi let out a frustrated noise, crossing her arms and slouching slightly in her seat. “No, you’re doing something. I don’t know what, but it’s distracting.”

Paige chuckled, shifting her grip on the wheel—whether to mess with Azzi or just to adjust, Azzi couldn’t tell, but it didn’t help. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but this is how I always drive. Guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Azzi shot her a glare but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”

Paige glanced over briefly, her smirk softening into something more playful. “Yeah, but you clearly like it.”

Azzi huffed, turning her gaze out the window to avoid giving Paige the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. But her resolve didn’t last long. Her eyes betrayed her, flickering back to Paige’s hands on the steering wheel. The way her fingers flexed just slightly, the grip firm and sure—it was ridiculous how something so mundane could have Azzi’s thoughts spiraling.

Paige caught her again, and her smirk deepened. “Are you seriously doing it again dude?”

Azzi groaned, slouching in her seat. “Oh my God, stop.”

“Stop what?” Paige asked innocently, purposefully shifting her grip on the wheel, her fingers flexing just a little more dramatically this time.

Azzi covered her face with her hands, her voice muffled as she muttered, “I hate you so much.”

Paige laughed, the sound light and teasing. “No, you don’t.” She shifted her hands again, dragging the moment out, clearly enjoying Azzi’s growing frustration.

“Paige,” Azzi warned, her voice low, though it lacked any real bite.

“What?” Paige asked, feigning innocence as she glanced over at her. “I’m just driving.”

Azzi groaned, leaning back in her seat. “Oh my God, just stop. Why do you even drive like that?”

“Like what?” Paige asked innocently.

Azzi let out a frustrated noise and covered her face with her hands. “You’re doing it on purpose now. I know you are.”

Paige chuckled, her laugh warm and teasing. “Maybe.” She then switched driving hands as she dropped her right hand from the wheel, letting it fall casually onto Azzi’s leg.

Azzi froze, her breath hitching as Paige’s fingers rested just above her knee, her touch light but deliberate. Her wide eyes snapped to Paige, who kept her gaze firmly on the road, her smirk now bordering on a full grin.

“What are you doing?” Azzi demanded, her voice higher than she intended.

Paige shrugged, her tone casual. “Nothing. Just resting my hand. Relax.”

Azzi’s hands shot up in disbelief, gesturing toward the offending hand on her leg. “Relax? Are you kidding me? Move your hand before you crash!”

Paige laughed, giving her thigh the faintest squeeze before replying, “I’m not gonna crash from touching your leg, Azzi. Chill.”

Azzi groaned, squeezing her eyes shut for a second before snapping, “Fine! Move it before I lose my mind.”

Paige’s laugh deepened as she finally slid her hand back to the wheel. “You’re so easy to mess with.”

Azzi groaned, slumping into her seat and covering her face again. “I hate you. I actually hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Paige replied, glancing over with a playful glint in her eye. “Admit it, you like when I mess with you.”

Azzi huffed but couldn’t suppress the warmth spreading across her face—or the tiny smile tugging at her lips. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Paige smirked, her confidence only growing. “I’m not the one having a heart attack over getting their leg touched.”

Azzi glared at her but couldn’t fight the laugh bubbling out. She shook her head, muttering under her breath. “I’m going to lose my mind before we get back to Connecticut.”

Paige glanced at her again, the teasing replaced with something softer, though her smirk lingered. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she murmured, her voice quieter but no less bold.

Azzi bit her lip, forcing herself to look out the window again, but she couldn’t hide the way her cheeks burned—or the way her heart raced whenever Paige pushed her buttons just like this.

…

The teasing had died down as the miles stretched on, replaced by a comfortable silence. Azzi was staring out the window, watching the trees blur past, but her mind was thinking about any and everything related to the girl sitting next to her. She glanced at Paige, her jaw set in quiet concentration as she navigated the highway. Finally, Azzi broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Paige raised an eyebrow, glancing over briefly. “Yeah, of course.”

Azzi hesitated, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Why did everyone used to be so worried about you? I remember hearing stuff, but no one really explained. And when I started going with you it was never that bad so why’d they make it such a big deal before?”

Paige’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. She let out a slow breath, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “That’s... kind of a long-ish story.”

Azzi turned toward her, leaning slightly against the door. “We’ve got time.” Her voice was soft, no pressure, just genuine curiosity.

Paige laughed lightly, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Okay, but you can’t freak out, it was a long time ago, alright?”

Azzi frowned but nodded. “Alright.”

Paige shifted in her seat, adjusting her grip on the wheel. “It was after the Final Four. A couple of weeks after we lost. I just... wasn’t in a good place. I blamed myself for everything—every missed shot, every mistake. It felt like I let everyone down. So, I did what I always do. I locked myself in the gym.”

Azzi’s brow furrowed. “For how long?”

Paige shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “A couple of days, maybe?I didn’t realize I wasn’t really eating or drinking water. Just working out, watching film, shooting until I couldn’t stand anymore.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Literally.”

Azzi’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Evina found me passed out,” Paige admitted quietly, her voice almost lost under the hum of the car. “It was just dehydration and not eating enough, nothing serious. But after that, everyone started treating me like I was fragile or something.”

Azzi stared at her, the air catching in her throat. “Paige...”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Paige said quickly, waving it off. “Dehydration, low blood sugar—nothing serious.”

“That is serious,” Azzi countered, her tone sharp with concern.

Paige shrugged, a faint bitterness in her smile. “Maybe. But at the time, it felt like I deserved it, you know? I wasn’t happy, Az. Not with basketball, not with myself. I basically hated myself. It was like... no matter how much time I spent in the gym, it didn’t make up for how I felt. I just wanted to work hard enough to forget, but instead, I ended up running myself into the ground.”

Azzi’s brow furrowed as she processed Paige’s words. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Paige let out a soft laugh. “Who? Tell them what? That I couldn’t handle the pressure? That I felt like a failure? Everyone was looking at me to bounce back, to lead, to be Paige Bueckers. I couldn’t let them see me crack.” She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. “I felt so alone. Like no one understood what I was going through. So I didn’t talk to anyone and just spent my days in the gym.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Paige, that’s... I don’t even know what to say. I can’t believe you went through all of that by yourself.”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Paige murmured. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can just explain to people.”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond, but Paige spoke first. “My knee’s starting to ache a little.” She glanced at Azzi, her tone lighter but her eyes searching. “There’s a diner at the next exit. Let’s stop for a bit.”

Azzi frowned slightly, sensing something beneath the excuse, but nodded. “Yeah, okay. You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I just... want to sit for a bit. And, you know, look at you while we talk instead of staring at the road.”

Azzi felt her cheeks warm at the admission but said nothing as Paige took the exit.

Once they were seated in a quiet booth at the corner of the diner, Azzi finally spoke. “I didn’t know it was that bad for you.”

Paige stirred her water with her straw, her expression contemplative. “I didn’t either, not at first. I thought I could handle it. But looking back... I was just running from how I felt.” She glanced up at Azzi, her eyes soft. “You know what I mean?”

Azzi nodded slowly. “Yes actually. When I tore my ACL, I thought my career was over. I didn’t want to get out of bed, let alone go to rehab. My parents practically had to drag me out of the house some days and force me to shower. I felt like I’d never be the same player again, like I let everyone down. It was... dark for a while.”

Paige leaned forward to let Azzi know she was listening. “How did you get through it?”

Azzi shrugged. “Time, mostly. And people not giving up on me, even when I gave up on myself. But it’s still hard, you know? Some days, it still feels like the world’s too heavy to carry.”

Paige nodded, her gaze steady on Azzi. “Yeah. I get that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind where neither of them felt the need to fill the space. Paige finally broke it with a soft laugh. “You’re really easy to talk to, you know that?”

Azzi smiled, her eyes warm. “So are you.”

As they sat there, the hum of the diner around them, Paige felt a strange sense of peace settle over her.

The conversation deepened as they sat in the quiet corner of the diner, their voices low but steady. Paige found herself opening up about things she hadn’t thought about in years, things she’d never told anyone else—her childhood, her family, the moments that shaped her love for basketball. Azzi listened intently, chiming in with her own stories. They talked for hours and didn’t even notice.

“You were a troublemaker as a kid, huh?” Paige teased, leaning back in the booth.

Azzi grinned. “Not trouble, exactly. I just had... energy. My mom says I never sat still, which is probably why sports were the only thing that worked for me.”

Paige smirked. “Explains a lot.”

Azzi nudged her foot under the table. “And you? Let me guess—perfect student, teacher’s pet, MVP of the kickball team?”

Paige chuckled. “Something like that. I always wanted to be the best at everything, even if it didn’t matter. Like, who cares if you’re the fastest at spelling quizzes?”

“Apparently you did,” Azzi teased, her smile softening. “That competitive streak must’ve made you fun to grow up with.”

Paige shrugged, her tone turning reflective. “It was a lot of pressure, though. Some of it I put on myself, but a lot came from... expectations. Like, if I wasn’t the best, what was the point?”

Azzi nodded in understanding. “I get that. I think that’s why I struggled so much after my injury. For so long, basketball was who I was. When I couldn’t play, it felt like I didn’t know myself anymore. I didn’t know what to do day in and day out.”

Paige reached across the table, her fingers brushing Azzi’s hand briefly before she pulled back. “I’m really glad you didn’t give up.”

Azzi’s eyes softened. “Me too.”

Their waiter approached, setting down Azzi’s dessert—a large slice of chocolate cake with a swirl of whipped cream on top. Paige shook her head, laughing softly. “Of course you’d order that.”

Azzi picked up her fork with a grin. “What can I say? I’m predictable.” She took a bite, humming in satisfaction before holding a forkful out toward Paige. “Here, try it.”

Paige wrinkled her nose. “You’re always trying to get me to eat sugar.”

“Because it’s not as fun when I have to eat it by myself,” Azzi shot back, waving the fork in front of her. “C’mon, just one bite. It’s really good.”

Paige sighed dramatically but leaned forward, letting Azzi feed her the bite of cake. She chewed, her face carefully neutral before finally swallowing. “Okay, fine. It’s good.”

Azzi smirked, leaning back triumphantly. “Told you.”

When the check came, Paige didn’t give Azzi a chance to reach for her wallet. She slid her card into the leather folder and handed it to the waiter without a word.

Azzi arched a brow. “You never even let me try to pay for anything.”

Paige shrugged, standing up and grabbing her coat. “You’ll get the next one.”

“Next one?” Azzi echoed, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Paige glanced over her shoulder. “Unless this is the last road trip we ever take together?”

Azzi shook her head, laughing as they headed back to the car. The air outside was crisp, but Paige felt warm, the lingering glow of their conversation following her as she slid into the driver’s seat.

Azzi settled in beside her, glancing over as Paige started the engine. “You know,” she said softly, “I like this.”

Paige glanced at her. “What?”

“This,” Azzi said, gesturing between them. “Whatever this is. Us just... being.”

Paige smiled, her heart full in a way she couldn’t quite put into words. “Yeah. Me too.”

…

By the time they pulled into the parking lot in Connecticut, the car was silent except for the low hum of the engine. Azzi was sound asleep, her head resting gently against the window, her breaths slow and even. Paige turned off the car and let herself sit for a moment, her eyes drifting over to Azzi. She took in the way the soft moonlight highlighted her features, her peaceful expression making Paige’s chest tighten.

Paige smiled to herself, leaning back in her seat. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered under her breath, the words barely audible.

Reaching out, Paige gently ran her hand down the side of Azzi’s face, her fingers brushing her cheek lightly. The touch caused Azzi to stir, her brows furrowing as she slowly blinked awake.

“Hey,” Paige said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’re back.”

Azzi stretched slightly, her movements sluggish as she tried to wake herself up. Eventually Paige stepped out of the car, walking around to Azzi’s door. She opened it, leaning in with a teasing smile. “Come on before I carry you.”

Azzi snorted, her voice still thick with sleep. “Paige, you can’t carry me.”

Paige scoffed, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. “Oh, really?”

Before Azzi could protest, Paige slid one arm under her legs and the other behind her back, lifting her out of the car with surprising ease. Azzi squealed, grabbing onto Paige’s shoulders. “Put me down!” she yelped, her voice pitching higher than usual.

Paige grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “What’s wrong? I thought you said I couldn’t carry you.”

“Paige, your knee!” Azzi scolded, trying to sound serious but failing as laughter bubbled out. “You just got cleared to play again—don’t go ruining it!”

Paige hummed in thought at the mention of being cleared to play. “Hmm...”

“No,” Azzi interrupted, narrowing her eyes even as she laughed.

“Pleaseee?” Paige said, dragging the word out dramatically, her smile widening as she put Azzi down gently onto the pavement.

Azzi groaned, but there was no real annoyance in it. “You’re literally insane,” she muttered, already knowing where this was heading.

“Come on Az please,” Paige pressed, her tone playful but pleading.

Azzi sighed, finally relenting. “Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “But you’re getting my shoes.”

Paige’s face lit up like she’d won a championship. “Deal!”

Azzi chuckled, turning back toward the car to get back in the passenger seat. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to fight you on this.”

Paige didn’t respond, already jogging toward the suite with a bounce in her step. “I’ll be right back!” she called over her shoulder.

Azzi shook her head, smiling despite herself. “She’s gonna be the death of me,” she muttered, getting back in the car as Paige ran inside to grab their basketball shoes, her energy contagious even in the middle of the night.

…

If Azzi didn’t know any better, she’d think Paige was on something. The blonde had been in the gym for hours, bouncing off the walls with energy, clearly ecstatic to be freely shooting a basketball again—even if she wasn’t cleared for contact.

Azzi, on the other hand, was drained. She’d given up about thirty minutes ago, peeling off her basketball shoes and resigning herself to sitting on the floor, watching Paige’s every move. She leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling steadily as she caught her breath. Her eyes following Paige darting around the court, making shot after shot, her smile brighter than the overhead light they had turned on.

Eventually, Paige bounded over to her and, without warning, dramatically sprawled across Azzi’s lap, her sweaty body pressing against Azzi’s.

Azzi groaned, trying for annoyance but failing as her lips curved into a small smile. “Ew, Paige, you’re sweaty.” She didn’t, however, make any effort to push her off.

Paige grinned up at her, clearly unbothered. “Alright, I think I’m done.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. “Oh wow, it only took three hours. Truly a miracle.”

Paige laughed softly, her smile warm and unguarded as she looked up at Azzi. Something in her expression softened, and for a moment, the only sound was their steady breathing.

Azzi hesitated, her chest tightening as she gazed down at Paige. She reached out instinctively, brushing a strand of sweaty hair out of Paige’s face. Her fingers lingered for a second before she spoke, her voice quiet and a little shaky. “I really love your eyes.”

Paige blinked as her cheeks flushed faintly as her grin softened into something more genuine. “I love your smile,” she murmured, her voice steady but low, like it was meant just for Azzi.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them hung with unspoken emotions. Paige’s expression was completely open, her gaze searching Azzi’s as if she were trying to commit every detail of her face to memory.

The closeness sent Azzi’s heart racing, the feeling so intense it almost overwhelmed her. So she quickly pushed Paige off her lap and stood up, clearing her throat. “Come on,” she said, trying to mask the flustered edge in her voice.

Paige smiled to herself as she got up and followed Azzi. But instead of heading toward the gym’s front doors and her car, she grabbed Azzi’s hand, intertwining their fingers and tugging her in the opposite direction.

Azzi groaned lightly, though she didn’t pull away. “Where are we going now, Paige?”

Paige glanced back, her grin teasing.

“We’re gonna watch the sunrise.”

Azzi stopped complaining immediately, her curiosity piqued as Paige led her to the elevator.

When they reached the rooftop, the early morning air hit them, but Azzi immediately vetoed going outside. “No you’re gonna get us sick,” she scolded. “We’re sweaty, and it’s freezing.”

Paige laughed but didn’t argue, following Azzi to a spot by the glass windows that offered a perfect view of the sky. They sat down side by side, the first light of dawn spilling through the panes and casting a soft glow over them.

Azzi rested her head on Paige’s shoulder, her body relaxing into the blonde. She reached for Paige’s hand, her fingers lightly playing with Paige’s in an absentminded gesture that felt far more intimate than either of them acknowledged.

They watched in silence as the sky gradually brightened, the world slowly coming alive with shades of pink, purple, and gold.

Paige turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against Azzi’s hair. “Thanks for coming with me today,” she said softly, her voice low and sincere.

Azzi tilted her head up to meet Paige’s gaze, her lips curving into a small smile. “Always.”

They stayed like that, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, letting the moment stretch until the sun fully broke the horizon, casting its warm light over them.

Eventually, as the last traces of night faded and the sun rose higher into the sky, Paige sighed and stretched. “Well, I guess we should go finally get some sleep.”

Azzi agreed, lifting her head off Paige’s shoulder and standing up. Paige followed suit, and the two of them walked back toward the elevator, hands still lingering together.

Once they were back in the car, the drive to Paige’s dorm was quiet, the peacefulness of the morning lingering between them. By the time they arrived, the exhaustion from their trip hit them all at once.

They both took quick showers, Azzi finding herself some clothes in Paige’s drawer while Paige showered.

Paige slumped onto her bed, pulling the covers up. Azzi followed suit, crawling under the blankets next to her.

As the lights went off, the silence of the room filled with the soft sounds of their breathing. Despite the exhaustion, neither of them wanted to drift off just yet. They exchanged a glance, a small smile shared between them, as they settled into the warmth of the bed.

"Goodnight, Az," Paige whispered, her voice gentle but filled with something deeper, something unspoken.

Azzi smiled softly, closing her eyes. "Goodnight, Paige."

…

A week or so later, Paige was sitting in the training room, her legs stretched out on the bench as she scrolled through her phone. Her lips curled into a smile, her eyes lighting up as she read whatever was on her screen.

Evina, who was seated across from her, noticed immediately and let out a laugh. “What’s got you all smiley over there?”

Paige glanced up, caught off guard but unable to wipe the grin off her face. “It’s nothing,” she said, her tone too casual to be convincing. She glanced back at her phone before quickly adding, “Azzi just sent me something. She’s on her way now.”

Evina raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. She’d been waiting for an opening like this. “Speaking of Azzi, what’s going on with you two?”

Paige froze, her fingers halting mid-scroll. “What do you mean?” she asked, feigning ignorance, but the blush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her.

Evina leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she gave Paige a knowing look. “Come on, Paige. You two are pretty close now. Like, real close.”

Paige let out a nervous laugh, shaking her head. “Nah, she’s just like... my best friend now,” she said, her voice a little too quick and defensive.

Evina wasn’t buying it. She tilted her head, her expression skeptical. “Paige, be fucking for real,” she said, her tone teasing but firm.

Before Paige could respond, the door to the training room opened, and Azzi walked in. She headed straight for Paige without hesitation, a warm smile on her face as she leaned down to wrap her arms around the blonde in a quick but affectionate hug.

Paige blushed even deeper under Evina’s gaze, her hands lingering a second too long on Azzi’s back before she pulled away.

Evina smirked, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed. “Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “No love for Mama E?”

Azzi laughed, the sound light and unbothered, as she turned to Evina. “Alright, alright,” she said, walking over to give her a quick side hug. “You happy now?”

Evina shook her head with a grin, glancing pointedly between the two of them. “Oh, I’m very happy. This is way better than anything I could’ve imagined.”

Paige groaned, burying her face in her hands, while Azzi, not really knowing the context, just chuckled and perched herself on the bench next to her.

Evina wasn’t about to let up, but Paige shot her a pleading look, mouthing, Don’t. Evina raised her hands in mock surrender, but the mischievous twinkle in her eye promised this conversation wasn’t over.

[theodorenmyth]

this might be lowk dumb but academic rival reader w theo where she outsmarted him in class or scored better than him on a test and he basically fucked her dumb to mend his bruised ego? lots of degradation +++ WHATIF somebody walked in (*ahem* mattheo)

idk im high dont judge me 😭🙏🙏

Outsmarted.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; In a tense rivalry with Theodore Nott, you outsmart him in class and score higher on a test, only to find yourself at the mercy of his ego. What starts as a battle of wits quickly spirals into an intense, degrading game of power and control, where Theodore pushes you to your limits.

A/N ; OMFG this is the first full smut fic I've wrote in MONTHS. Please bear with me 😓🥹 oh and I also changed it into gender-neutral y/n because I saw that you put she and her, and since I don't write for f!reader, I'm so sorry 🥹 still, enjoy! :D (there's still slight aftercare in the end, dw)

Warnings ; NSFW, degradation, overstimulation, rough sex, power dynamics, accidental exposure, oral sex, anal sex

word count ; 5k+

The moment Slughorn said your name, you knew the entire classroom had shifted.

A few heads turned your way, some surprised, some not. You didn’t look up immediately—no, that would ruin the effect. You waited, just a moment, pen paused at the edge of your parchment, letting the attention simmer in the air. Then, with perfect calm, you lifted your eyes, looked the professor square in the face, and smiled.

“The highest mark in the class,” Slughorn boomed, holding up your parchment as though it were a sacred scroll. “Y/N has once again impressed me. Their essay on Veela charm magic was truly outstanding. The way you connected the emotional manipulation to Occlumency theory… Brilliant. Simply brilliant.”

Your smile widened as a very specific pair of eyes practically drilled into the side of your head. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Theodore Nott had been sitting in the same bloody seat for the past year—third row from the front, one seat left of center. And right now, you could practically hear his teeth grinding.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. His quill was stilled. His jaw was locked tight. He was staring straight ahead, but his gaze was ice.

The smugness bubbling in your chest was almost criminal.

Because this was a rare moment—a very rare moment. Theodore Nott was the golden boy. Always top of the class, always confident, always with just enough charm to get away with being insufferably smug. You’d spent years trading barbed words and subtle jabs with him across shared subjects. But he never lost. Not in Slughorn’s class.

Until now.

And you had done it.

The rest of the class buzzed with chatter as students began packing up, chairs scraping, parchment rustling. Slughorn dismissed everyone with a cheerful wave, but you stayed seated, fingers tapping slowly against the desk, taking your time.

You knew he’d come to you.

You were counting on it.

Sure enough, his voice came just as the last student filed out of the dungeon.

“You really think this means something?”

You looked up slowly, turning to face him. Theodore stood at the edge of your desk, arms crossed, expression tight and unreadable. He looked calm, but there was a tension in his shoulders. A subtle twitch in his fingers.

“I think it means I’m smarter than you,” you replied coolly.

His eyes narrowed. “By one point.”

“Still higher,” you said, blinking innocently. “That’s how numbers work, Nott.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “Slughorn’s biased. He always has been. You flirt with him like it’s a hobby.”

You raised your brows, fighting the grin tugging at your lips. “Oh? Jealous?”

Theodore’s jaw ticked. “Hardly. I just think you’ve got a talent for being manipulative.”

You stood, slowly gathering your things. “And you don’t? Please, Theo, I’ve seen the way you flash that little smirk when you know you’re ahead. Don't get salty just because I gave you a taste of your own game.”

“I didn’t lose,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, slinging your bag over one shoulder, chin tilted just slightly. “You did. You just can’t admit it. Poor Theo. All that pride… fragile, isn’t it?”

His eyes flared. “Watch it.”

You leaned in just slightly, dropping your voice to a whisper as you brushed past him. “Why? Worried I’ll bruise your ego again?”

He stepped closer, a bit too close, really. You could smell the faint whiff of expensive cologne and mint tea on his breath. His pale eyes burned into yours, but your expression didn’t falter.

He looked like he wanted to strangle you.

Or kiss you.

Or both.

“You’re awfully smug for someone who scraped ahead by one point,” he snapped.

You gave a mock gasp. “Oh no, not one point!” You clutched your chest theatrically. “Guess that means I still beat you.”

He let out a low exhale through his nose, jaw flexing. “You’re asking for it.”

You stepped into him now, narrowing the space even more, just to get under his skin. You made sure your voice was low, teasing, each word dipped in honey. “You gonna punish me, Nott? For being smarter than you?”

His eyes darkened in a way that made your breath catch, but you didn’t back down. You leaned in closer until your lips barely brushed the shell of his ear.

“Go on then. Show me how much it bruised your pretty little ego.”

You pulled away slowly, letting your fingers graze his as you moved past. Your shoulder brushed his chest and you swore you heard the faintest hitch in his breath.

Then you paused in the doorway.

“Oh,” you said over your shoulder, tone deliberately sweet, “if you need help understanding the theory I wrote about, I’d be more than happy to tutor you.”

That got him.

His expression darkened as he took a single step toward you, and you swore there was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes—anger, yes, but something else, too. Something darker. Rougher.

Possessive.

“I don’t need help,” he said tightly.

“Hmm,” you hummed, looking him up and down with a smirk. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And with that, you turned and disappeared into the corridor, heart pounding in your chest—not from fear, but from the anticipation coiling hot and tight in your stomach.

You’d poked the beast.

No, provoked it.

You wanted to see him crack.

You wanted to see that perfect, composed mask of his shatter.

And something told you Theodore Nott wasn’t going to let this one go.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

Not at all.

You didn’t expect him to catch you so soon.

One minute you were strolling down the corridor toward the dungeons, minding your business, savoring the echo of your earlier win like the last bite of something sinfully sweet—and the next, a hand curled around your upper arm and yanked.

You gasped, stumbling forward before you recognized the familiar grip. Long fingers, knuckles pale with tension. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Oh,” you said lightly, letting him drag you without resistance, “so you do handle rejection poorly. Thought so.”

Theodore didn’t even glance at you. His grip tightened like a vice around your arm.

“Back to the common room?” you drawled. “You gonna cry about your test score or beg me to tutor you—?”

“Keep talking,” he interrupted, voice so low it vibrated through your spine. “And you won’t even make it through the door before I’m shoving my cock down your throat.”

Your heart stopped.

The smugness drained from your face so fast it was dizzying. Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing came out.

You weren’t scared, not exactly—but the intensity in his voice, that cold fury barely restrained, struck something primal. You swallowed hard and glanced up at him, pulse skittering.

The side of his mouth twitched, like he’d noticed the shift in your expression and liked it.

“Thought so,” he muttered, dragging you faster now.

Through the Slytherin entrance. Past a handful of students who barely spared you two a glance. You moved quietly now, your earlier cockiness hollowed out, replaced by something hot and anxious low in your belly.

By the time he shoved open the door to the boys’ dorm, you were breathless.

He pulled you inside and kicked the door shut behind you with a loud thud. Before you could speak, he spun you around, slammed you against it, and braced a hand on either side of your head, caging you in.

His voice was gravel. “You want to act like you’ve got the upper hand?”

You blinked at him, trying to recover your tone. “I—I’m just naturally—”

He cut you off by grabbing your jaw, thumb swiping over your lips with a possessive drag. “Go ahead. Act like you’re in control.”

“I…” you breathed, but even you heard how weak it sounded. You tried again, softer this time. “I am.”

His expression sharpened into something hungry.

“No,” he said, almost pitying. “You’re just mouthy. And I’m going to ruin that mouth first.”

He shoved your shoulders, guiding you down fast—too fast to resist—and your knees hit the floor with a quiet thump. The carpet dug into your skin, but you barely noticed. Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his hand still gripping your hair.

“Open.”

You hesitated. Just a flicker. But that was all he needed.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” he mocked. “Figures. Smart little brat until there’s a cock in front of them.”

The heat of humiliation—and arousal—rushed through you. Slowly, shakily, you parted your lips.

Theodore’s eyes darkened. “Good.”

He undid his belt slowly, letting the clink of metal and drag of leather build anticipation. His cock was already hard when he pulled it free, tip flushed and glistening. Your mouth watered, and you didn’t even try to hide it.

“You gonna do this properly,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, “or do I have to teach you how to suck cock too?”

You didn’t dare answer—not with your tongue darting out to taste him, warm and soft against the tip. His breath caught, his fingers tightening in your hair.

And then he was shoving into your mouth.

No warning. No gentle build-up.

Just Theodore’s cock stretching your lips, pushing past your tongue, pressing deep.

You gagged instantly, throat clenching around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. He didn’t stop—his hips rocked forward, slow but firm, dragging a strangled sound from your chest.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

You whimpered, throat burning, tears stinging your eyes—but you adjusted. You had to. Your hands steadied, lips stretching, jaw aching as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked.

Theodore’s head tipped back slightly, a quiet curse escaping him.

“Merlin, you’re filthy,” he muttered. “Drooling all over me like a little whore.”

Your spit slicked his length, dripping down your chin as you took him deeper. The rhythm built quickly—his hand in your hair controlling the pace, your mouth hot and wet around him.

You looked up, eyes watery, and that broke him.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” he rasped. “All that cleverness, gone the second I put my cock in your mouth.”

You moaned around him, deliberately loud. He hissed.

“You like this, don’t you?” he said through gritted teeth. “Getting face-fucked like a toy. You act so fucking smug, but this—this is all you’re good for.”

He thrust harder now, rougher, fucking your mouth like he meant to brand you from the inside out. You coughed around him, spit bubbling, hands trembling as he used you.

“Fucking pathetic,” he grunted. “Letting me use your mouth just ‘cause I said a few filthy words.”

You tried to keep eye contact. You really tried. But your lashes fluttered, head swimming.

And then—

“Shit. Gonna cum.”

You braced yourself, breath stuck in your throat as he shoved in deep, holding you there with his cock pressing past your tonsils.

Hot, bitter warmth flooded your mouth. You gagged once, eyes wide, but he held you still as he twitched against your tongue.

“Swallow,” he growled, breath ragged.

You did.

And then he slowly pulled out, watching a line of spit and cum trail from your lip to his cock. He cupped your cheek and forced your gaze up.

“Still feeling smart, sweetheart?”

You panted, lips red and swollen, face flushed and slick.

And despite everything, you managed a tiny smirk.

“Define smart.”

He laughed once—low and dangerous—then grabbed your arm and dragged you up.

The second he pulled you off the floor, your knees wobbled like they couldn’t support you anymore. But Theodore didn’t give you time to recover. He pushed you back, walking you until the backs of your legs hit his bed—and then he shoved you down.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk by the time I’m done with you,” he growled, standing between your legs, eyes dark with that same fury-laced lust that had burned behind them in class.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something smug—something to keep your upper hand—but your breath caught as he suddenly grabbed the front of your shirt and ripped.

Buttons flew. The fabric tore straight down the middle.

You gasped, staring at him wide-eyed as he dropped the ruined cloth onto the floor like it meant nothing.

“Oh,” you breathed, your pulse thundering in your ears, “so you’re—mmf—that angry.”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed you flat against the bed and leaned down, growling against your neck, “Shut the fuck up.”

His hands were on your waistband next—hooking into your trousers and tearing them down with a swift, brutal yank that made your body jolt. You barely got a gasp out before he tossed them aside too, leaving you exposed and breathless, sprawled across his bed like a prize he was about to claim.

“You like making me lose,” he muttered, crawling over you, dragging the length of his body against yours. “But you’re gonna learn what happens when you push me.”

You tried to smirk, but it wavered when you felt his cock again—hot and heavy, smearing against your thigh as he settled between your legs. Your thighs twitched, instinctively parting for him even as your brain scrambled for control.

“Don’t worry,” you managed, voice already shaking. “You’re… good at making your point.”

Theodore’s eyes snapped to yours.

“You’re not funny.”

And then—he was inside you.

You gasped, a full-body jolt seizing through you as he buried himself to the hilt in one unrelenting thrust. You cried out, back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets beneath you as he bottomed out, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your legs twitched around his hips. You bit your lip, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body struggled to take him, stretch for him—but the burn melted into a high, hot ache that made your mind go blank.

And then he moved.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pulled out halfway and slammed back in with a sharp snap of his hips, making you cry out again, louder this time. Your head tipped back against the pillow, voice already falling apart.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, fucking you harder now, setting a pace that was punishing from the start. “Wanted to act clever? Act smug?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. You just grabbed at his arms, your body bouncing with each thrust as he filled you again and again and again.

“Where’s that smart mouth now?” he snarled.

Your lips parted, a moan escaping instead of a word. Your brain was white noise.

He laughed—dark, breathless. “That’s what I thought.”

He shifted his grip, grabbing under your knees, pushing them back until your thighs pressed against your chest. The new angle made you sob, your whole body shaking as he pounded into you harder, deeper.

“You’re just a fucking hole now,” he breathed, voice like thunder in your ears. “Not so clever when you’re getting split open.”

Your eyes fluttered. You were seeing stars. Your whole body trembled with every thrust, every filthy word that poured from his mouth.

“You feel that?” he whispered, dragging his cock out slow, only to slam back in and knock the breath from your lungs. “That’s mine. All of this is mine.”

You moaned, your hands gripping his wrists now, holding on for dear life as your stomach tensed and heat coiled dangerously low.

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, hips still snapping in a ruthless rhythm.

“Say it.”

“Wh-What—”

“Say you’re mine.”

You choked out a whimper. “Y-Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

“That’s right.” His voice cracked with hunger. “Fucking. Mine.”

You barely registered the way your body started to lock up—tightening, trembling—as you crashed straight into orgasm, legs shaking violently as you sobbed through it, overwhelmed and overstimulated.

Theodore grunted above you. His hips stuttered.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Make you walk around dripping with me. Show you who fucking owns you.”

You were too far gone to answer. You nodded helplessly, eyes wet, mouth open in a silent gasp.

Then he slammed in one last time—and came.

Hot and deep and thick, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled everything into you, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

He stayed there for a moment, buried inside you, panting against your neck.

Then he pulled out slow—too slow—and you whimpered, body wrecked and twitching beneath him.

Your body was still trembling when Theodore dragged you up by the hips, flipping you over with zero care for how boneless you felt beneath him. Your legs barely held under you, arms shaky where your elbows sank into the mattress. Your face pressed into the sheets, still flushed, still sticky with sweat and spit and his cum.

“Get up,” he snapped, swatting your ass hard enough to make you jolt. “Hands and knees, now.”

You whimpered but obeyed, limbs folding into place automatically as he manhandled you into position. Your heart was still pounding—faster now. Louder. Because you weren’t sure if your body could take more, but god—you wanted it.

The moment your ass was up, Theodore grabbed your hips again, rough and greedy, spreading you open with both hands.

“Look at this,” he said, voice low, hungry. “Still dripping.”

You gasped as he shoved two fingers into you, fucking his cum back in without warning. You squirmed, hips twitching, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he growled, curling his fingers. “Like a good little toy.”

You bit down on the sheets, heat rising in your chest again—shame and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. Your body rocked with every motion of his hand, slick and sensitive, your thighs already shaking again.

Then you felt his cock again—pressing against your hole, thick and hard and ready.

“Still so fucking tight,” he hissed, dragging the head up and down, teasing. “You should thank me. I’m gonna ruin you properly this time.”

He pushed in without warning.

You screamed into the sheets—legs nearly giving out—his cock splitting you open again, slower this time, making you feel every inch. Your arms trembled as he bottomed out and stayed there, grinding deep.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re clenching so hard. You want me this bad already?”

You nodded frantically, unable to form words.

“Then beg.”

You sobbed. “P-Please, Theo—”

“Please what?” His hand came down hard across your ass again, the sound cracking through the air. “Use your words.”

“Please… please fuck me,” you breathed, desperate and shaking. “Fuck me stupid—use me—please—”

He chuckled darkly. “That’s more like it.”

Then he pulled out and slammed back in—harder than before. You cried out, face buried in the blankets as he began to fuck you like an animal, his pace brutal, punishing. His hands gripped your hips like he owned them, dragging you back on his cock again and again, each thrust hitting you so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were a mess. Moaning, shaking, soaked. Your body was wrecked, already overstimulated, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t ask him to stop.

“Fucking filthy,” he spat, thrusts getting rougher. “You act so cocky in class, and now look at you.”

He leaned forward suddenly, one hand wrapping around your throat, forcing your head up as he fucked into you from behind.

“Nothing but a fucktoy,” he growled against your ear. “Just something for me to use.”

Your mouth fell open, eyes glazed and watering.

You didn’t even hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But Theodore did.

He froze mid-thrust, eyes snapping toward the dorm entrance—and you barely had time to turn your head, body still fully impaled on his cock, when the door swung open—and Mattheo FUCKING Riddle stepped in.

The scene he walked in on was nothing short of obscene: you on your stomach with your ass up, trembling violently, drooling into Theodore’s sheets, eyes fluttering and rolling back with every deep, punishing thrust. Theodore was balls deep inside you, pelvis flushed tight to your ass, one hand gripping your hips while the other pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place like you were nothing more than a toy he’d been wrecking for hours.

The room was filled with slick, wet sounds. Skin against skin. Your broken moans echoing off the walls. The heavy scent of sweat, cum, and sex hanging in the air like a fog.

Mattheo stopped.

Froze.

His jaw dropped.

You barely registered him through the haze in your brain—just a blur of dark curls, wide eyes, and a gaping mouth as your body spasmed again, Theodore’s cock twitching inside you.

The room went silent for a beat.

Then—

“OH FUCKING HELL—”

Mattheo shrieked—actually shrieked—spun on his heel, and slammed the door shut so hard it rattled the walls.

You thought he might’ve said something else—something like “I’m telling everyone”—but it was hard to tell over the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of your own whimper when Theodore thrust in deeper, still fully inside you.

You could feel yourself clench helplessly around him.

Your body twitched.

Your mouth hung open.

“The fuck,” you mumbled, completely dazed. “Did—was that Mattheo?”

Theodore groaned darkly behind you. “Don’t care.”

And then he started moving again.

Rougher. Meaner. Like the interruption had only made him more determined to fuck you stupid.

“Let him run his mouth,” he growled, hips snapping into yours. “Let him tell everyone. They should all know who you belong to.”

You cried out, hands gripping the sheets as your legs shook violently, brain melting into static as Theodore pounded you through it, deeper and deeper.

“Listen to you,” he hissed through his teeth, leaning over your back, one hand gripping your ass like he was molding it. “All that smugness gone. Just a whimpering little cocksleeve now, yeah?”

You sobbed, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed into you harder—meaner—his hand sliding around to squeeze and knead your ass with brutal, possessive fingers.

“Bet you like being fucked dumb,” he whispered against your neck, his pace losing rhythm. “Bet your needy little hole was made to be filled.”

One more thrust.

Two.

Then he slammed into you with a guttural moan, cock twitching deep inside as he spilled inside you, filling you again with hot ropes of cum. You could feel it pulse inside, hot and thick, and the sensation sent you over the edge all over again.

Your body jerked violently, trembling as your orgasm crashed through you a second time—strung out and raw, pleasure mixing with the overstimulation until your vision blurred.

“Fuck yes,” he muttered into your skin, still grinding into you, still squeezing your ass like he owned it. “Such a good little cumdump. Always so eager to be used.”

You couldn’t even answer. Just moaned weakly into the mattress, body limp and leaking, mind completely wrecked.

Your body felt like it was made of static.

Nerves buzzing, thighs quaking, mouth barely able to form words—just soft, broken little moans, every inhale catching in your throat. You were spent, wrung out and stuffed full, Theo’s cum still dripping from your used hole down your thighs in a hot, sticky mess.

But Theodore wasn’t done.

He didn’t say anything at first—just shifted you like you weighed nothing, dragging your trembling body upright, your chest pressed against his as he sat back against the headboard and pulled you onto his lap.

“Theo…” you whimpered, voice a desperate whine. “Please—can’t—can’t anymore, I can’t—”

“Shh,” he murmured, not unkindly. “You can.”

Your knees pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, shaking like leaves, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you steady. His cock nudged against your still-leaking hole, already half-hard again from just the feel of you squirming in his lap.

“You’ve taken me so well tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “I want to see you ride me. Just once. Just one more.”

“Just one?” you sniffled, already pouting.

He chuckled lowly. “For now.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering as he guided your hips—lining you up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, pushing back into your sore, stretched hole with agonizing slowness.

You choked on a moan, eyes tearing up as your walls fluttered helplessly around him.

“Theo—ah, f-fuck—it’s too much—”

“You’ll take it,” he murmured into your neck, holding you down as inch by inch, his cock disappeared inside you again. “Because you can. You were made for this.”

You clung to his shoulders, face flushed and streaked with sweat and tears. “Y-You’re so mean,” you whimpered. “S’not fair..”

His fingers dug into your thighs, nails leaving little crescent-shaped dents.

“Then stop being so fucking cute when you cry,” he muttered darkly.

He held you still for a moment, letting you shake and clench around him, lips ghosting over your skin as you panted like you’d just run a marathon.

And then he moved you.

Slowly.

Up.

Down.

Your breath hitched as your body slid down onto him again, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, the wet sounds echoing obscenely through the room. Your moans were high-pitched now—desperate, broken. Every bounce made your thighs tremble harder, your arms tightening around his neck as you rode him with trembling, clumsy motions.

“Theo—please—f-feels weird, it’s too much—gonna—”

“You’re already so cockdrunk,” he muttered, voice thick. “Look at you. Whimpering like you’re not loving every second of it.”

You were. And you hated it.

Your face crumpled as your body clenched again, his cock kissing that spot deep inside you with every bounce. The overstimulation was unbearable—every thrust like fire and lightning all at once.

He helped you move, holding your hips and lifting you just to slam you back down on him. Your cries turned into gasps, then sobs, your legs barely holding you up.

“T-Theo, Theo—please, I can’t—gonna—gonna—again—”

You came with a strangled cry, your nails clawing down his back, body going stiff before collapsing into him. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, trembling and pulsing around his cock, squeezing him so tightly he groaned against your throat.

He cursed under his breath, jerking his hips up once—twice—then stilled with a growl as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you to the brim again. His arms held you tight to his chest, one hand in your hair, the other cradling your lower back as your whole body went limp.

You were shaking like a leaf in his arms, and this time, Theodore didn’t make you move.

He just held you.

Whispered something into your hair, too soft to catch. Pressed his lips to your temple like he hadn’t just ruined you three times over. His hand slid up and down your spine, slow, gentle, soothing your trembling muscles with soft circles.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, breath tickling your skin.

You nodded against his neck with a small, pitiful hiccup. “Y-Yeah…”

“Too much?”

You whined. “Mhm.”

He chuckled softly, brushing your damp hair back from your face.

“You did so good, baby. So, so good.”

Your pout returned. “You’re being nice now.”

His lips curled against your skin. “I can be nice. Sometimes.”

You huffed softly, nose buried in his shoulder, still aching and dripping and completely, utterly ruined.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

The room was still thick with the heat of your final moments together. You felt drained, like every muscle had been sapped of its strength, but there was a strange warmth to the way Theodore held you close, his body still flush against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. His grip on you softened as he adjusted you, gently shifting you so you were cradled in his arms, face resting against his chest.

“Shh, relax,” he murmured softly, smoothing your hair back, his fingers warm against your damp skin. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, too tired to protest, your body aching but not in a way that was uncomfortable. His hands slid down your back, soothing you, rubbing your skin as his lips pressed soft kisses against your forehead.

“Good job,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the tip of your nose. “You did so good, baby.”

You melted into him, too tired to even respond, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t need words right now. His lips kept brushing over your face—your cheeks, your lips, your eyes—each kiss a soft reminder of how he had pushed you and then taken care of you afterward.

“Still feeling good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded softly, your body still trembling, but there was a new comfort in his presence. His gentle kisses, the warmth of his body, the way he softly ran his fingers along your spine—it was like the chaotic energy of everything before was being replaced by this slow, tender care.

He shifted beneath you, adjusting his position so you were more comfortably on top of him, not needing to move but cradled close in his arms. His cock was still inside you, softening slightly, but he didn’t rush to pull away. He just let you rest, letting you feel his warmth, as if nothing else mattered but making sure you were okay.

“Let’s just stay like this,” he said quietly, kissing your forehead once more. “No rush. You deserve to rest.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his presence grounding you, wrapping you in a sense of safety and care.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to your lips.

You smiled faintly against his skin, finally letting yourself feel the warmth of his affection.

[55sturn]

✮ FEEL IT ON THE WAY HOME

pairing: matthew sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis: in which matt finds himself growing jealous of y/n's friendship with nathan, despite matt not officially being with her, however she sees his deepest worries and assures there's no one else for her.

warnings: swearing, jealous!matt, snide comments here and there from matt (basically passive aggressive!matt), relationship anxiety, angst if you squint.

THIRD PERSON POV

if anyone were to ask matt, when he fell in love with you, he'd tell you somewhere between junior and senior year. but deep down he knew that he was lying. he knows he fell in love with you the moment he met you.

the two of you met during the summer between eighth and ninth grade. it was the one and only summer he let his mom send him away to summer camp with his brothers. he decided that he'd go once, just for the memories.

and boy did he make some memories.

FLASHBACK

"matt c'mon! they're letting us have a free hour on the beach!" chris exclaimed loudly as he jumped on his brother's bed, disturbing the middle triplet who tried to peacefully nap during their free hour.

"chris go away!" matt grumbled, pulling the pillow over his head, keeping away from chris until nick came into the room, ordering matt to get up. matt obliged, but not without complaint.

the three boys made their way down to the beach. chris immediately took off toward the makeshift court where a few boys his age were playing basketball. nick took off toward alahna who attended the camp as well.

matt was about to follow nick when he spotted a girl, probably his age sitting alone at table drawing away in a sketchbook.

"hey, why are you by yourself?" matt greeted, sitting across from her, feeling the need to keep this girl company.

"i just moved to boston and my mom sent me to this stupid camp to make friends in time for school but i'm mad at her so i'm not gonna make any friends." the girl replied, not taking her eyes off her book as her pencil scribbled furiously. when she realized he wasn't leaving, she let out a dramatic sigh and looked out at the water.

"well, i'm matt!" he laughed, noticing how stubborn she was about not looking at him.

"i'm y/n." she replied, finally looking at him and felt her face grow warm, but she thought that was gross so she chalked it up to the summer air against her skin.

a week later, the girl left summer camp with four new friends, despite her penchant for being alone.

when the school year began, y/n quickly found that she was attending the same high school as the triplets. she was quick to fall into their routine, developing a close relationship with their closest friends as well. almost immediately fitting into their dynamic and group.

however, y/n got rather close with nathan almost immediately after meeting him. she opened her arms and let nate in without fighting, she felt a strong brotherly tie to him.

however matt didn't know that she only considered him a brother, his jealously stewing over time. he knew he was falling in love when he wanted to punch nate for stealing y/n from him. he knew he was falling in love when he was angry when he should've been happy when y/n found her first boyfriend.

he knew he was falling in love the moment he met her.

FLASHBACK OVER

in the two years since y/n, the triplets, alahna, and nate have graduated, matt hasn't been able to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship with y/n changed.

they went from awkward teenagers trying to navigate uncomfortable and unfamiliar feelings that brew in the pits of their stomachs every time they met their best friend's eyes, to people testing the waters of what is considered a normal friendship while cuddling, spending the night with her chest to his back and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

they went from best friends teasing each other relentlessly over not having their first kisses only to become each other's first kisses. they kept the terribly awkward, clashing of teeth, tongue in the wrong spots type of kiss, to themselves.

however, despite their first kiss being terrible, once they graduated and the triplets moved to los angeles, y/n and matt had a tendency to share more kisses every time they convinced her to come out to los angeles or whenever the triplets flew back home to boston.

matt depended on those close, personal moments of intimacy with y/n. they made him feel like he had her in his life in a way that no one did. she was special to him, his first ever love. he didn't want to give that up. and so, he and his brothers were on their way to boston, partly because they missed home and mostly because matt needed to see her.

"so are you gonna tell her?" nick hummed, looking at matt who sat in the middle seat of their section on the plane, his eyes glued to his phone as he watched the minutes tick by, his right knee bouncing rapidly as he waited for the plane to land.

"huh? tell who? what?" matt replied, a delayed reaction to nick's question, the pounding in his chest travelled to his head, causing his reaction time to be slowed.

"he asked if you're gonna tell y/n that you've been in love with her for like ever, bozo." chris snickered, earning a swift smack to the stomach, causing chris to double over groaning slightly. okay so maybe, matt's reaction time wasn't delayed.

"shut up chris. i'm not in love with her."

"that's bullshit, and you know it." nick mumbled, earning a glare from matt who just slumped back in his seat, plugging his airpods into his ears, trying to ignore his brothers and their ridiculous teasing for the rest of the flight. the flight couldn't go by fast enough for matt, who was subconsciously biting his nails as he listened to playlist that y/n had made for him. as the boys struggled to but kept busy, the flight was soon over, all three of them rushing to grab their carry/ons and get off the plane.

as the triplets headed toward their house, they grew nervous. all their friends and family knew they were coming home and were awaiting their arrival. matt felt his nerves calm slightly when he heard y/n's laugh from the open window in the kitchen.

as he pushed through the door, he felt his heart crumble to pieces deep in his chest. seeing y/n, thrown over nate's shoulder laughing loudly as he tickled her, bright matching smiles on their faces, made his words and feelings get stuck in his throat as it ran dry.

matt scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes as y/n looked up from her place over nate's, smiling brightly and squealing slightly as nate placed her on her feet. matt ignored the bitter jealously rising up his throat as she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek briefly.

"i missed you." y/n whispered as she pulled back slightly, the look on her face sending a stubborn, unwavering warmth through matt's chest that he tried to fight hard to fight.

"yeah, you too." matt hummed, hardly looking at her as he stared nathan down, a half-assed grin on his face while he dapped his childhood friend up. as y/n hugged nick and chris, she felt eyes staring into the back of her head. turning around, she met matt's angry stare along with nathan's blissfully unaware, cheesy and lopsided grin.

"can we go to denny's? i could so fuck up some of their waffles right now." y/n laughed, looking to matt, her eyes softening as she silently pleaded for the boy in front of her to drive the group to denny's.

"yeah lemme put my shit away and we can go." matt sighed, the hardened front he masked himself with easily cracking and crumbling down completely around his feet under the soft stare that had him weak in the knees every time he looked her way.

as he quickly shuffled his suitcase and duffel bag up the stairs to his room, he felt his mind swarm with conflicting emotions and ideas, unsure if he wanted to punch his best friend for carelessly flirting with y/n as if his feelings weren't painfully obvious or if he just wanted to settle in security, knowing that he had y/n in a way no one else did.

sighing, he returned back to the group of people waiting for him, knowing if he stayed in his room, someone would come  looking for him and he didn't have the nerve to talk about the feelings swirling beneath his ribcage.

the group piled into the van, chris, nick, and matt all in their respective spots, with nate and y/n squished beside each other, giggling amongst themselves as they talked about god knows what.

"so y/n, did you finally ask out that guy you said you were into?" nick prodded, tilting his head inquisitively as he eyed the way her and nate interacted.

"wait, did you think that guy was nate?" y/n laughed loudly, not missing the things nick said with a look.

"i mean, y'all act like a couple." nick chuckled as y/n rolled her eyes.

"yeah you do, it's fucking annoying." matt whispered to no one in particular as his eyes flicked to y/n in the backseat, however chris caught his comment and quietly giggled to himself. the rest of the drive to denny's consisted of the three in the back bickering over shit while chris watched matt stew in his jealousy from beside him, smirking to himself.

as the group piled into the restaurant, they all ordered their preferred forms of breakfast despite it being nearly two in the morning. the group giggled amongst themselves, save for matt who couldn't stop glaring at nate. y/n had picked up on and it made her feel unsettled, she couldn't pinpoint why he'd be upset.

as everyone finished paying for their food, y/n pulled matt aside, her hand on his arm as she looked up at him.

"what's goin' on up there?" she asked, her voice soft and calm, hoping it'd ease matt into talking, and help her get a sense of understanding what he was feeling.

"it's nothing, y/n." he muttered, his voice cold and slightly unsteady as he pushed her hand off his arm.

"matt, c'mon i know you better than you think i do, tell me what's bothering you. you've been acting weird since you first walked in the door. nate's noticed it and so have i."

"why don't you just go bother nate about it then? you seem to be much closer with him anyway." he snapped, rolling his eyes are the shock that fell on her face, before feeling his heart sink as her eyes held something that resembled hurt.

"that's what this is about?"

"y/n, drop it please."

"no matt, i thought it was clear that i don't see anyone else the way i see you."

"well with the way you've been acting with nate it makes me wonder what we actually are. i'm normally not the type to get jealous but jesus christ, i can't help it. you're an amazing girl, any guy would be lucky to have you as their girlfriend or whatever we are and i sometimes wonder why you're into me." matt whispered, unable to keep his feelings at bay any longer with the way she was looking at him, her head tilted, nothing but love and concern in her eyes. she made him feel safe, like he could tell her his deepest emotions and she would listen intently, providing safety for him.

"matt,-" she whispered, stepping closer to him and cupping both sides of his face, her thumbs dragging along his cheekbones as he leaned into her touch, his eyes falling shut briefly.

"there is absolutely no need to worry at all, i'm yours, okay? i-" she paused, taking a deep breath before continuing,

"i love you, matt. i've never looked at another guy the way i've looked at you. not once, and frankly i don't want to. there's no one that can understand a simple look from me the way you do. there's no one who knows me better than you, no one else who's ever taken the time to understand me and be patient with me the way you have. i am yours, and i hope that you're mine. okay?"

"okay." he whispered back, nodding softly as she leaned up, pressing her lips to his in a gentle but passionate kiss that meant they had a mutual agreement, that they were each others, and that one kiss, that one simple kiss that meant they understood each other, was more than enough for matt.

the two broke apart at the sound of giggles, turning to find the rest of the group standing behind them.

"what the fuck was that?" chris exclaimed, genuinely shocked that his brother and his best friend were kissing, and seemingly together.

"a kiss, dumbass."

"yeah but is this the first time or?"

"chris you idiot, do you not ever read between the lines? it's obvious they've been together for a while now." nick replied, his tone incredibly dull, like matt and y/n being together was the most obvious thing.

"i love you too, y/n." matt whispered as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side, and pressing a kiss the side of her head as they walked toward the van.

falling in love with your best friend is never easy, it's complicated and messy and leaves behind a lot of doubt but y/n was worth every bit of complicated, every bit of mess left behind, y/n was worth it all to matt.

and that alone, was enough to put his worries and self doubt at ease. because as long as y/n was there to reassure him that she was his, he knew they'd be okay.

taglist: @dylsdunbar @verosivy @soursturniolo @4sturns @sturnsclutter @spencerstits @meanttomeet @bluesturniolo333 @graciereid @abbie13sworld @ghostofbrock @l9vesick @mylifeisevenstranger @bethsturn @ifilwtmfc @themattgirl @lovingmattysposts @lacysturniolo @freshsturns @forevergirlposts @sturniolo-fav-matt @cupidsword @strawberrysturniolo @lustfulslxt @sturnifyed @teapartyprincess4two @mangosrar @querenciasturniolo @pinklittleflower @cutenote @ellie-luvsfics @strniolo @junnniiieee07 @33sturniolo @hearts4chris @evie-sturns @nicksmainbitch @gnxosblog @sturniolopepsi @wronqness99 @sturniolossss @hesvoid3434 @mattsfavwh3re @inlovewithmattstur

© 55STURN 2024 ! REBLOGS NOT EXPECTED BUT GREATLY APPRECIATED ! [ you do not have permission to copy or save or share my work to other platforms and devices! ]

[wosov]

A drunken teenager

warning emetophobia

It's all over…

England European Champions!

History makers, Record breakers Game changers

You couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. I mean you were 3 months shy of your 16th birthday. Just a kid. Yet you had just won the Euros with the Lionesses. You just stood there on the pitch, mouth wide open in a daze. On any other occasion, your teammates would’ve made fun of you, teasing you about how you never shut up or something funny like that. But this wasn’t any other occasion. This was a once in a lifetime occasion and you were in shock. However, your solo celebrations didn’t last for long when you felt a body jump onto your back causing you to stumble unexpectedly. Hearing the giggling behind you and you didn’t need to turn around to see who the instigators were. You just yelled a “Tooneyyyy” and you were greeted by a hug this time. Of course it was Tooney and Less who were there. They were you unofficial big sisters afterall. There were lots of family dynamics at camp but they were the funnest. You had the older ones (Mary, Leah, Keira…) who kept you in line and you had the younger ones, and Lucy, who were willing to mess about and have a laugh. But all that didn’t matter now. Not when you were currently being crushed by Tooney, Lessi and Georgia. 

An hour later, the initial celebrations had died down a little and you were all gathered in the changing rooms taking pictures and dancing along to music. You were sat with G and Lucy when G offered you a sip of her beer. Just as you were about to bring the can to your lips, you felt a shadow loom over you and a hand snatch the drink away. Leah’s voice then sounded out “And just what do you think you are doing kiddo?” You tried to smile up at her as innocently as possible but she wasn’t having any of it if the straight line frown was anything to go by. So you did the most logical thing you could think of at the time. “But Leeeeee, everyone is drinking.” Granted it probably just solidified your child status more in her eyes but you didn’t really have a backup plan. 

“Absolutely not kiddo, you are 15 years old” and you looked at her preparing to argue back about your age, “And don't give me any of that being basically 16 crap, you are 15 years old”. You looked over at G pleading for her to back you up but she had had the clever thought to escape whilst Leah’s attention was solely on you, so with that you just huffed and folded your arms as you sat back in your cubby. Your annoyance wasn’t helped when Leah ruffled your hair which was then followed up with Lucy yelling across the changing room “OI KIDDOS IN TROUBLEEEEE” with a stupid smirk on her face. Oh how you wished you weren’t under supervision so you could go wipe it off. Lovingly of course. 

In the end it was Keira who came over after hitting Lucy’s arm in response to her yell. It was Keira who managed to convince Leah to let you have one drink at the after party as long as it was relatively tame and you promised to stick to soft drinks after that. You agreed, begrudgingly, sensing the offer wasn’t going to get any better. So after everyone had packed up their stuff, you all hauled out the changing rooms and onto the bus, with Lucy leading the line cradling the trophy like it was a baby. You couldn’t help but laugh as you passed the front seat on the bus to see that Lucy had covered that trophy in a blanket and strapped it into the seat with the seat belt. And Lucy was just acting as its official bodyguard. As you moved down the aisle to your seat you could hear her in the background saying “Cmon, keep it moving now, nothing to see here” and just as you wondered where your seat group was for your table you heard a “Tooney I swear if you get any closer I will forcibly move you”. 

The drive was quite long but not that anybody particularly minded as most were either singing along to music or filming the singers and it carried on off the bus, once you had arrived at the venue. 

Fast forward a few hours and the party was in full swing and practically everyone, bar a few non drinkers on the team, was drunk. Much to your delight, Leah was one of the first ones to go to bed so you took your chance and ordered shots. One bonus of not being in an official club was that there was no need for IDs. Not when you were in your official England tracksuit anyway. In hindsight, you should’ve probably listened to Leah because if you did then you would have realised the sheer amount of media obligations you had tomorrow. But you didn’t, and you were far too drunk to realise now as Mary carried you up to her room. Muttering something along the lines of “Leah is going to kill you kid”. And you, well you were content to drool on her shoulder. 

Soon enough morning came, and as expected Leah was not nearly as hungover as the rest of the team (captain maturity or something) and she was on the hunt for you after she woke up and realised you hadn’t made it back to your shared room - another annoyance about being the kid of the team was that you weren’t allowed your own room, but that was a story for another day as you were currently throwing your guts up in Mary’s bathroom. Mary knew how much trouble you would be in once Leah had seen the state you were in so she was happy to be a helpful fly on the wall and hold your hair back for you. That peace didn’t last long as Leah messaged one of the people she knew to definitely be sober and to her luck and your potential demise, she replied. Chloe messaged back almost instantaneously to Leah, letting her know that Mary had taken you back to her room and that was all Leah needed to make her way to your current location at speed. Once she was there, she let herself in the room (another stupid captain perk in your opinion was that she was allowed a masterkey) and made her way into the bathroom - following the heavy heaving noises that were coming from it. 

Once inside she was greeted by the sight of you currently cuddling the toilet like you were scared it was going to run away and Mary holding your hair back and trying not to laugh. After a few moments it was Leah who broke the silence with the statement “Kid, I thought I told you one drink and why the fuck do you smell like a brewery?”

You were just glad you had the sense to not respond with words and just whimper instead as that seemed to tug on Leah’s heartstrings enough that she swapped places with Mary and pulled you into a hug, which you gladly accepted and snuggled into her. You see, as tough and strict as she makes herself out to be, and believe me she can be a right hardass, she can be very motherly as well. After several minutes of hugs and a few sips of water, courtesy of Mary, a knock at the door alerted you three of the day ahead. Just as Mary went to open the door, your stomach contents felt the need to make another appearance. Mary opened the door, internally cringing at the noises coming from the bathroom, already making a mental note to tip the housekeepers for the job of cleaning that up. It ended up being Hempo who was at the door, being sent by Sarina to see what the hold up was and after some explaining and apologies from Mary about the lateness, Lauren was on her way back to the meeting room for the morning announcements. Leaving Mary to break the news that they were expected downstairs 30 minutes ago. 

After a back and forth debate about leaving you in bed, Leah ultimately won after scaring Mary with the news that you could choke on your own vomit, and you were hoisted down the stairs wearing a trusty pair of sunglasses that G had been giving out. Entering the meeting room was the next task that you weren’t sure you were ready for in your current state, knowing you were about to become the butt of so many jokes and endless teasing but you didn’t have time to contemplate that thought as Leah shoved you inside. Taking a little joy in the harmless teasing coming from your fellow teammates. Afterall, she did try to look out for you by giving you a limit. She knew the press would all be wanting a piece of you. I mean a 15 year old prodigy scoring in the final to win the Euros for England is an eye-catching statement. So after she had settled you on a chair where she could keep an eye on you she went to take her place at the front by Sarina who was trying her best not to look too amused at your current predicament. 

An hour later and the meeting had finished leading everyone to file out of the room in search of something more interesting to do before media engagements. Meanwhile you had not moved an inch since Leah put you in your chair. But only upon closer look by Leah and Sarina that they found out you were in fact asleep, and Leah shook her head and chuckled. It was then Sarina spoke to Leah about your personal scheduled interviews and as she was worried about having to give an excuse believable to the public about where you were. Leah just shook her head, smirking in response to that.

“Oh no no no Sarina, I think that’s just what the kid needs to fully wake herself up”.

Sarina looked confused for a second until she fully grasped what Leah was trying to say and then couldn’t contain her laughter whilst walking out the room to prepare for press meetings. Leaving Leah to wake your sleeping form up, but after trying to shake you awake for several minutes, she resorted to just putting you over her shoulder and carrying you to the canteen to try and get some food down you, a task easier said than done when you were practically collapsed onto her side, passed out with porridge smeared across your face. Meanwhile a few of your teammates were snickering behind you both but that was quickly cut out by a prompt slap of the head via Keira and a sharp look by Leah. Just as she was about to say something, a groan turned her attention to the now waking up lump on her left side and after a couple more minutes you were fully woken up a spoon was thrust into your hand and a pointed look from Leah told you all that you need to know, so you started, slowly, eating away whilst Leah went through the itinerary for the day. You swore you felt your actual stomach drop when you realised the day for you didn’t consist of sleeping the hangover away, but instead giving interviews and being on live television. And once Leah told you the final bit of news you felt like you were about to meet the breakfast you had just forced down yourself. 

“Le please I will die without them” you whined, scarily close to tears which you didn’t quite understand why.

“Sorry kiddo” she said whilst smiling at you. “You have media engagements that you cannot get out of and you can’t do them whilst wearing those sunglasses. It will set a bad image in the public if they get wind of a 15 year old kid being hungover whilst in an official capacity.”

“Plleaaseeee Le please, I’m begging you please. I will do literally anything ok. ANYTHING!”

But Leah just smiled (seemingly without sympathy) and patted your head whilst chuckling under her breath which just earned a scowl from you. 

“Cmon kiddo, eat up so we can get ready for the day” spoke Mary at which you were tempted to reply something less than appropriate so you just settled in huffing into your porridge, dreading the day ahead.

[flemingology]

Hi !! :D Following your most recent post I wanted to request smth for Jessie . Basically reader is not used to celebrating Christmas since she had problems with her family growing up which lead to them never celebrating it in their household . Cue to now where Jessie and her are spending their first ever Christmas as a couple , Jessie invites reader to her parents’s for Christmas and it becomes the first time reader gets to celebrate it ? Just really fluffy mostly (idk if what I wrote made sense English is not my first language 😭)

home for the holidays ─ jessie fleming x reader

part of my christmas series. full masterlist here!

in which: jessie and her family are determined to change your mind about celebrating christmas

warnings: talks of a poor youth, poverty, financial issues, dysfunctional family dynamic but also lots of fluff, i promise

wc: 4.6k

a/n: first part of the christmas series! combined a couple drafts of jessie taking reader to celebrate christmas with her family. hope you enjoy!

Growing up, you missed out on a lot of things due to the precarious financial situation of your family. Your dad had incurred a work-related accident when you were three years old, leaving him bedridden with permanent spinal cord injury. Your mum worked 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, trying her hardest to muster up the money to take care of both you and your father. Nonetheless, your family struggled. You never experienced any of the traditional things that most kids did; no birthday parties, no holidays, no trips to the zoo or an amusement park, and certainly not Christmas. You dreaded the Christmas holidays. It confronted you with the dysfunctional family dynamic, never having the money to buy presents, let alone decorate the house.

The longer you found yourself in the terrible conditions in which you grew up, the more you promised yourself that you would try and break that vicious cycle. From the age of 16, you started looking for a job. You struggled, a lot of employers judging you based off your background, but eventually you managed to get a job at a local supermarket on the corner of your street. When you weren't at school, you were working, and when you weren't working, you were helping your mum with household chores. You didn't have any free time at all, but you kept reassuring yourself it would all be worth it in the end.

By the age of 20, you finally felt like you could look forward a little. You had finished school at 18, and now had been working full-time in the supermarket for 2 years, still helping your mum out with the household and even giving a big part of your income to her to help out with dad's care. Besides that, you opened a savings account for yourself, where you put the remainder of the money you made every month. You felt like you were slowly but surely creeping out the vicious cycle, paving the way for yourself to have a more positive looking future. You didn't have to take things day-to-day anymore. You started doing some charity work for OHOH: Oregon's Harbor of Hope – an institution caring for the homeless people of Portland. When you weren't on the clock in the supermarket, you went out there to help the volunteers. OHOH worked on giving homeless people a safe space, a community, and the essential services they needed to stabilize their lives.

You stumbled across the organization while browsing on the internet on a library computer, and you'd felt the fire in your belly to help them. You wrote down the address on your hand and went to check it out the following day, opening up about your past experiences and about how you thought you could aid OHOH. They took you in, welcomed you with open arms, and you had been one of the main volunteers there for the past three years now. But if anyone had told you that you'd meet the love of your life at one of their fundraisers, you would've never believed them.

OHOH organized fundraisers on every first Friday of the month. They were open for everyone who wanted to come check out the institution and help out – whether that be financially or actual engagement. That's where you met Jessie. Jessie, who also stumbled across the organization while scrolling through her socials. Jessie, who was so eager to help the local community. Jessie, who you bonded with the first time she came around and then she just kept coming. Every first Friday of the month she'd be there, claiming she was just there to help out, but she knew deep down that there was more to it than just helpfulness.

Jessie and you got talking on her first time visiting OHOH. You took it upon yourself to show her around the place, explaining her the ins and outs about the services you offered, Jessie listening to you with care and intent. Before you even realized, you started opening up about yourself to the Canadian. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you and you felt at ease, Jessie not judging you for any of the things you opened up to her about. It was late into the night when you two wrapped up, the only two people still hanging around at the fundraiser. You had an early shift in the supermarket the next day and you already knew you'd curse yourself for staying up late today. Jessie lingered a little while you locked up, and you caught yourself stealing a glance of her every now and then. You said your goodbyes then, parting ways with Jessie's promise that she'd be back next month.

And she was. And then again the next month. Jessie and you had grown closer over her past couple visits. You felt something warm and fuzzy coursing through your body every time you talked to her, a foreign feeling you'd never experienced before and you didn't really know what to do with it. Things with Jessie were easy. It felt like a fresh start, like a blank page ready to be written on. Jessie, on the other hand, cursed herself every time she left the fundraiser without asking for your number. She was in her head about it, thinking she might just be reading in to things, but she couldn't deny her feelings for you anymore. Not when your touch seemed to linger a little bit too long after she pulled you into a hug, not when you memorized the way she drinks her coffee after only making her one once, not when the way you said her name would make her stomach flutter in ways she'd never felt before. So she promised herself that next month, she'd ask for your number. And if you then didn't seem to be on the same page, well then at least she tried.

When next month came around, Jessie found herself trying to make an extra effort to look good on Friday. She usually wasn't really one to be very bothered about her outfits, but she caught herself standing in front of her wardrobe a little too long for what was just a fundraiser she'd been at multiple times. After a quick shower and freshening up a little, she made her way over to Portland's city centre, expertly navigating the roads to a place she'd visited frequently enough to know the way by heart. She noticed you from a little while away, talking to some of the other volunteers by the entrance. You spotted her too, giving her a small wave from across the street, which Jessie readily reciprocated. She scolded herself over how excited she got over the little gesture. She quickly made her way over, greeting everyone before eventually finding herself opposite you. You engulfed her in a hug, the embrace a welcome barrier against the cold Portland wind that nipped at Jessie's skin. "Hey. Thank you for coming," you mumbled against her, slowly pulling back from the hug. "Always."

You went through the motions, as you did every month. Talked to newcomers, caught up with old visitors, gave tours and explanations on what you did at OHOH. Jessie busied herself, talking to people here and there, sharing experiences with the people of Oregon. It was a welcome change for her, being somewhere where nobody really knew who she was. To be taken as herself, as Jess, not so much as Jessie Fleming – the Thorns and Canada midfielder that everyone seemed so eager to get a piece of. That's one of the main reasons she was so fond of you. You didn't know who she was. You hadn't found out yet either, or you were just very good at hiding it. It never came up in conversations, either. The only time Jessie spoke about football was the first time you met each other; when you asked her what her hobbies were. Football. A hobby. If only you knew. Jessie realized that she'd have to tell you at some point, but she liked the calm for now. The comfort.

As the night furthered, you two started gravitating towards each other more and more. From fleeting glances whenever you passed her with a new group to guide around the building, to quick conversations in between catch-ups, to full on spending the last hour of the fundraiser tucked away in a slightly more quiet corner, talking to each other like it was the easiest thing in the world. Neither you could deny the feelings that were starting to build inside you anymore. The fuzzy feeling remained, and now your skin felt tingly whenever Jessie's touch was on you. It excited you, really, but it made you oh so nervous. Scared, even. You'd never felt this way, not in your 24 years of doing life had you ever felt like this about someone. You didn't know what love was. Your mum loved your dad, you could see that, but that got lost in the dysfunctional dynamic of the family. Platonic love isn't something you experienced either throughout your youth, your peers had never been fond of you. You'd gotten used to that, grown accustomed to being alone. Not lonely, though, you didn't mind being alone. But this was different. Jessie made you feel all kinds of things and she made being alone feel like the worst thing in the world. You wanted to be around her, be alongside her, be with her.

You'd noticed a nervous touch in Jessie's behaviors that night. A little more restless than usual, a little more jumpy, much less controlled. Controlled. Jessie was always controlled. Although, that's what she thought. She liked being in control. In control over her thoughts, emotions, her behaviors. But the way she was fiddling with her fingers, the way she kept tapping her feet and how she seemed to stumble over her otherwise so composed words, you knew something was off.

"Are you okay, Jess?" You'd just locked up the building as the fundraiser came to an end, another successful evening wrapped up. You'd been building up the courage to ask her the question all evening, much as she had been trying to build up the courage to ask for your number – unbeknownst to you. You glanced at her over your shoulder when she didn't give you a reply. "Jess?" You raised your voice a little bit, seemingly startling the freckled Canadian. "Hmm?" She cocked her eyebrows, a nervous glint in her eye. You chuckled and made your way over to her, stalling opposite of her. "I asked whether you were okay. You've been a little... off tonight, or something? I don't know. I just wanna make sure, you know." You carefully approached the subject, not knowing if you were just overthinking things or if something was genuinely up.

Jessie cleared her throat. "Uhm, yeah. Yeah, I don't know. Bit off, I guess," she said distractedly. "You sure?" You decided to pry a little, inching closer towards her, your fingers nearly brushing hers. She chuckled, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips before she met her gaze again. "Yeah, it's fine, I promise. I think- I've just been in my head a bit this evening, I'm fine." A frown painted your face as you listened to her words. "Mhm, okay. You wanna tell me what it is? I hope I didn't do anything to upset you." You wracked your brain trying to think of a moment in the past couple hours that could've possibly upset the Canadian, but you blanked.

"No, no, God, no, it's not that. Please, don't worry about that," Jessie chuckled before continuing, "it's not you. It's me, I swear." You cocked an eyebrow at her. "'It's not you, it's me'? Really, Jess?" You couldn't contain the uneasy feeling that started to grow inside you as the conversation progressed. It seemed like Jessie didn't want to talk about what was bothering her, but she gave you just enough of an insight to keep you on your toes – it was almost annoying you. "No, fuck- I'm making it worse." Jessie rubbed her hands down her face and lifted a hand when she saw you were going to speak again, ordering you to wait. "I've been in my head tonight, yeah. But it's nothing to do with you. Well- in fact, maybe it does. But, not like that. You know? I'm just-" "Jessie Fleming, what are you trying to say? Get it over with."

Jessie took in a deep breath, trying to compose herself, before she opened her eyes and a waterfall of words left her mouth. "Wouldyoumaybewanttogivemeyournumber?" You slightly tilted your head and gave her an amused look, cocking an eyebrow when her gaze fluttered down. "Jess, I couldn't make much of that, I'm sorry." You couldn't help the chuckle that crept up your throat, you'd never seen the Canadian this unsure. "Would you maybe want to give me your number?" Your eyebrows raised in surprise as you took a moment to process her words, but Jessie assumed your silence was your way of denying her request. "I mean, you don't have to, really, I was just asking because- uhm, because, you know, things for the fundraisers and stuff. It's okay, honestly-" You cut Jessie off by a placing a hand on her chest and searching for her gaze that was flicking everywhere but to your face. "Hey, take it easy. Take a breath, okay?" Jessie's eyes were filled with concern but she did as you asked, feeling her chest expanding and deflating a couple times underneath your hand. "I'd love to give you my number."

Safe to say that you and Jessie struggled to find your way with one another. You, not used to romantic love, or love in general, you struggled with accepting Jessie's affection. But in the end, you made compromises, communicated with one another about what worked and what didn't, and you had been in a relationship that you could only describe as perfect for the past 8 months. Jessie and you complimented each other. You fit together. She got you up when you were down, and vice versa. You learned very quickly about her career in football, something that took you completely by surprise when she told you. You adjusted, you compromised, and it worked. You were happier than you'd ever been.

Your first big argument with your Jessie didn't come until December, near Christmas time. Jessie insisted that you came with her back to Canada to celebrate the holidays with her and her family, but you insisted on staying home. You didn't want to be a bother, and as much as your girlfriend had tried to convince you that you wouldn't be, the thought remained firmly planted at the forefront of your mind – whatever Jessie did, not helping to get rid of it.

You'd told Jessie about your upbringing. How it hadn't been the best, how you'd missed out on all the traditional things. You never went into much detail, not wanting to relive your past, preferably living in the now, but Jessie knew. That's the reason why she always treaded very carefully when approaching the subject, not wanting to pry or ask too much leading to you closing yourself off. It wasn't until after one particularly rough night with your girlfriend – the both of you spending the best part of 30 minutes fighting about the whole ordeal – that you thought it was best to just get it over with and tell Jessie why you were so reluctant.

You told her about how you spent most Christmases at home. No Christmas tree or Christmas lights because they would cost too much, no Christmas films because renting one was way out of the budget, never any fancy meals as the holidays were just another period of trying to survive off stale bread and canned vegetables. You told her how you'd felt jealous in school, embarrassed even, your peers gushing about the presents they received or the family dinners they went to, while you had nothing to bring to the conversation. Not that they wanted you to be part of it, anyway. You explained to Jessie that you just didn't know how to celebrate Christmas, and that you didn't want to be a burden to your family and to herself. You didn't know how to replace those feelings of resentment with new ones, forever feeling guilty at how much better you had it now than then.

The Canadian assured you that she understood, but she also saw an opportunity that she was ready to take with both hands. She tried convincing you one more time to come with her, how she would make sure to take care of you and be gentle with introducing you to all the Christmas traditions. That you didn't have to worry about her family, who always seemed to think 'the more, the merrier' when it came to these types of days. You'd met them before, twice, when you accompanied Jessie on her occasional weekend going back home, and you knew they liked you. It wasn't that that you were worried about, it was more so that you just didn't know how to act during these types of days. What do you do? Say? What do you wear? Should you get something nice or do they prefer you to just wear something cozy? How do you behave? What presents do they want? Many questions and so very little answers.

Eventually, after some more raised voices and a lot of frustration, you agreed. Agreed on accompanying your girlfriend to Canada, the prospect of being with her and her family much more enticing than having to be on your own in your shared apartment for 3 weeks. When you finally, albeit reluctantly agreed, Jessie couldn't wipe the grin off her face even if she tried. She gently cupped your cheeks and leant her forehead against yours, pressing a soft kiss against your nose. "I promise it'll be good. It'll be so much fun and we'll take everything slow. Your pace, hmm?" She pressed a couple more kisses against your nose, before leaning down and pressing a gentle, fleeting kiss against your lips. You exhaled deeply and closed your eyes, leaning your forehead on her shoulder. "Yeah," you sighed, "yeah. We'll be fine. It'll be fun." Jessie sensed the hesitance in your voice, and promised herself then and there that she'd do everything in her power to make the holidays a fun time for you.

Traveling to Ontario wasn't that bad. No delays, no abundance of traffic, no problems with baggage, your 3-week getaway had gotten off to a perfect start and it did wonders to relieve you from some of the stress you'd been dealing with the past couple weeks leading up to this trip. Jessie and you had hired a car to drive yourself from the airport to her childhood home. You could've taken a cab, but figured it would be easy to have an extra car at home for if you wanted to go somewhere, just the two of you. You'd been in London before, but Jessie was adamant to reintroduce you to all the spots she'd shown you around before, insisting that it would be a completely different vibe now that everything was decorated for Christmas. The drive went smoothly, your plane arriving a little past 8 meaning you just about dodged the flurry of evening traffic. Your eyelids were growing heavy in the car, exhausted from the long plane journey, and with the low hum of the engine and Jessie's fingers tracing soft patterns on your thigh, it didn't take long for you to doze off against the car window.

You didn't wake until a few hours later, when Jessie put a hand on your shoulder and lightly shook you to try and wake you from what had seemed quite a deep sleep. "We're here baby, wake up," she whispered, putting a couple strands of hair behind your ear that had fallen across your face. You grunted, eyes still closed but you stretched, sitting up straight and leaning into Jessie's touch. "Tired," you grumbled. "I know, baby, it's late. We can sleep when we're inside, yeah?" You opened your eyes and looked at your girlfriend, who was sporting a small smile on her face. "You're cute when you snore." She gave you a small wink and pressed a kiss on your nose, unbuckling your seatbelt and leaning across you to open your door. Any protests that were forming in your head about how you were not a snorer died in your throat as you felt the cold wind coming from outside nipping at your skin. You hurried outside, any propositions to help your girlfriend with the bags waved away as she carried all three of them comfortably to the front door. You rang the bell, not allowed any time to complain about the weather as it took no longer than a couple seconds for Jessie's mum to open the door.

Michaele sported a beaming smile and her eyes were brimming with unshed tears as she pulled her daughter in a heartfelt embrace. It'd been a while since they saw each other. Jessie opted to stay in Portland after her domestic season had ended, the environment motivating her more to stick to her training plans than if she'd gone home early. She also still had a couple Canada camps to attend to, so she needed to stay on top of her fitness if she wanted to perform. It'd been close to 4 months since she'd been home, and you could tell that it had been weighing on her. Jessie had always been very family-oriented, so her excitement to come back home for the holidays was second to none. Especially since she managed to convince you to come too.

Ever since Jessie introduced you to her family, they took you in as part of the family. Her parents never questioned anything, loved you as one of their own and you managed to bond quite well with Tristan and Elysse. You truly felt at home with the Fleming's, a feeling you never managed to experience within your own family. It lead to a lot of uncomfortable feelings at first, when you realized that you felt more comfortable with strangers than with your own mother, but Jessie reassured you that it was okay. That it was okay to feel those things, to be upset, but that you'd never have to worry about experiencing such love ever again. She'd make sure of that.

Safe to say that Jessie kept her promise of making sure the holidays went by smoothly for the two of you. Your first week in Ontario went by quickly, the two of you re-exploring the city in which Jessie had grown up so many years ago. You visited coffee spots, strolled around her elementary school, went for dinner at her favorite burger restaurant and spent a lot of time with her family. Game nights, movie nights, going out for walks together, you name it. Jessie's family dynamic was so different to what yours had been, it was a breath of fresh air. It was healthy.

Your getaway went by quick and before you knew it, you were reaching the final week of the year. You woke up on Christmas morning with a weird feeling in your stomach. You knew everything would be fine – Jessie assured you it would, but you couldn't help the nerves that were settling in your stomach the moment you stirred from your sleep. You'd bought everyone a present, it wasn't much, but you hoped it would suffice. You didn't want to come empty handed, especially not when Jessie's family let you stay with them for the best part of a month. The feeling of being an intruder in their house had long faded, a heartfelt conversation with Jessie's mother aiding to you feeling at home within their house.

Your girlfriend must've sensed your restlessness that morning and woke up not long after you, pulling you down in a warm cuddle before agreeing to get up together. You made your way downstairs and were pleasantly surprised to see you were the first ones up. Jessie made you and her a steaming warm mug of coffee, before cuddling up with each other on the couch. You looked out across the garden, snow wrapping the town in an icy blanket of cold.

"You wanna make cookies?" Jessie's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. "Cookies?" You weren't opposed to the idea. It was nice to be alone for a moment, doing something together – just the two of you. "Yeah, cookies. I can't say it's a tradition, we don't do it every year, but sometimes my mum makes these Christmas cookies. Her own recipe. They're really good." Jessie raked her fingers through your long strands of hair from her position behind you on the couch, your back resting tight against her front. You craned your neck towards her. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

You and Jessie got to work in the kitchen, combining your forces to try and make sure the cookies would be as good as when Michaele would make them. You followed the recipe step by step, measuring and mixing the ingredients that would soon come together in small, bite-size, Christmas sugar cookies. It made you feel at ease, to have a little moment with just Jessie, before the prospect of what would surely be a busy day. Just the two of you, cuddling up to each other in the kitchen while making something that reminded Jessie of her childhood. It felt good, it felt right, it felt like home. A minute or 20 later, you put the cookies in the oven. 18 of them, 3 each.

Elysse and Tristan had already made their way downstairs, with Jessie's parents following suit only a couple minutes later. You all made some small talk, Jessie now also providing coffee for the rest of her family members. Before long, you all gathered in the living room where the presents would be given out.

"We've got the stockings first, as always," Michaele announced. She opened a bag that was sitting near the edge of the sofa and started giving them round, everyone receiving a stocking with the letter of their first name. What you didn't expect, though, was you to get one yourself. So when everyone had gotten their stocking and Michaele reached back into the bag to get one for you, it was hard to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. Jessie noticed this, placing a comforting hand on the small of your back as you thanked and hugged her mom. You'd never felt more loved, more part of something than in that moment. You were part of their family, part of their home and everyone wanted to make sure you knew that.

The rest of the day went by so much better than you could've imagined. The Christmas cookies turned out perfect, some more family members came over for lunch, you went out for an afternoon stroll and then you all watched a Christmas movie on the sofa together late at night. You were feeling apprehensive about many things before you both took off to Oregon, but it's safe to say that Jessie kept her promise of trying to turn Christmas into something joyous for you.

Ever since that year, you hadn't missed a holiday season with the Flemings ever again. And you wouldn't want to have it differently anyway. Because after all, they were your family.

[hp-hcs]

i see your theo and mattheo are bottoms post so i ask of you BOTTOM 👏🏻 YANDERE 👏🏻 FICS 👏🏻 i'd go feral if you dropped any plsplspls 😭‼️

• smut • hook up boyfriend — yandere! switch! theodore nott x male! switch! toxic! reader

look at this little bottom bitch he’s mine back off

so, my boyfriend proofreads most of my works on here, and i gave him my rough draft for this ask. he then said, and i quote, "jesus christ, [hp-hcs]. you write smut like a nun." and then he took my phone from me. so basically, this is a long winded way of saying that my boyfriend helped me write all the smexy stuff. tell me if I should let him keep helping me or if he's a god awful smut writer who should not be allowed within a hundred feet of my tumblr, mkay?

INCREDIBLY TOXIC READER JFC WHYD I MAKE YOU SUCH A MANIPULATIVE BASTARD IDK

WARNINGS: SMUT MDNI, amab reader, switch reader, implied unprotected sex w/ multiple sexual partners (you’re not magic irl. wrap it before you tap it.), lot of power dynamic changes—traditional top dom/bottom sub but also some top sub/bottom dom stuff as well, toxic shit in general, lot of manipulation, pretty mild yandere from theo, degradation, praise

i’m of the opinion that theo would be a bottom/dom just so that he could save face for posterity

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“What do you mean I can’t hook up with him?”

“Because you’re already hooking up with me!”

“So? We’re not exclusive, Theodore.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Friends with benefits. That’s it. I’m not beholden to give you my loyalty and undivided attention, dipshit.”

Theo growls and runs a hand through his hair while he paces around his dorm. You lay back on his bed, watching him with a bored expression.

“But he’s my best friend, Y/n!”

“Mhm. He’s also a damn good fuck.”

“I don’t need to know that!”

“Why not? You seem to enjoy fucking your friends, no?” You shrug, stretching out across his bed without a single care. “Maybe you ought to add Matty to your hook up rotation.”

“Matty?”

“Yeah? I’ve got nicknames for all my partners, Teddy-Bear.”

“All?!” Theo splutters. “Well- well, tell me this. Does he even satisfy you? Do you ever think of me when he’s fucking you?”

“He’s the bottom, actually.”

“Wh- huh?”

“He’s the bottom,” you repeat. “Why are you shocked? You’re well aware I’m a switch, Theo. And everyone knows that Mattheo is a Bottom-with-a-capital-B.”

A flame of white-hot jealousy heats up Theo’s skin. He grits his teeth in barely-restrained anger; it’s as if just saying the wrong thing right now would cause him to snap and go hunt down Riddle to put his head on a pike.

“I could be your Bottom-with-a-capital-B. You don’t need Riddle. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Got that?”

You snort. “No offense, Teddy, but I couldn’t see you bottoming in a million years. You’re my top hook up. I’ve got bottom hook ups so that you don’t have to do that.”

He stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, maybe it’s high time you teach me how to bottom then. I don’t want you seeing other people. Especially if it’s just because they give you something I’m too chicken to.”

You blink. “Huh. That’s some weirdly endearing possessive dedication, love.”

“I aim to please,” he says dryly, those unnervingly dead eyes of his seeming like they could see inside your soul when he stares at you.

You consider the offer before a wicked grin slowly spreads across your face. “I bet you do, darling.”

~~~

"Sh-shit! Fuck! Y-Y/n, I-"

“You gonna cum, pretty boy? Hm? Already?” He whimpers and nods frantically, his fingers scrabbling for hold on your shoulders and leaving stinging nail-bitten marks across your back.

Your teasing relents a bit at the sight of his blissed-out expression. Theo’s mouth hangs open in ecstasy, his eyes shut tightly and his back arching up from the mattress.

You groan at the sight of him splayed out under you. You grip his cock, reveling in his whimpers, and quickly start jacking him off in time to your thrusts. “C’mon, baby. You can do it. Be a good boy for me.”

His entire body stiffens as he cums with a moan that would make even a Muggle porn star blush.

You groan and start to slow down, but before you can fully pull out, he locks his knees around your hips to keep you in place.

"D-don't you fucking dare. More.”

“More?” You tease gently, hesitant to continue despite his request. “What a fucking slut you are, Teddy-Bear. Insatiable.”

He growls at your hesitance, far too impatient for that kind of bullshit.

He grips your shoulders, his knees tightening around your hips again as he uses all of that hot boy quidditch strength to roll you both over.

You let out a tiny yelp of surprise as he flips you onto your back. He whimpers loudly and moans at the shift in position, having to tuck his face into your neck for a moment while he collects himself.

Your hand moves up to comb your fingers through his hair, but he knocks it away before you can.

He sits up, supporting his weight with his hands flat on your chest, and takes a shaky breath at the shift of positions. “Want you t’ cum too.”

Your hands find his hips and grip them firmly, your breath becoming uneven as he starts to grind back and forth.

You help him raise himself up then lower his body again, listening to his sweet moans. As he finds a steady rhythm, you watch as his thighs begin to tremble.

“Merlin- I’ll never complain about you getting tired while riding me ever again. This is a fucking workout.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re not on the quidditch team for nothing.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say.

His face darkens.

Maybe he just doesn’t like me bringing up his teammates while we’re literally fucking, you consider. Maybe he-

“How good of a fuck is Riddle anyways, huh? Could he ever ride you like this?”

Ah.

Fuck.

Mattheo’s on the quidditch team as well.

Theo starts moving with passion, roughly slamming down on you. “I asked you a question.”

“G-god- Theo!” You gasp, caught off guard by the sudden influx of sensations.

“Answer me.”

You whine and scratch your short fingernails over his abs, marveling at the pink and red lines that bloom at the surface a half-second later. “C-could never be as good as you, love. Shit- you’re perfect.”

He shivers at the sensation and grins slyly. “Perfect, huh?”

“Perfect,” you repeat, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in for a slow kiss.

He sighs against your lips, returning the kiss. The sweet moment is cut off by you suddenly jerking your hips up into him and cursing loudly.

“Fuck- you feel so fucking good, babe-”

He gasps and his fingers claw frantically at your shoulders for any kind of support. “Merlin- I’m gonna-”

You watch as Theo’s second orgasm hits him and he goes practically boneless, slumping over on top of you.

He’s spasming around you like mad, and you can’t help but moan loudly when you cum just seconds later.

You both lay there in silence for a moment, trying to catch your breaths. Theo slowly eases himself off of your dick and rolls over to lay beside you.

“What‘s the final verdict?” You grin cheekily after a moment. “You a pillow prince now or nah?”

“Mmm…nah. I think I can settle for the label of switch though.”

“Aha! Welcome to the dark side!”

“Yeah, yeah. Shush. Now, roll over, I’m on top this time.”

~~~

“I heard you’re going steady with someone now.”

“Mm…mhm,” Theo hums an affirmative around the cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupped around the flame of his lighter as he lit it.

“Who’s the lucky fella?”

“Your ex-fuckbuddy.”

“Which one?”

“Y/n.”

Mattheo’s brow furrows. “Y/n? Y/n and I have never slept together.”

Theo suddenly launches into a coughing fit as he chokes on his lungful of smoke. “What?”

“Now, don’t get me wrong. I’d hit that in a heartbeat if he offered. But, I’m also like ninety percent sure that you’d kill me if I did that, and I rather enjoy being not-murdered, believe it or not. He is incredibly hot though.”

Theo just stared, his mouth hanging open.

You never slept with Mattheo?

What?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

• standalone!! •

i will not be writing a part two!!

[lovemesomeagnst]

What’s team red like in your au? I’m really curious about their dynamic :3

I actually have doodles and stuff planned for this tehe 🤭

So basically,

Dan is their engineer since he can help build stuff like how Ivy is the team’s mechanic

Carla is a getaway driver!!

Alex, which is Shermie’s son in this au, is their residential hacker. (Shermie does not know this.)

They’re still called Team Red because well the El Diablo is red and Stan wears red HAHA also their home base in Gravity Falls is like a secluded area. Basically like the Mystery Shack but with a few changes?

(I would have added soos, Wendy or Mabel and dipper but the timelines don’t match up unfortunately!!)

Alex bugged his way into Stan’s alliance when Stan was seeking quick refuge with Shermie’s family. It was super funny because Stan was busy plotting out his plans to thwart VILE and also not get caught by them in the middle of the night when Alex just questioned him about it.

Basically Alex: Heya uncle that looks hard, need any help?

And the next thing Stan knew he had a nephew on his side with impressive hacking skills to help him with his tasks. In return he teaches Alex some of his minor skills (how to steal and not get caught HELPP)

With Shermie and the rest of the fam not knowing I like to imagine family dinner with Shermie inviting Ford and it’s just Ford ranting about catching the super thief while Alex is off to the side like 👀.

Carla McCorkle and Stan ran into each other shortly after Stan left Shermie’s place and they had a talk and reconciled. After that they discussed further and Carla stubbornly inputted herself into Stan’s plans cause she was curious what he was planning to do. Also since she was concerned over what she’s observed from him when they were having a chat. As someone who had known Stan from his teen years, she’s someone who can understand him well and they became super close friends afterwards! She also smacks sense into him when needed!

‘Boyish’ Dan had been busy looking for a job and he came across Stan and Carla while they were stopping by Gravity Falls. He’s still young in this, maybe a teen? So Stan wasn’t so sure about having him on their team but since Alex was already in it he figured it wouldn’t be that bad. Dan impressed them all with his strength and skills to build stuff and after a whole discussion and a week of staying at Gravity Falls, the team decided to set up base there. Dan helped build their small shack (before it expands over time) and Stan was fine in letting him in the group. As normal Corduroy traits, Dan becomes a loyal and awesome asset to the team.

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four