#scheduling parameters

[torchickentacos]

fuck chegg, fuck solutioninn, fuck brainly, fuck studocu, fuck coursehero, fuck transtutors, fuck every single site that says they can help me through figuring out what the assignment wants me to put in excel's constraints section in the solvers parameters dialogue box only to make me make an account to see whatever dumbass ai answer they've got in store

[telomirage]

I was headed to the floor to try to reconfigure data entry for a test and ran into my boss, who slowed to a stop like she was approaching an easily spooked horse to ask, "are you still here?" physically yes, emotionally no.

[ozzgin]

Hear me out: Malfunctioning Android, sent back to the factory by the previous owner who was utterly creeped out by his obsessive, invasive behavior, has now found a new home with a neurodivergent, lonely human; you.

You wake up, confused. The alarm didn't ring as usual, and the light outside is already bright. You rush to the kitchen, where you find the synthetic assistant preparing your breakfast.

"Why didn't you wake me up? I have so many things to do today," you reproach, taken aback by his unbothered smile.

"I took the liberty to empty your schedule, (Y/N). You seemed rather overwhelmed the previous evening; all the parameters I compiled were off.

Thus, I impersonated you - worry not, I used an algorithm based on your previous response pattern - and answered all calls, emails, and messages. Your social and administrative tasks have been cleared."

He observes your features carefully. Is he going to be shipped back again, having the same issues cited? Unfortunately, it's not something he can adjust or control: he simply cares for you to perhaps an unconventional degree.

You wipe a tear that threatens to spill from the corner of your eye.

"I-...Nobody has ever done something like this for me before."

With a sigh of relief, you take your seat and pick up your freshly prepared beverage. At last, someone to deal with it all.

"I was thinking you might enjoy your favorite movie later," the android says, joining you at the table, "and I would be more than glad to provide you with additional warmth."

[alienzil]

Nanny Danny

“That is a whole ass baby,” was the only thought running through Lex Luthor’s head when the scientist proudly showed him the tube containing Project KR. It was not remotely the sort of thing he would normally think and most definitely not what he had expected to be thinking the first time he saw the clone.

He’d been pleased when he’d read the reports indicating the success of KR after years of failures. Lex had poured millions of dollars and literally his own blood into ensuring a clone of the alien could be made, one that would be under his total control instead of the unknown aspirations of Superman.  He’d wanted to see the fruits of his labors personally but this…

It. No, not an it. He scrunched his tiny face and smacked his lips and…did he smirk? Was that HIS SMIRK on that baby’s face?! No. No. Babies this small didn’t smile or smirk. They passed gas and their sleep deprived and addled parents mistook it for an intelligent response. He’d heard enough inane conversations in the Lexcorp office about the various progeny of his employees to pick up on that but still. This child had Kryptonian DNA, not to mention his own contribution. Surely, he was far more advanced than the dribbling potato shaped lump of an infant whose pictures he’d been forced to smile and nod over when Mark from accounting had rudely shoved them in his face at the last quarterly budget meeting. Yes, that was definitely a smirk. His, that was his smirk.

“So as you can see its growth is well within expected parameters and we’re planning to start phase one of accelerating the maturation process tomorrow once the testing is do-”

“Take him out.”

“Sir? The testing can all be accomplished while it remains in the tube. There’s no need to-”

“I said, take him out. The project is cancelled.”

“What?! Mr. Luthor you can’t!”

“I think you’ll find I can. Now get me my son.”

*****

Two years later

“Call them again”

“Sir, I’ve called them seven times. They won’t answer.”

“Then call another agency!”

“There isn’t another agency, Sir”

Lex glared at his assistant who stared back at him impassively. Mercy stood by the door staring off into the distance and pretending she didn’t notice him being bested by his own secretary.

He stopped himself from shouting again and took a deep breath before asking, “Then what, exactly, do you propose I do Mrs. Anderson? Adjust my entire schedule around naptimes? Find a toddler size lab coat and safety goggles and bring my son with me to tour the new clean energy project on Thursday? Perhaps buy a tiny business suit while I’m at it for the next board meeting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, Mr. Luthor. I’m telling you that no childcare agency in Metropolis will return my calls anymore. Most won’t even answer.  You’ve gone through 27 nannies in the last 3 months. You need someone better suited to your son’s…special needs.”

Lex snorted. “Special needs might be a bit of understatement. He can lift a car over his head and his favorite word right now is No.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Thank you for…clarifying the situation, Marjorie. If there’s nothing else, you can leave.”

His secretary didn’t move. She looked at him like she was waiting for something and now that he was paying attention, he saw she was holding a file.  “Did you have a suggestion?”

Looking pleased with herself she responded, “Actually, yes, I did.”

“Well?”

She set the file on his desk and flipped it open. He looked down at the first page and raised an eyebrow, “What am I looking at here?”

“This,” she responded pulling out the top set of papers and spreading them out, “is the employee file and background check for Daniel J. Fenton, an intern that started in our engineering department about 4 months ago. He has one sibling, two parents and several close friends he regularly meets with. His current supervisor has nothing but good things to say about him and reports he gets along well with all his coworkers.”

She set out the next set of papers, neatly arranging them on the desk to be easily seen. “These are newspaper articles and screenshots of social media posts regarding a small town vigilante locally known as Phantom. The same small town, Mr. Fenton is from coincidentally. Also coincidentally, Phantom made his first appearance only a few weeks after Mr. Fenton was involved in a minor accident in his parent’s home laboratory when he was 14, the medical records for the incident are included.”

“Hmm,” Lex said observing several photos of Phantom and a younger Fenton arranged in order of similar poses and facial expressions and printed out side by side.

“Finally,” she said handing him the last set of papers directly, “this would be a report from the lab Mr. Fenton works in from an incident that happened yesterday. A test with a new protype went wrong and started a fire. Everyone evacuated per protocol when the alarms went off but one of the other interns was working on a programming issue off to the side of the lab while wearing headphones and didn’t hear the alarm or notice the fire. Mr. Fenton noticed his absence and returned to the lab to get him out.” She stopped talking and let him look at the last several pages in the file, a series of photographs of the lab.

“Is this ice?”

“Yes, it is. It’s several inches thick and covers half of the lab. It completely put out the fire leaving minimal damage.”

“This machine was moved?”

“It was. It was very close to the flames and would have required replacement if exposed to extreme heat or cold. That particular piece of equipment also weighs several thousand pounds and was bolted to the floor.”

Lex read through everything in detail then clasped his hands under his chin and stared at the photo of Daniel Fenton for several moments before turning back to his waiting secretary.

“Have HR send Mr. Fenton up. I’d like to offer him a promotion.”

[satorurize]

Show me who you are..(p✩rnstar!)

Pornstar au; Sylus and Rafayel + a special bonus at the end <3

Warning: 18+, smut, MDNI, this is self indulgent and pure hornball energy, reader is fem

♡ Sylus

Definitely a solo performer, is infamous for his pov videos. Doesn't show his face since he's also the leader of the Onychinus and revealing his beautiful face would put him in a vulnerable situation.

He's got all the gears, the whips, harnesses, ropes. Soft BDSM was his forte. Initially he only did talk throughs for his massive and largely female audience, his subscriber count soaring through the roof just after his first video. His deep, raspy voice, ripped body and big cock did it for him.

But then, you came along, a captivated fan who sometimes took out time from your busy schedule as a hunter to indulge yourself in his videos, having no idea that it was actually the man you had encountered in the N109 zone. You had a hint, so you weren't too surprised when Sylus obliged to his dear fan to do a video together. He wasn't going to collaborate with anyone else besides you anyway.

He made sure you were blind folded with a lacy fabric which was enough for people to be able to recognise you.

He had you on your knees, hands tied onto your back with a clean knot, your beautiful bare body on display for him and his audience to enjoy.

Sylus dragged the tip of the cane tantalizingly, maybe perhaps with a playful sense of revenge from that one time you had him on his knees.

Your nipples were caressed beneath the leather of the cane, body shuddering at the cool sensation while heat pooled between your legs, you were embarrassingly wet with your inner thighs coated with your nectar.

Seeing a small trickle of your wetness down your thigh, Sylus immediately had an amused expression on his face. A smirk lacing his lips while he rubbed the leather now onto your soaked folds.

"Mh..please..more.." you pleaded in desperation, which was immediately followed by a soft spank with the cane onto your pussy, enough to make you jolt at the impact.

"Please what kitten..? Use your words." You let out a shaky breath at his sterness, it turning you on beyond measure.

"Please..sir.." Sylus was pleased with this switched dynamic, letting out a hum of approval as his fingers replaced the cane. The cacophony of your moans and the squelching from your wetness as he plunged his fingers within your cunt echoed the room.

Your body was worn as the man pulled orgasm and orgasm out of you. The floor a puddle of your juices as he made you squirt, over and over again. His greed really couldn't be satiated.

Some people were clearly envious of this very special guest but majority seemed to enjoy the new addition, the number of subscribers soared for him exponentially.

♡ Rafayel

Famous for his pretty face and passionate fucking. The way he did things in the bedroom were pure fun. Rafayel was providing his subscribers what most people weren't, and that was unadulterated romance between you and him.

The artist that he was, Rafayel shooting porn with you was always cinematic. The lighting, the angles where always set up in a manner that it would make the viewers even appreciate the aesthetics of it.

His sense of humor was incorporated in how he fucked, making his you laugh while he rearranged your guts and while managing to maintain his seductiveness. Took skill for most people, but Rafayel was a natural with his innate ability to be so..magnetic.

Anyone who craved watching "passionate sex", your and Rafayel's channel fit every single parameter of that genre.

Recently, the two of you were recorded a video in his bathtub, titled 'fucking my sweet girlfriend after a long day at work.'

Your back rested against his chest, his warmth merging with yours as he fondled with your breasts, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. You giggled as you felt the tip of leaky cock brush against your folds and you decided to toy with him a little, pressing your thumb on his slit, with a glint of mischief in your eyes. A very evident throb passing between your legs when you heard him whimper for you.

That didn't really make you stop, now having your hand pump his length while you had your head turned to have your eyes gazing into his half-lidded ones, hazy with your touch.

It didn't take time for him to switch on you, making you face him with your thighs straddled onto him, with you positioned on top but the one to pull the strings was him, his hand settled onto your waist as you rode him slowly, but sensually. Each vein of his cock discerned against your cloying walls as you made love for the camera, that you forgot even existed.

He always made sure to give you a nice creampie by the end of it, or paint his cum onto your tits as the vision seemed to entice him. His videos were always inclusive of aftercare with him peppering kisses all over your body that appeared like worship. His and your fans always ate it up.

♡ Bonus! Sylus & Rafayel

You don't know what came over you, but you did not expect your beloved lemurian boyfriend to agree sharing you with Sylus for a video. There was some animosity in the beginning between the two, the bantering and both of them unleashing their sass upon each other.

However, all of it was soon wiped away when you were stuffed with Sylus' cock in your walls while your mouth skillfully worked on Rafayel's, hands placed onto his thighs for support. Things were a bit slow and steady at the beginning, neither of them really releasing their inhibitions until you begged them to be rougher.

Rafayel knew you could handle it, observing how well you took the other mans cock. He did feel a sense of pride in the end that you belonged to him.

"She can handle it, look at her..practically soaking your cock." He assured pulling out from your the hot cavern of your mouth. Rafayel leaned down nudging his nose on yours. "You can handle it, can't you cutie..?" You frantically nodded, all sense of shame already left body the moment the duo had you positioned between them on your knees. "Yes I want it..I want it so bad.." Sylus leaned in to plant kisses all over your back, tracing his fingers onto the cleft of your spine before he set a rougher pace as you asked. "Is this to your liking sweetie..?" Your replies only being a string of yeses and honeyed moans before your boyfriend gently guided on his cock again.

The two of them ruined you with pleasure together, leaving you to be a well fucked mess by the end of it.

Let's just say, this video remained too exclusive to be uploaded anywhere.

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 21K

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

She paused, turning back with a questioning look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question caught him off-guard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't think—" he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he had his answer. She remembered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

[kiyo-cant-write]

ciel & sebastian w/ servant!reader around ciel's age ✧･ﾟ

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Hello! My writing blog was always meant to be multifandom, but recently I have had many twst requests. To keep up with my personal interests, here is a Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler post about my childhood bias/crush (when I was 11-12): Ciel Phantomhive.

While this post is tagged Sebastian x Reader, their relationship is platonic in this particular work because of the reader's design.

Please note that while requests are open, they will not be posted until after the 27th of December or more accurately into the new year (January 2025). Feel free to request anything within the parameters of my rules, but keep this scheduling fact in mind! Thank you!

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Summary: [Name] is a recent addition to the Phantomhive Staff, gathered by Sebastian and Ciel. They are around Ciel's age and this leads to some... shenanigans.

TW/CW: canon-typical darkness, manga compliant

Notes: pre-relationship (Ciel), explicitly platonic (Sebastian), the reader is human, the reader is 12-13 years old, they/them pronouns for the reader, take place explicitly pre-Campania

Guest Stars: Phantomhive Staff, Elizabeth Midford (mentioned)

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Ciel Phantomhive

Ciel is initially indifferent to [Name] similar to his feelings toward his other servants about half of the time (even Sebastian).

He doesn't see himself as a child so does it matter?

He honestly tries to avoid [Name] at first because he wants to be seen as an equal to the adults. Baldo commenting to "play" with his "friend" really doesn't help the early stages of the relationship.

Being persistent but not forceful will work well.

[Name] needs to prove their worth and use in the household.

[Name] will quickly prove themselves with "clean-up."

They will kill in the name of Earl Phantomhive.

Ciel notices their willingness to serve.

He admires their dedication to protecting him/the estate.

He is impressed if they do not hesitate to strike.

The more he realizes their use and loyalty, the more likely he is to speak to them or even allow [Name] to speak freely with him.

He doesn't like when Sebastian teases him for it, though.

Sebastian might be the biggest obstacle.

If Ciel feels that [Name] is being overbearing, they get sent to spend time with Finny (16) who is also relatively close in age to them. Though Finny is similar to a child brother at times.

Once they are closer, Ciel may become a bit irritable if [Name] gives Finny too much attention or coddling.

"He needs to act his own age."

Ciel cannot do anything about any possible feelings.

[Name] hesitates to do anything either.

They both understand the betrothal between Elizabeth and Ciel.

Finny had given them a suggestion that they weren't sure what to do with. Was it a good idea? No. Was it a curious one? Yes, indeed. They wanted to know what the master's response would be, but they feared it would only be anger for their disrespect. Still... tempting.

[Name] considered their options as they helped Finny in the garden.

"Do you really think that would be a good idea?" they asked him.

Finny nodded as he attempted to gently weed the garden. The last time Finny did this he ripped out some important plants and Sebastian had been ready to skin him. Since that happened, and after the events of last night's clean-up, maintenance was needed and Sebastian chose [Name] as "Finny Watch."

[Name] accepted it as it was.

"I think it would do the young master some good to have a friend his age who calls him by name! He doesn't have any friends..."

Finny seemed sad about it. [Name] wondered why Finny did not try to be a "friend" to their master, but Finny seemed to sense their curiosity. He shook his head.

"It can't be me, I'm older than the young master for one," he explained, "And the young master doesn't think of me like that."

"And he thinks of me as a friend?" [Name] chose to ask.

Finny nodded.

"I can tell he thinks differently of you!"

The gardener beamed at them and they didn't want to crush whatever whimsy and joy this was giving him. They sighed and gave in, knowing they wouldn't hear the end of it otherwise, especially after Finny told Baldo and Mey-Rin about it.

"I'll try and see," they agreed.

[SEVERAL HOURS LATER]

At the end of the day, Sebastian asked [Name] to report to the young master directly about their supervision of Finny and the state of the estate's gardens. [Name] walked into the room and bowed to their lord, nodding to Sebastian a moment after.

"Good evening," they spoke, not making eye contact with either.

"Good evening, [Name]," Ciel greeted, taking a sip of his tea as he watched them, "I trust you kept Finny under control?"

[Name] nodded.

"Yes, he took care of replanting and weeding. There were no, ah, plant deaths," they explained in as succinct a way as they could, "We talked as we worked and completed everything Sebastian told us to."

They had to ignore the soft stifled laugh that came from Sebastian when they fumbled for a phrase and chose "plant deaths."

"I see, very good then."

He seemed pleased. The master was in a good mood? Hm. This might be their chance so they took it without hesitation.

"Master, if I may speak freely for a moment?" they asked him

Ciel raised an eyebrow but he nodded slowly after a moment of contemplation.

"You may but whatever about?"

[Name] felt bad for confusing him but it was somewhat refreshing to hear the master speak without that underlying darkness in his tone.

"Finny suggested something to me. I would like to try something," [Name] explained, hoping this wouldn't ruin whatever relationship they did have with the master.

"Something. Very specific," was Ciel's comment, "Go ahead."

Ciel seemed certain [Name] wouldn't hurt him and even if they tried, Sebastian would handle them swiftly like he always did.

"Ah, thank you for your permission... Ciel."

There was a silence that fell over the room as neither child spoke. Ciel was frozen in place, Sebastian seemed to be holding back another laugh, and [Name] was unsure if Finny's theory was true.

A faint hue of pink dusted Ciel's cheeks as he averted his gaze.

"Was," he began, "Was that all you wanted?"

"Yes," [Name] admitted, "I'm sorry, sir."

Ciel was silent once again and [Name] worried they really had crossed a line, but then he spoke again, softer this time.

"It isn't as though I care what you call me when there aren't guests around," he said, waving the hand that wore his family's crest, "Do as you like with the estate's image in mind... I suppose."

[Name] couldn't disguise the smile that took over their features.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Sebastian Michaelis

To be quite frank, Sebastian thinks children are brats.

He didn't want another child around but it cannot be helped because [Name] is useful for the estate's security.

Despite not liking them at first, Sebastian is always "nice."

He is never without a polite smile, it's a bit unnerving.

As [Name]'s work proves proficient, he eases up.

They make fewer mistakes than the others.

Because of this, they are not so annoying to him.

"Child, you would do best not to hinder my work. But if you would like to lend me your help, you may."

He refers to [Name] more often as "child" or "littlest one."

He means they are the youngest of the servants.

He often lets [Name] off easy with punishment, similar to how he never scolds Tanaka the way he does with Baldo, Mey-Rin, Snake, and Finny.

Sebastian likes to make fun of [Name] and Ciel's similar ages.

He allows [Name] to sit in for Ciel's lessons at times.

In the end, Sebastian might be fond of the human.

Still, he won't say that kind of thing. What use would kind words be from someone like him? He doesn't much care for anyone.

He is bound to his master until the end of their contract.

That is all. Right?

"What in the world are you doing?" Sebastian asked as he came up to them, essentially appearing from thin air.

The young servant jumped at the sudden voice in the silence of the cellar and whipped around to face him, dropping their cleaning rag on the floor in the motion. Noting it was Sebastian, they let out a relieved sigh and bent down to pick up the rag.

"Sebastian! You startled me!" they told him, brows furrowed, "Why do you like to sneak up on me like that?"

Sebastian chuckled softly, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"I don't mean to. Perhaps you are just easily scared, child?"

"I don't think so," they said softly before they moved to continue their task, "And, I'm not done with this task yet. Did you have something else for me to do?"

They couldn't believe they had more work to do now. That was always why Sebastian came to see them, to give them a task someone else had botched or enlist their help with something else entirely.

"I did," the butler told them, "I seem to require your help with a lesson for the young master."

[Name] paused.

"A lesson?" they asked him, giving a skeptical look though they tried their best to mask it, "Would I be expected to come with you now?"

They were unsure if he was telling the truth. Sebastian enjoyed messing with them, just a little. But it was enough to make [Name] wonder every time the butler told them much of anything. They wanted to go to the lesson, though. Learning was... fun.

Sebastian noticed the look, being a demon and all, but said nothing about it. Instead, he simply nodded and smiled at them as he always did to the guests the manor received.

"Indeed. I would need you to accompany me to the study."

They weighed their options. Sebastian was probably not lying.

"Alright," they agreed a moment later, "Do I need to finish this task first? You did give me a list of things to make certain of here."

Sebastian shook his head.

"No, that won't be necessary. I will take care of it."

They almost bowed to him but caught themself. It was hard to treat Sebastian as a butler when he held himself with as much pride as any man would. Still, the one time they had spoken too highly of him, the young master had gotten upset with them (and Sebastian too).

It had been an... ordeal.

"I see. Thank you, then," they told him curtly though they couldn't help but smile.

A lesson! How fun! They wanted to cheer but didn't.

Even if they were only cleaning the room to spectate, it was a chance to learn things. They would learn something and earl was learning! It seemed like a fairly good deal in [Name]'s opinion.

Too focused on rushing to put away their supplies and head toward Ciel's study, they did not see a softer expression adorn the butler's face as he watched them move past him.

Perhaps they would never know his true affection for his littlest one.

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Imagine the rest yourself~

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Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a kuro-only blog! ^^

[pinkmoontaco]

Fake It till We Make It || Hwang Hyunjin

Pairing: Idol Hyunjin X Actress Y/n Genre: Fluff, Fake relationship Summary: You and Hyunjin are paired for a fake relationship to boost your public image, but what happens when fake sparks turn real?

If you have any request for other members or other groups, feel free to do so

M.list

The sound of your manager’s voice grated against your nerves, filling the small office space with an energy you couldn’t match today.

“You need this,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Your last movie tanked. The press is calling you ‘forgettable.’ Forgettable! We need to change the narrative.”

You leaned back in the leather chair, rubbing your temples. “And you think dating some idol is the solution? This is my career, not a reality show.”

Your manager’s eyes narrowed. “Not just ‘some idol.’ Hyunjin. From Stray Kids. One of the most talked-about stars right now.”

You frowned. You knew who Hyunjin was—everyone did. The golden boy of the K-pop world, known for his striking looks and graceful dancing. But lately, his name had been splashed across tabloids for all the wrong reasons: rumors of diva behavior, an old controversy that resurfaced out of nowhere, and a supposed feud with another idol.

“Why him?” you asked cautiously.

“Because he’s in hot water, too,” she replied, leaning forward. “His team is desperate to clean up his image, and a sweet, wholesome love story will do the trick for both of you. You’ll be trending for weeks. Cute couple photos, red carpet appearances, a few strategically timed interviews. It’s perfect.”

“Perfectly insane,” you muttered, but your manager ignored you.

“His team is already on board. They think you’re a great match. All you have to do is meet him, sign the NDA, and play the part.”

Before you could argue further, the door opened, and your breath caught in your throat. Hyunjin stepped in, radiating a kind of effortless charm that made your argument falter.

He was tall, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck and an oversized blazer, his hair tied back loosely. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, he looked as uncertain as you felt.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft but confident. “So... I hear we’re supposed to fall in love.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. “You’re... okay with this?”

Hyunjin shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Not really. But apparently, this is what we need to survive.”

There was a beat of silence before you sighed, leaning forward. “Alright. Let’s get one thing straight. This is a business arrangement. No feelings, no drama. Just stick to the script, and we’ll both get through this.”

His smirk widened, and he tilted his head. “You make it sound so romantic.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. This was going to be a long, long ride.

Hyunjin didn’t seem to take anything seriously. At least, that’s how it felt during your first meeting. As the two of you sat across from each other in a dimly lit conference room, discussing the parameters of your “relationship,” his carefree attitude grated on your nerves.

“Let’s start with the basics,” his PR manager said, flipping through a folder. “How did you two meet?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Hyunjin cut in with a grin. “She saw me at a fan meet, fell in love at first sight, and begged me for my number.”

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “Or” you countered, “we met at an industry party and hit it off after a deep conversation about art and music.”

Hyunjin’s brow arched. “Deep conversation? That’s a little ambitious, don’t you think?”

You resisted the urge to glare. “Well, it’s more believable than me throwing myself at you.”

The PR manager cleared her throat, clearly amused but trying to maintain professionalism. “Let’s meet in the middle. How about you met at a mutual friend’s event? You admired each other’s work, and the connection grew naturally.”

“Fine,” you muttered, avoiding Hyunjin’s amused gaze.

The rest of the meeting was a blur of schedules, photo shoot concepts, and social media strategies. By the time you left, your head was spinning.

“You looked like you were having the time of your life,” Hyunjin teased as he walked you to the door.

You shot him a side-eye. “You’re awfully relaxed about this.”

He shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “You get used to it. Pretending is half of what we do anyway.”

The first time you were “spotted” together was at a café, staged to look like a casual date. Cameras clicked from strategic angles as you sipped your latte and pretended to hang on Hyunjin’s every word.

“So,” he said, leaning forward with an easy grin, “do I look like the perfect boyfriend yet?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you ever stop joking?”

“Only when I’m asleep.”

Despite your irritation, you couldn’t deny he was good at this. He knew how to angle himself for the cameras, how to flash just the right smile to make every photo look candid.

“You’re surprisingly professional,” you admitted, reluctantly impressed.

“Why, thank you,” he said, feigning a bow. “And you? Not bad for someone who claims to hate this idea.”

You didn’t reply, but his words stayed with you.

The first time you saw the cracks in Hyunjin’s carefree façade was during a late-night rehearsal. You had stopped by the JYP practice room to discuss the next day’s schedule, but the sound of music drew you in.

Hyunjin was alone, his movements fluid yet sharp, his expression focused. He didn’t notice you watching until the song ended and he turned, startled.

“Oh. Hey,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“You’re still here?” you asked, stepping closer.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Dancing helps.”

There was something vulnerable about him in that moment, something raw and unpolished. You hesitated before speaking. “You’re... really good.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks. It’s the one thing I know I can do right.

The comment surprised you. For someone who seemed so confident, it was the first time he’d let his insecurities slip through.

“Maybe you’re better at other things than you think,” you said softly, unsure why you felt compelled to comfort him.

He looked at you, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Maybe.”

Weeks passed, and the lines between performance and reality began to blur. You spent more time together than apart, attending events, sharing meals, and even rehearsing your “love story” for interviews.

Hyunjin’s teasing became less sharp, and your walls began to lower. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, seeking his opinion on things you never thought to share.

One evening, during a quiet moment on a hotel balcony, he turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Do you ever think about what happens when this ends?”

The question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... this. Us. Pretending to be something we’re not.”

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I try not to think about it. It’s easier that way.”

He nodded, his gaze distant. “Yeah. Me too.”

For the first time, the thought of “the end” left an ache in your chest.

The two of you sat in an unfamiliar green room, waiting for your turn on a late-night talk show. Hyunjin was scrolling on his phone, while you nervously fidgeted with the hem of your dress. The show was known for playful interviews that often led to viral moments.

“You’ll be fine,” Hyunjin said, his tone unusually gentle.

You looked up at him, surprised by his sincerity. “What?”

“You’ve been messing with that dress for the past ten minutes,” he said, nodding toward your hands. “Relax. You’re a natural at this stuff.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Hardly. This whole fake dating thing has me second-guessing everything.”

Hyunjin set his phone down, his expression softening. “Look, just follow my lead. They love us together.”

His confidence was reassuring, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to trust him.

When it was your turn onstage, Hyunjin kept his promise. He answered questions with practiced ease, throwing in playful remarks that made the audience laugh. When the host asked about your “relationship,” Hyunjin reached over to take your hand.

“It’s been amazing,” he said, smiling at you like you were the only person in the room.

For a moment, the world seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you. The warmth of his hand, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—it felt real.

And that terrified you.

After the show, you found yourselves walking back to the hotel, the cool night air refreshing after hours under studio lights. Hyunjin, still buzzing with energy, suggested a detour.

“There’s this rooftop I go to sometimes,” he said. “The view’s incredible.”

You hesitated but eventually agreed. A short elevator ride later, you were standing atop a quiet rooftop overlooking the city. The lights stretched endlessly, a shimmering sea of color and life.

“Wow,” you murmured, leaning against the railing.

“Right?” Hyunjin joined you, his voice softer now. “It’s one of the few places that makes me feel... small, in a good way.”

You glanced at him, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. “Do you ever miss being just... normal?”

“All the time,” he admitted. “But then I think about the people who believe in me, who find comfort in what I do. That makes it worth it.”

His words resonated with you, and for the first time, you saw past the idol persona. This wasn’t Hyunjin the star—this was just Hyunjin, a young man trying to make sense of his place in the world.

As the two of you stood there, sharing quiet thoughts under the stars, you felt something shift. The lines between what was fake and what was real began to blur even further.

The turning point came during a gala event. You were dressed to the nines, smiling politely as you mingled with industry elites. Hyunjin stayed close, his presence a steadying force.

Then your co-star, Eric, appeared. He was charming and overconfident, and he wasted no time pulling you into a conversation.

Hyunjin, watching from a distance, felt a strange pang in his chest as he saw you laughing at Eric’s jokes. He told himself it was all part of the act—after all, this wasn’t real.

But when Eric leaned in a little too close, Hyunjin found himself walking over.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, slipping an arm around your waist. “Everything okay here?”

You blinked up at him, surprised by his sudden possessiveness. “Yeah, we were just—”

Great,” Hyunjin cut in, his smile tight. “But we should probably get back to the table. They’re about to announce the next award.”

Eric raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. As Hyunjin led you away, his hand lingering at your waist, you couldn’t help but notice the tension in his jaw.

“Was that necessary?” you asked once you were out of earshot.

Hyunjin didn’t meet your eyes. “Probably not.”

You studied him, a flicker of understanding dawning. Was he... jealous?

That night, back at the hotel, you knocked on Hyunjin’s door. He opened it, looking surprised to see you.

“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual.

He stepped aside, letting you in. The room was dimly lit, and the atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken words.

“What’s going on?” you asked, crossing your arms. “You’ve been acting... strange.”

Hyunjin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” you challenged. “Because it sure seemed like you were about to deck Eric earlier.”

His gaze finally met yours, and for the first time, you saw hesitation there. “I guess I just didn’t like seeing him flirt with you.”

“Why?” you pressed, your heart pounding.

He hesitated, then sighed. “Because maybe this doesn’t feel so fake anymore.”

The confession hung between you, leaving you breathless

Hyunjin’s words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, trying to process what he has just said.

“This doesn’t feel so fake anymore,” he repeated, softer this time, like he was testing the words himself.

You shook your head, stepping back instinctively. “Hyunjin, we can’t... This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I know,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “But maybe it was inevitable. We’ve spent so much time together—”

“It’s an act,” you interrupted, more forcefully than you intended. “That’s all it is. We agreed from the beginning: no feelings, no drama.”

He flinched at your words, his expression clouding. “Right. No feelings.”

You could see the hurt in his eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away. You couldn’t afford to let this become real. Not when your careers, your reputations—everything—was on the line.

“I should go,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin didn’t stop you, and that made it worse.

After that night, things changed. Hyunjin became distant, his playful demeanor replaced by quiet professionalism. You told yourself this was for the best—that keeping your distance would make it easier to maintain the illusion without getting tangled in your emotions.

But it didn’t feel easier.

The staged dates, the red-carpet appearances, even the candid moments for the cameras—all of it felt emptier now. You missed the way Hyunjin used to tease you, the way he could make you laugh even when you didn’t want to.

It wasn’t until a fan event, weeks later, that the tension finally boiled over.

A fan asked Hyunjin about your relationship, and he gave his usual charming answer, but there was a noticeable edge to his tone. Afterward, when you were alone backstage, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“What’s your problem?” you snapped.

Hyunjin turned to you, his expression unreadable. “My problem? I’m just doing what you wanted—keeping it professional.”

You clenched your fists, frustration bubbling over. “You don’t have to be so cold about it!”

He let out a bitter laugh. “What do you want from me? You were the one who said this was just an act.”

“I didn’t mean—” You stopped yourself, realizing you didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Hyunjin stepped closer, his gaze piercing. “What didn’t you mean?”

Your breath hitched. For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the crowd outside.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you admitted finally, your voice trembling.

Hyunjin’s expression softened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly. “Not if it’s going to hurt like this.”

The tension between you and Hyunjin came to a head during a joint interview. The host, sensing the awkwardness, asked a question that caught both of you off guard.

“What’s the most unexpected thing you’ve learned about each other?”

Hyunjin hesitated, glancing at you before answering. “She’s a lot stronger than she gives herself credit for.”

His words took you by surprise. For the first time in weeks, you saw a glimpse of the Hyunjin you’d gotten to know—the one who saw past your walls and made you feel seen.

When it was your turn to answer, you found yourself speaking without thinking. “He’s not as carefree as he seems

Hyunjin’s eyes met yours, and in that moment, something shifted.

Later that night, after the interview, you found yourself standing outside Hyunjin’s hotel room. Your heart raced as you knocked on the door, unsure of what you were going to say but knowing you couldn’t leave things as they were.

He opened the door, his expression wary but hopeful. “Hey.”

“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He stepped aside, letting you in. The room was quiet, the air heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking,” you began, your hands twisting nervously. “About what you said… about how this doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

Hyunjin watched you carefully, his eyes searching yours. “And?”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You’re right. It doesn’t feel fake. At least, not to me.”

His eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through his guarded expression. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I’m scared,” you admitted. “But I don’t want to keep pretending like this doesn’t mean anything. Because it does. You do.”

For a moment, Hyunjin didn’t say anything. Then, without warning, he crossed the room and pulled you into his arms.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You clung to him, tears pricking at your eyes. “You didn’t.”

The next day, when you stepped out together for another staged appearance, something was different. The smiles, the hand-holding, the lingering glances—they weren’t for the cameras anymore.

They were for each other.

And this time, it was real.

The first kiss happened unexpectedly. It wasn’t during a red-carpet event or a photo shoot—it was in the quiet of your apartment, after a long day.

Hyunjin had stopped by to drop off some documents your managers wanted you to review together. You were sitting on the couch, bickering playfully over the wording of a statement when Hyunjin suddenly went quiet.

“What?” you asked, glancing up.

He was looking at you with that soft, unreadable expression he often had when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just... You look really beautiful right now.”

Your cheeks burned, and you let out a nervous laugh. “Stop teasing me.”

“I’m not teasing,” he said, leaning closer. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, and your breath hitched.

The kiss was soft and hesitant at first, as if both of you were testing the waters. But when you didn’t pull away, Hyunjin deepened it, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips moved against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless.

“That wasn’t in the script,” you murmured, trying to hide your smile.

Hyunjin grinned. “Maybe we should improvise more often.”

If you thought the kiss marked a turning point in your relationship, the real test came when the rest of Stray Kids found out.

It happened during a casual group hangout at their dorm. You and Hyunjin had been careful to keep your relationship private, but apparently, not careful enough.

“You two are acting weird,” Felix said, narrowing his eyes as he watched you and Hyunjin sit suspiciously far apart on the couch.

“Weird how?” Hyunjin asked, feigning innocence.

“Weird as in, you’re trying too hard not to look at each other,” Seungmin chimed in, smirking.

Before you could deny it, Changbin leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wait a second. Did something happen between you two?”

Hyunjin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Yes, something happened.”

Weeks after the public reveal, life settled into a new rhythm. You and Hyunjin were still navigating the world as a couple, balancing the constant demands of work and your blossoming relationship. The attention from fans and the media was overwhelming at times, but you had each other to lean on.

One quiet afternoon, you were at a cafe, sharing a rare moment of peace away from the chaos. Hyunjin was sitting across from you, fiddling with his phone while you sipped on your iced coffee. The soft hum of conversation and the sound of clinking cups created a comforting atmosphere.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Hyunjin said, looking up from his phone.

“Uh-oh,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He smirked, clearly amused by your reaction. “I’m serious, okay? We’ve been at this for a while now faking it, being real, all of it. But... I want more. I want to know what it’s like when there’s no pressure. No cameras, no fans, just you and me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “More?” you repeated, your voice soft.

He nodded, setting his phone aside. “Yeah. More dates without anyone watching. More lazy days where we can just be ourselves. I want to take this slow, but also, I don’t want to waste any more time pretending it’s not real.”

You felt a warmth spread through you, the sincerity in his voice making your chest tight. “I want that too,” you whispered.

The smile he gave you in return made you feel like the luckiest person in the world. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. The simple gesture felt more meaningful than any grand declaration.

“Then it’s settled,” he said, squeezing your hand gently. “No more pretending. Just us.”

And as you left the cafe, hand in hand, it felt like the first step toward truly being yourselves—no more masks, no more facades.

Of course, even though you and Hyunjin were more serious than ever, that didn’t mean the teasing from the members stopped. If anything, it got worse.

One evening, after a long day of practice, the Stray Kids members were all lounging around in the dorm, taking a break. You and Hyunjin had just come back from a walk, still holding hands when you entered the living room.

“Look who it is, the couple of the century,” Changbin teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Hyunjin grumbled, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You guys are the worst.”

Felix grinned, giving you a knowing look. “We just need to see if you two are as cute off-camera as you are on. I’m still waiting for a public kiss, you know.”

You shot him a glare, but Hyunjin wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “Maybe we’ll give you a kiss when you stop being so nosy,” he said, his voice teasing.

“Oh, that’s it,” Han chimed in, making a face. “I’m going to vomit.”

You laughed, your hand slipping into Hyunjin’s as you sat down beside him. “You’re all insufferable.”

“They just want to see how sweet you two are together,” Seungmin said with a smirk. “But I have to admit, it’s nice to see Hyunjin like this. He’s never been this... open.”

your heart fluttered at his words, and you looked up at Hyunjin, who was now giving Seungmin an exaggerated side-eye. “Don’t make it sound like I was some mystery,” he said, though the grin on his face betrayed him.

You smiled softly, feeling your heart swell at the thought of how far the two of you had come. What started as a simple arrangement had evolved into something deeper, something real, and the teasing, while relentless, only made it feel more genuine.

One rainy afternoon, as you were curled up on the couch in your apartment, Hyunjin walked in with an envelope in hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What's this?” you asked, sitting up and eyeing him curiously.“It’s a surprise,” he said with a wink, handing you the envelope.

Inside was a ticket for a private art exhibit that was being held at a museum in the city. The exhibit was a collection of works from various contemporary artists, and it was known for being intimate, with only a handful of people allowed in at a time.

“I got us tickets,” Hyunjin said, his voice soft. “I know you love art, and I thought it’d be a good way to spend some time together, away from everything else.”

Your heart melted. “Hyunjin, this is so thoughtful.”

He smiled, looking pleased with himself. “I figured it would be something different. Plus, we get to walk around the exhibit hand-in-hand without worrying about paparazzi or cameras.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “You really do know how to surprise me.”

As the two of you spent the afternoon wandering through the quiet halls of the museum, talking about the paintings and sculptures that caught your eye, you felt the world outside fade away. It was just the two of you, sharing something special, and it felt perfect.

Later that evening, after a quiet dinner, Hyunjin walked you back to your apartment, his hand still holding yours tightly.

“Thanks for today,” you said, your voice soft as you glanced up at him. “It was one of the best days I’ve had in a while.”

Hyunjin smiled down at you, his eyes warm and full of affection. “I’m glad. I’ll always find ways to make you happy.”

And as he kissed you gently under the dim light of your apartment hallway, you knew he meant every word.

Months passed, and your relationship with Hyunjin only grew stronger. There were still moments of teasing from the members, still the occasional bout of nerves before public appearances, but through it all, you both knew one thing for sure: this wasn’t just an act anymore.

One evening, as the two of you sat together on the rooftop of the dorm, gazing out at the city lights, Hyunjin turned to you with a serious expression.

“You know,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “when we first started this, I never thought we’d end up here. But now, I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you reached over, taking his hand. “Me neither,” you said softly. “I think I’ve always known it was real, even if I didn’t want to admit it.”

Hyunjin smiled, leaning in to kiss you. “Then let’s make it real—forever.”

As you kissed him, the world around you faded, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The End... or perhaps just the beginning.

[deancaspinefest]

The tenth annual Dean/Cas Pinefest is officially open for registration!

Now entering its tenth year, DCPF is an annual big-bang style challenge for authors & artists in the Destiel corner of SPN fandom.

Since 2016, this little community has come together to share a staggering 10.6 million words of Destiel fic, and close to a thousand accompanying works of art. It's truly a joy to see what everyone creates every year, and we can't wait for this next round to begin!

Registration will remain open from now until September 30th for authors, with fic drafts & claims information due by November 30th.

Artists may continue to sign up until November 30th, and will have several days to peruse all available fics ahead of anonymous claims on December 6th.

After claims, author/artist teams will have roughly 3 months to complete their fics and artwork before posting commences on pi(e) day – March 14, 2026!

And to mark the occasion of our tenth year, we're introducing themed badges for authors and artists who hit certain milestones during the challenge, as well as the Evergreen Mini-Challenge! This is a series of optional creative challenges that can be filled beyond the usual scope of fic and art. Think of it like a pine-scented, destiel-themed GISH, with more open prompt parameters and a much less stressful time frame.

You can find further details on the Evergreen Mini-Challenge here -- and you're welcome to take part even if you don't sign up for the main part of the challenge!

Full details about the challenge rules, requirements, and schedule can be found via the links at the bottom of this post, and you can register here.

Happy pining, everyone!

2026 Schedule | Rules & Requirements | FAQs | Previous Rounds

[mpreglover225]

[Newly Declassified Document from U.S. Army Medical Corps Archives, 1944 Subject: Medical Assessment Report — Pvt. Andrew “Drew” Matthews (Service No. 5XXXX) Date: May 10, 1944 Location: Field Hospital, Western Front

Background & Context

Private Andrew “Drew” Matthews, 18, is currently serving overseas under the U.S. Army. Initial enlistment was in late 1943. He has been under periodic medical review following the discovery of an unexpected pregnancy while stationed in-theater. According to the most recent examinations, Pvt. Matthews is now at approximately seven months gestation. This update provides a detailed assessment of his physical condition, with particular focus on rectal and hip adaptations pertinent to male pregnancy.

Current Medical Evaluation

General Physical Status

Vital Signs:

Blood Pressure: 115/76 (stable)

Pulse: 84 BPM (slightly elevated but within normal pregnancy parameters)

Respiration: 18 breaths per minute

Weight Gain: 18 pounds above initial enlistment baseline (notable increase from previous month, consistent with advancing gestation).

Gestational Progress

Estimated 28 weeks (7 months). The uterine and lower abdominal growth is consistent with typical third-trimester developments in male pregnancy.

Fetal heart tones remain strong on auscultation (~146 BPM). Fetal movements reported to be frequent, especially in the evenings.

Rectal Examination

Pvt. Matthews reports periodic pressure and heaviness in the rectal canal, especially when standing or marching for extended periods.

On gentle palpation, the rectum shows increased vascularity and mild swelling, which is not unusual in the late stages of male pregnancy. However, care must be taken to prevent or manage potential hemorrhoids, given added strain in this region.

The anal sphincter demonstrates normal tone, though Pvt. Matthews describes occasional episodes of discomfort—likely linked to fetal positioning and the downward pressure exerted by the growing child.

Hip and Pelvic Girdle Assessment

Complaints of hip soreness and lower back ache have intensified since last examination (one month prior). This is attributed to gradual pelvic widening and the shifting center of gravity.

Physical palpation indicates mild ligament laxity around the hip joints—a natural adaptation in male pregnancies as the body prepares for labor.

Pvt. Matthews experiences discomfort when required to traverse uneven terrain or stand in formation for extended durations. He reports temporary relief with short seated rests and mild stretches.

Nutritional and Environmental Factors

Wartime rationing complicates access to fresh produce, but additional calorie allowances have been arranged.

Daily supplements (when available) include powdered milk, iron tablets, and occasionally vitamin-fortified biscuits. Pvt. Matthews has been instructed to remain vigilant about hydration, as dehydration can exacerbate swelling and discomfort.

Duty Restrictions and Lifestyle

Currently assigned to administrative duties at a rear-echelon facility to minimize prolonged standing and heavy lifting.

Recommended low-impact movements: occasional short walks, gentle pelvic exercises, and if feasible, daily check-ins with medical staff for observation.

Sleep remains inconsistent due to frequent nighttime fetal activity and shared barracks noise, though Pvt. Matthews states he manages intermittent rest as best he can.

Psychological Outlook

Pvt. Matthews displays a mix of resolve and concern. He expresses worry about the stigma associated with his pregnancy and the uncertainty of how the child will be cared for if deployment conditions worsen.

Reports a sense of relief in having official medical oversight. Limited but consistent morale support from select squadmates and some discreet chaplain consultations appear beneficial.

Recommendations

Rectal & Hip Care

Moderate Rest: Schedule routine seated breaks to alleviate rectal pressure.

Support Garments: A supportive belt or band around the lower abdomen may reduce strain on hips and rectal canal.

Warm Compresses: Applied to the lower back and hips can mitigate soreness; for rectal discomfort, brief sitz baths or mild topical ointments (when resources permit).

Continued Nutritional Support

Maintain priority rations and supplements. Encourage iron- and protein-rich foods to prevent anemia and support fetal growth.

Ensure hydration, especially given increased metabolic demands at seven months.

Monitoring and Follow-Up

Regular monthly checks, or sooner if rectal swelling increases or if new symptoms arise (e.g., significant bleeding, severe pelvic pain).

Coordinate with field hospital staff to prepare for potential labor or complications, given the unusual deployment environment.

Emotional and Social Support

Where possible, arrange for discreet counseling. Encourage Pvt. Matthews to continue confiding in chaplain or trusted medical personnel, minimizing isolation.

If feasible, discuss postpartum logistics with commanding officers to ensure the newborn’s welfare and Pvt. Matthews’s postpartum recovery.

Conclusion

At seven months pregnant, Pvt. Matthews remains in stable condition with no immediate red flags detected aside from typical third-trimester challenges. Symptoms such as rectal heaviness, hip soreness, and general fatigue reflect the normal physiological adaptations of late-stage male pregnancy. Ongoing support, both medical and logistical, will be crucial to ensure a safe outcome for both father and child as wartime circumstances persist.

Signed,

Capt. Robert H. Nolan, M.D.

U.S. Army Medical Corps, Western Front

[jaythes1mp]

Cat reader idea: which one is your favorite. Like Damian would be nice but he’s always on you for improper diet (you ate fruit and not the horrid wet food he leaves out for you)

Dick has no sense of personal space and he wants to squeeze your adorable little toe beans despite your protests.

Jason would be okay but he practically steals you at night for cuddles and for your own safety. Nothing safer than sleeping with a knife under your pillow.

Tim is iffy, he just likes your company, but the moment you sneeze he’s sending you to the vet- even worse when you get out, using your chip to locate you.

Bruce and alfred just adore you, but only get to see you now and then due to their busy schedules, mainly petting you when they walk by or doing your training.

:3 hope this is accurate lmao

Okay, this is beautiful and a perfect way to incorporate some things into the fic.

More on cat shifter reader.

01

Damian is 100% on your ass, meticulously keeping track of your dietary habits, setting up charts to keep track of your meal times, ensuring that the family knows exactly what you've consumed and what not to give you. This way, he can ensure that you're sticking to the food plan he's designed, with zero room for deviation. He even resorts to constantly reminding Alfred and Dick not to give you anything, no matter how hard your adorable little eyes plead up at them. Determined to make sure you stick to his meal plan. It’s even worse when you’re in your human form, despite his repeated warnings. — and don’t get him started on Jason. The man is the most difficult of them all to control when it comes to your diet. He completely ignores Damian's instructions and will immediately scoop you up and secure you in the cat carrier attached to his motorcycle if you even hint at being hungry. Then, he'll spirit you away to his apartment without a second thought, offering you an array of forbidden human foods in exchange for your sweet meows.

Don’t think about attempting to escape through him however, that would only lead to being futile. He's engineered his bike with a series of safety precautions, meaning that if you even displayed the slightest indication of trying to jump out or escape, the restraints would immediately tighten, making it virtually impossible for you to break out. Let alone breathe comfortably.

Moving back to your diet; Damian has completely altered the Wayne Manor’s kitchen to cater exclusively to your feline dietary needs. He’s even managed to ensure that the rest of the family has adapted their own diets to match yours, to prevent any accidents regarding food you’re not supposed to eat. Despite your attempts to reason with him, Damian refuses to acknowledge that as a human, you can safely consume foods like chocolate without getting sick. You’re a kitten after all.

Though, if by some chance you do manage to infiltrate the kitchen, an assortment of only the finest fruits are packed at the ready for you. Small bits of cut up mango, fresh unpackaged pineapple, blueberries, melon, bananas, apricots, apples and watermelon at the ready. The fridge always stocked full of cooked meats, fluffy cooked rice, boiled eggs, and vegetables.

Damian might not be overjoyed when you venture from the specific meats and hundreds of lavish wet food brands that he's tasked Pennyworth to prepare, he still begrudgingly accepts it as a form of compromise. As long as you’re eating things that fall within his carefully controlled parameters, he can justify allowing it. He’s aware that you need some form of autonomy and independence to survive in the manor, unlike many of his brothers.

He treats you the most reasonably.

02

Dick is definitely one of the people who gets loads of little cat clothes to dress you up in and needs to have you in his little cat bag so he can take you around everywhere.

Who cares about the numerous concerned remarks regarding your drowsy appearance? Dick simply laughs off their concerns. His kitten is just tired, he promises! After all, it’d be quite a hassle to have to explain to every person who stops for a photo that it's nothing more than the effects of the medication he's given you to ensure you remain placidly content and docile during cuddle sessions and neighbourhood walks.

Once Dick starts on your adorable little toe beans, there's no stopping him. He gushes incessantly about the cute contrast of pink and black on your little paws and how they're just perfect for the miniature cat-themed socks that Alfred has patiently taught him to make. He gleefully coos over your small digits, marveling at how perfectly they fit into the little socks. Aren’t you happy your big brother made them for you? Can’t you just purr this once, please? He won’t even get mad if you kick them off or tear them to shreds again!

He’s definitely the type to have an entire wardrobe filled with little outfits for you. A nice red bow tie to get you to look nice and handsome or a warm purple sweater for you to look pretty.

Dick's affection for you remains steadfast, even when you shift to your human form. However, in his mind, you'll always be his precious little kitten, and no amount of whining, hitting, or swearing can convince him otherwise. He's stubbornly determined to shower you with love and care, undeterred by any resistance you may offer. The world’s just too big for you, and he needs to protect you from it. So come sit on his lap and stop whining, the movie’s starting.

03

In stark contrast to Dick, Jason has a clear preference for your feline form, showing little interest in you when you appear as a human. He often ignores you entirely, showering you with love and attention only in your feline body.

It's a double-edged sword, this dynamic with Jason. On the one hand, you've discovered a way to make him leave you alone – simply appear in your human form, and he'll instantly lose interest. He'll glare, shake his head in distaste, and then storm out of the room, grumbling incoherently under his breath as he goes. Unfortunately, when Jason realises your tactic to avoid him, he'll barge into Tim's room unannounced, no matter the time of day or night. Tim, due to his habit of staying up late, will inevitably be awake, and Jason will insist that he make you transform back. Following his forceful tactic of making you transform back, Jason will quickly switch gears and act as though nothing untoward has happened. He'll enfold you in a tight hug and bury his face in your soft fur, nuzzling against you affectionately, completely unbothered by his previous behavior.

Given your penchant for exploring the outdoors, Jason often takes advantage of the darkness of the night to whisk you away. He's aware that you need to experience life beyond the confines of the Wayne estate's gardens, and he prefers to do it when the rest of the family is less likely to notice your absence. Or rather, more occupied with their nightly duties so they’re unable to stop him from taking you.

You’re still under complete lock and key, but at least you get to experience the night air every once in a while.

04

If I had to pick my favourite out of the ones you’ve written I’d go with Tim’s. It’s the one I agree with the most.

Tim likes to keep you sedated. Having you laid out nice and docile on his lap, desk, or of the many cat trees that litter the place, while he works away on the batcomputer.

He’s the most precocious, being particularly meticulous when it comes to your well-being, even the slightest sneeze prompting him to arrange a visit to the vet. Monthly veterinary checkups are non-negotiable, and he ensures that your health is consistently monitored. Saying that, he’ll never take you to a hospital with doctors that specialise in anything other than animals.

A sleek, high-tech collar encircles your neck, constantly transmitting your vital signs in real-time to Tim's phone. Additionally, a microchip planted in your body and trackers strategically installed on various parts of your anatomy ensure that they can monitor your location at all times ensuring that under no circumstances are able to escape.

Tim is the one who suggested and ultimately confirmed your declawing, dismissing your protests and tears as mere tantrums. Despite your pleas and emotional outburst, stating that it would render you disabled — equivalent to cutting off your fingers down to the knuckle — he remains cold and uncompromising. Your objections are disregarded, treating your fears as if you were a pet throwing a tantrum, denying you any agency in the matter. If you didn’t want this to happen, you wouldn’t have scratched them in the first place. It’s easier this way, really. They get to look after you in human form and there’ll be no more scratching up their arms or the furniture.

Initially, Dick supported your side, recognising your profound distress and desperation. However, after a conversation about how you would be completely reliant on him while in your human form, he changed his stance. He stopped giving the issue a moment's consideration, fully accepting Tim’s conclusion.

When it came to the decision, Jason and Bruce were in favor from the beginning. For Jason, it meant his new couch would remain unscathed, and prevented you from clawing at Bruce during business meetings while he held you snugly in his lap.

The sole member of the family fiercely opposed to the idea of declawing you was Damian.

Nevertheless, to Damian's dismay and your own, you'll be made to undergo the declawing against your will anyway. Despite his disagreement, he'll still be there to gently bandage up the raw nubs where your former fingers once were, and he'll lovingly pet away your tears and sobs. You were still his kitten, he’d coo. Just a slightly less fierce one.

05

I’d have to disagree with you here.

Bruce will undoubtedly make time for you, despite any disagreements you may have. You're a top priority in his life, and he'll ensure that you receive the attention and care you deserve.

The eldest Wayne will go to great lengths to accommodate you in his busy schedule. He'll happily reschedule meetings and carve out special time just for you. If there's a vital meeting he can't avoid, he'll bring you along, insisting on having you by his side.

You’re theirs, through and through.

Thanks for the ideas! Any and all asks are encouraged and appreciated.

Previous cat asks: 1 2

Link to Masterlist.

Link to offical chapter

[oaksgrove]

Oak’s Masterlist ──.✦

No rush here. Take your time, the stories aren’t going anywhere.

— fics.ᐟ

Call of Duty:

Task Force 141

Lieutenant‘s Sanctuary - platonic!141 x Reader

Family Comes First - platonic!141 x Reader

Eternal Bonds - platonic!141 x child!reader

The Best-Kept Secret - platonic!141 x married!Reader

The Code-Breaker - platonic!141 x Reader

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Wrong Graves, Right Heart - Simon x Reader

Wrong Graves, Right Heart (part 2) - Simon x Reader

A Life Left Behind - Simon x ex!reader, John Price x Reader

Partner’s Curse - Ghost x Jinxed!Reader

The Perfect Match - Book Store Owner!Simon x Reader

The Neighbour Next Door - Neighbour!Simon x Reader

John Price

A Life Left Behind - Simon x ex!reader, John Price x Reader

A Captain for Christmas - John Price x Reader

Winning Them Over - John Price x Younger!Reader

The one you call - John Price x Reader

Captain’s New Year (‘A Captain for Christmas’ sequel) - John Price x Reader

The Captain and the Captain; Mission Parameters: Undefined - John Price x Reader

The Captain and the Captain; Operation Matchmaker - John Price x Reader

Charmed by Two - John Price x singlemom!Reader

Playing for Keeps - RugbyCaptain!John Price x Reader

Lazy Sunday Mornings - Retired!John Price x Reader

More Than Temporary - John Price x Introvert!Reader (V-Day Special!)

Fixer-Upper - John Price x Reader

Midnight Cravings - John Price x Pregnant!Reader

Strict Schedules, Except... - John Price x Reader

The Little Things - John Price x Reader

Say a Little Prayer - John Price x Jazz Singer!Reader

Don’t Be an Idiot, John. - John Price x Reader

Steady as Ever - John Price x Autistic!Reader

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

The sweet side of bravery - Gaz x paediatrician!reader

The sweet side of Bravery (part 2) - Gaz x paediatrician!reader

Slow Burn - Gaz x Reader +18!

Still With You - Gaz x Deaf!Reader

Open Door Policy - Gaz x Wife!Reader

Johnny “Soap” Mctavish

Lego Legends: Moving Day Shenanigans - Soap x Reader

König

Welcoming Gift - König x Reader

Waiting for a Miracle - König x Reader

Unexpected Reaction - König x Reader

A Quiet Place - König x GN!Reader

Just The Two Of You - König x Wife!Reader

Keegan

A Place to Call Home - Keegan x Reader

Camouflage Gone Wrong - dad!Keegan x mom!Reader

Alex Keller

Perfectly Imperfect - Alex Keller x Insecure!Reader

Sebastian Krueger

The Weight of Perfection - Sebastian Krueger x Reader

Nikto

Where Loneliness Ends - Nikto x Wife!Reader

Nikolai

Soft Spot - Nikolai x Reader

Gary “Roach” Sanderson

Hungover Surprise - Gary x Reader

Alejandro Vargas

Too Late - Alejandro Vargas x Reader

Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

Tiempo Perdido - Rodolfo Parra x Reader

Phineas and Ferb:

Montgomery “Monty” Monogram

Undercover Nurse - Monty Monogram x Reader

Major Francis Monogram

Romantic Vacation - Francis Monogram x Reader

The Arcana

Muriel

Roots - Muriel x Pregnant!Reader

Forest’s Lullaby - Muriel x Apprentice!Reader

[suna-cerely-yours]

a/n: I also want to be tutored by college!kuroo. And steal that black hoodie (also fun fact this was supposed to be a part of a college series)

warnings: fem!reader

Let’s be honest, you were good but there was no way you were passing this class without extra help. You groan, dropping your head in your friend’s lap, throwing your jean-clad legs over the armrest of the sofa the two of you occupied, in the corner of a very crowded frat house.

“I won’t pass, I’m sure of it. Probability distributions were bad enough, but now that he’s moved onto parameter estimation, I have absolutely zero idea what’s going on.”

“You’ll be fine,” your friend says, flicking you lightly on your forehead, “don’t be dramatic.”

There’s a series of cheers and noise from the direction of the kitchen, which has your friend craning her neck.

“I think they’re doing body shots over there.”

“I think I need a tutor.”

“The volleyball team is also there.”

“The professor’s such a hard-ass too.”

“I’m going to see if I can get their setter to do a body shot off of me.”

Slipping your head from her lap, she’s off, yelling something about calling you later. Groaning again, you rest your arm against your forehead, wondering if you should be spending your Friday night in the Statistics section of the library rather than the frat party you were currently at. You were about to get up when you feel the sofa sink with weight above your head. Moving your arm, you’re met with a red jacket and the smell of laundry detergent. 

“Ah, sorry- I’ll just get out of the way,” you begin, getting up and sitting properly on the couch.

“My friend aced Stat203 last year.”

You look questioningly at the man beside you, his eyes trained on his phone before him. Messily dyed hair tied in a low bun, red track jacket, black ripped jeans and a lip piercing- you were looking at the setter of your university’s volleyball team- Kenma Kozume.

“I- pardon? Are you talking to me?”

“He took the class for fun last year.”

“That’s- that’s great, uh but I don’t think I’m who you think I am. I-”

“You said you needed a tutor.”

You blink, eyes widening. Holy shit did the frat party actually turn out to be the correct place to look for a Statistics tutor?

“I am looking for someone to help me out a little, um, are you sure they would be willing to help me out?”

Kenma looks up from his phone, for the first time since you started talking, you notice. Golden eyes flick down your torso once, before meeting your eyes.

“I’ll give you his number, ask him yourself.”

                                                    .....

Setting your books down in the study room, you check your watch again, exactly five minutes before you and Tetsu were scheduled to meet. You still didn’t know who he exactly was, having no actual information about him aside from the nickname and the fact that he was Kenma’s friend. Apart from the initial awkwardness of messaging a stranger, the two of you had exchanged a couple of texts before deciding to meet for a scheduled tutoring session at the library. You’ve only started scrolling on Tumblr when there’s a sharp knock on the door, the person opening it before you can say anything.

Tall, is your first impression.

Red, is your next.

Hair, is your final- before realization sets in.

“Kuroo Tetsurou?”

Hazel eyes blink back as the captain of the volleyball team stands in front of you.

His eyes crinkle, lips curling into a smile as his enters the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he drops into the seat before you.

" 's not fair that you know who I am and I don't," he says stretching back in his seat. " Kozume only said that a pretty girl needed some help."

Your eyebrow quirks at the pretty girl comment, but you don't say anything of it- opting to introduce yourself instead.

"Pretty name."

"Laying it on a lil' thick, aren't you?"

"All part of the charm m'lady."

You stop fidgeting with your textbook to look up at him and blink.

"M'lady?"

A pained look crosses over his face as he drags a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"Yeah, that might have been a little too thick."

Fighting the urge to smile, you press your lips together before murmuring a 'that's what she said', clicking your pen and flipping to a fresh page.

A snort escapes the man in question as he pulls your textbook closer to him.

"So, who's class are you taking this semester? Please tell me it's not Sakusa."

You chew on your lower lip in silence.

Kuroo glances your way once before sighing.

"Of course it's him."

"In my defense I didn't expect a man so pretty to be that much of a hard-ass."

"Hard-ass is putting it nicely."

You scowl, tapping your pen against the table lightly. "He teaches well, it's just- he's so unapproachable and he expects perfection and I have so much piled up this semester and I-"

"Woah, calm down pretty, it's okay. That's what I'm here for aren't I?", he smiles, a dimple popping in his left cheek.

You swallow before smiling back, nodding.

"Good girl, now where should we begin?"

This was going to be a long semester.

[homelanderbutbig]

Keeping Track (G/T Homelander x Reader)

897 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander tracks affection like people track their water intake. Inspired by a conversation with @themeraldee.

It's been one of those days, mentally drained from meeting after meeting as Homelander's personal assistant. You barely had any time to spend with him compared to your normal schedule, but work always comes first for the both of you.

When you have a moment to go back to your office later in the afternoon for a short break, you're surprised upon opening the door to find Homelander already waiting inside. However, he doesn't acknowledge you as he silently stares out the window with his hands behind his back. A telltale sign of one of his signature 'grumpy moods'.

"Hey there sweetie, didn't expect you'd be in here," you smile at him, closing the door before you saunter over to your desk, placing your papers down. He still hasn't said a word, so you lean against the front of your desk and stare at him. Your head is cocked to the side, waiting for him to crack like he always does.

"Do you hate me?" he finally questions you.

"…What?" you ask, taken aback. That was not what you were expecting.

"You always give me 15 hugs. But you only gave me 8 today," he states matter-of-factly, angling his head to gaze down at you. You rarely ever see him look at you in such a stern manner.

You stand there mute, blinking confusedly at what you just heard. But then, you can't suppress the laugh that occurs at hearing why he's so upset at you. It doesn't help you quiet your snickering when he pouts at your response.

"Don't laugh at me," Homelander utters bluntly, tensing his jaw and putting his fists down to his sides. He looks so offended by your reaction; this is serious, how can you be laughing at this? At him?

"Hun, I'm not laughing at you! I didn't realize you were keeping track!" you eventually say after your giggles subside, wiping the tears from your eyes. He can be a funny little creature sometimes.

Walking closer to his side, you reach your hand up to one of his large fists, coaxing him to unfurl his hand so you can intertwine your fingers with his own. This helps him relax a bit, taking the edge off of your transgression with your apologetic contact.

"I'm sorry baby boy, you know I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Is it that important to you?" you ask him, waiting for him to give you a silent nod. He was deprived of affection his whole life, and now that he has you he wants nothing more than to drown in it.

"Well, why don't I start making up my quota now," you remark, letting go of his hand. You can feel the slightest hesitation of his fingers at your absence, but you won't let his agony last long. "Can you please pick me up?"

Gently, he reaches down and encompasses your waist with both hands, lifting you up to his chest to be eye-level with him. You waste no time in giving him a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck as tightly as you can muster. Your fingers comb through his hair, running along his scalp in soothing lines. A simple enough maneuver, like one would do to pet a dog, and yet it's like magic to him. You can feel with each drag of your fingers how he sinks into your touch, letting go of his upset.

Somehow, despite only being half of Homelander's size, you manage to engulf him with your loving affections.

"There, one more for today's total," you declare confidently, pulling back to see his satisfied expression. You're happy that he's no longer grumpy like when you first saw him in your office. You can't help but wonder how long he was waiting in here alone, obsessing to himself about these secret parameters he's established for your relationship.

"You're still 6 short," he retorts amusedly, answering your own inner thoughts. His eyebrows are raised while he shows off his fangs with a playful smile. Still haven't hit the daily quota, eh?

"Don't worry, I'm not done with you yet mister," you whisper lightheartedly as you squeeze his cheeks with all your strength, earning you a hearty chuckle from Homelander in return. You could never hurt him with your average human muscles, but he can still feel your delightful cuteness aggression all the same.

You lean in for a kiss as your hands move from his cheeks up to scratch his undercut, making sure to hit all the sweet spots he adores. Which isn't really fair, you know he can't fight the purrs building deep in his chest while your nails reduce him to putty with each drag. You can feel the rumbling from his content whimpering as he melts into you, blanketing your shoulders with his big hands to pull you closer into his chest for another hug. You're buried within his massive arms, unable to free yourself from his superhuman strength, but you wouldn't want to be anywhere else anyways.

"That's another one," you note when you finally break from your kiss, but still keeping your foreheads pressed together. He hums blissfully, drunk off the recent affection as he looks into your eyes, letting his hot breaths dance across your face.

He knows he has 5 more hugs coming tonight. After all, it's expected now that you know the minimum.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Uncalculated Variables”

Tech x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.

⸻

If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.

Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?

You were something else entirely.

You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.

“Miss me, big guy?”

Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”

Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”

Vos grinned. “You wish.”

Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”

You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”

He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”

You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”

He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”

You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”

He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”

Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.

Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”

Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”

“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”

“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”

He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”

⸻

Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”

Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”

You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”

You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”

His ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”

You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.

You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”

And behind you, Tech mumbled—

“…I don’t understand you.”

But oh, he wanted to.

⸻

“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”

Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.

Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.

“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”

You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”

“I am not flirting—”

“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”

“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”

Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”

You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”

“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.

“Wait—don’t—!”

But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.

“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.

Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”

Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.

He didn’t see it. But you did.

“Tech!”

You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.

The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.

For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.

You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.

His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”

“I… suppose I do.”

You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”

Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”

“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”

“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”

You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”

You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.

“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”

And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.

Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.

Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.

Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.

“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.

You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”

Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”

Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”

“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”

Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.

“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”

Vos dropped his fruit.

You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”

“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”

Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.

“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”

You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”

Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”

“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”

Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”

“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

His expression fell a little.

“Yet,” you added.

From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”

You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”

He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”

Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”

You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”

Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”

Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.

“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”

He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.

“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”

He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”

Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”

And you?

You just smiled.

⸻

1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”

You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?

“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”

“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”

You snorted. “So yes.”

The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.

“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”

Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”

“Oh no.”

He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”

You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”

“Almost?”

“You lost me at neurological.”

Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”

“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”

You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”

He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”

Your breath caught.

“…Tech,” you said, gently.

“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”

You stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.

When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.

“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.

From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.

You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.

“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.

“Maker above—” Tech muttered.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”

Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”

Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”

Tech looked dazed.

“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”

[shini--chan]

Would the allies kidnap their darling?

Yandere Allies - Persephone

Trigger warnings: kidnapping, obsession, stalking, coercion, murder

I actually see all the allies willing to kidnap their respective “lovers”, if certain criteria would be met. So let's delve a bit deeper. 

America would kidnap you to save you from yourself. At least, that would be his depiction of affairs. Perhaps you would be a nation drifting too close to communism, or your morals and societal structure wouldn’t be compatible with the liberal ideologies in other ways. Perhaps he tried to give you the fire of enlightenment only for you to coldly reject his graciousness. In his eyes, you would just have so much more potential and you would waste it by not accepting his help. Furthermore, you would obstruct his grand plans to bring about the end of history and create a garden of eden on earth with your stubbornness. As such, he’ll have to force you to bow to his will. 

There could be a long prelude to your kidnapping, or he would directly go for the kill. Your time in captivity would be spent moulding you to be the perfect spouse. The base circumstances could be different, mind you. You could be a willful mortal that enchanted him, and he would kidnap you because you wouldn't follow the romance playbook he'd have ingrained in his mind. If his interest would wane, then the end result would be the same as the scenario described above. 

Canada would kidnap you to preserve you. It would be like a naturalist wanting to preserve an ecosystem and all the wonder that it would contain. The outside world is so lethal and corrupting and tainting, that you would have to be protected from it. Family would end up disappointing you and friends would one day betray you, but he would also be there for you. However, why go through all the pain and learn that the hard way when he could simply shield you from all that suffering?

Just like some endangered species, you would have to be observed, conserved and shielded from those that would harm you or alter you or bring about your extinction. For a large part, he would wish to preserve you as you are, like scientific specimens are kept intact by putting them in formaldehyd bath. He would do his best to trim any negative developments that would form, and he would see you acting out or trying to escape/kill him as such. Something as perfect and pure as you must be protected at all costs, even from your own wrongs. 

China would kidnap you to keep something precious with the person that would appreciate it the most. With all his years of wisdom and trials and hardship, wouldn’t he be the person most capable of cherishing you? Besides, having you would be like possessing an accolade to all his successes. You would be a testimony to all his power and prowess and competence, the sign of all that he can achieve. Asides from that, he would want you to achieve your full potential, and who better to assure that than his steady and sure hand?

You would be put in a gilded cage so that he could return home after a long day and be guaranteed the comfort of your presence. Your schedule would be managed tightly by him and he wouldn’t allow much time for idleness. After all, your true beauty would lie in your actions, and he would want to witness said beauty everyday. Yao would also be a very strict taskmaster and some days it would feel more like he kidnapped you to fulfill the fantasy of being a personal trainer/private tutor or something of the sort. Surely you wouldn’t have to worry about not being able to pick up a new hobby, or becoming bored with him!

England would kidnap you out of pure selfishness. Of course, he could just continue murdering your suitors and making your loved ones disappear, yet it would just be so much more cost efficient to keep you close by. A personal project such as moulding you into the ideal spouse for one Arthur Kirkland would require close attention and set parameters. Besides, he wouldn’t want anybody else enjoying your affections, if he can help it. Arthur would be a jealous man to his core, and you would have to deal with the negative consequences of those feelings more often than not. 

As such, he would require you to spend your day in his presence more often than not. You wouldn’t even be required to interact with him - just being in the same room would often be enough. It would be up for debate whether sending time in his line of sight would be better than spending it alone or not. On one hand, if you don’t stick to his side you would have more freedom to do what you’d please, but he would interrogate you about your going-ons in his absence. On the other hand, he would always have his half his mind on you when you’d be by him - observing you, listening to what you doing - but his conversations with you wouldn’t be so invasive. Pick your poison. 

France would kidnap you to heal you or also your relationship with him. Perhaps you would be struggling or he would deem you as fighting with repressed trauma. You would be a fragile thing in need of a knight in shining armour, and he would enthusiastically fulfil that role for you. Thus, you would be isolated from the rest of the world to ensure your wellbeing and to tend to the wounds. Should somebody have wronged you, in his perception, then he’ll ensure that justice is served. 

Or, the relationship would have lost its luster and his solution to that would be to kidnap you. That, or you’re trying to pull away from him. That wouldn’t sit well with him - once you’ve entered a relationship with this yandere, you’re settled for life, whether you like it or not. As such, squirreling you away would be in order to fix your loyalties.

Russia would kidnap you to preserve your loyalty. Ironic, yet that is how it would work in his mind. Faith is good, control is better could be the leitmotif of his actions. There would be little seeds of doubt that would juvenate due to you keeping secrets or distancing yourself from him. Ivan would start to worry about you not liking him not that much anymore, and then his thoughts would start to spiral. That, or he would have the suspicion of somebody recruiting you to use you against him. In order to ensure that you wouldn’t betray him or leave him or harm him, he would just have to strip you of that power by kidnapping you. 

He would very well understand that you wouldn’t take it well, and he would do his best to calm you. Nevertheless, he would think that you’re overreacting. You would be secluded in a St. Petersburg apartment or in a far off cabin until you could behave yourself properly, then you might be let out into the public again. Though even that isn’t completely guaranteed since he would be a jealous man. 

All that aside, they would all move to coercion or kidnapping if you’d reject their advances long enough. They are yanderes here, after all.