While working on their latest film, sparks fly between Jimin and Jungkook. They try to deny the allegations, but fans and coworkers won’t stop talking, forcing them to consider, “What if?”
📸 Jungkook x Jimin
📸 word count: 384; images of tweets & text conversations
📸 social media au, coworkers to lovers, angst, fluff, crack, slash, sfw
📸 warnings: invasion of privacy, mutual pining, flirting.
📸 written for jikook week! the theme is “fame & fortune” so i thought this would be a cute idea
📸 not beta read
📸 posted oct. 2022 | read on ao3
Part 1: word count unknown; 24 images of tweets & text conversations
Part 2: 167 words + 26 images of tweets & text conversations
Part 3: word count unknown; 21 images of tweets & text conversations
Part 4: word count unknown; 25 images of tweets & text conversations
Part 5: 217 words + 22 images of tweets & text conversations
please don’t be a silent reader! feedback & reblogs do so much to help content creators!
tag list:@btsstan12, @dasexydevitt13, @giriiboyy, @moonleeai 📸 wanna be tagged for everything i post? dm me!
Rumor is copyright 2022 theharrowing, all rights reserved.
Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.
A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.
Word Count: 6k
Warnings:
Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY
Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive
Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)
Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)
Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)
Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Harry Styles was a menace.
Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.
At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.
And God, did he enjoy it.
The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.
The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.
The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.
Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”
Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.
The silence stretched.
And stretched.
The journalist swallowed.
Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”
The second clip was worse.
A different interview, a different day, same energy.
Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.
Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.
“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”
Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.
Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”
The hosts groaned in frustration.
The internet? Ate it up.
Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.
The general consensus?
Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.
Until someone asked about her.
It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.
The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.
Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”
Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”
“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”
For the first time all night, something shifted.
Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.
But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.
The audience leaned forward.
The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.
Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.
“Yeah?”
The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.
His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.
Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.
“She’s great.”
The studio lost it.
The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.
Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:
The way his face softened.
The way his body language changed.
The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.
He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?
That was all people needed.
It was real.
And the world wasn’t ready.
Y/N wasn’t famous.
She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.
She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.
Her days had always followed a rhythm.
Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.
She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.
Then Harry Styles had walked into it.
And ruined everything.
She still didn’t know how it had happened.
It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.
But she never expected it to go anywhere.
At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.
Then he was a guy who made her laugh.
Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.
And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.
It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.
Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”
Twelve months of hiding.
Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.
"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."
She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.
She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.
Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.
But it was enough.
Enough for people to start digging.
Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.
She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.
Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.
“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”
And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.
It was beautiful. It was safe.
But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.
Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.
And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.
Still waiting.
Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.
They didn’t understand him.
The world saw one version of Harry Styles.
The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.
“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”
He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Is it also true that you—”
A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.
Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”
Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.
It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.
Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.
The less they dug into his real life.
The less they found her.
Because private Harry?
A completely different person.
Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.
Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.
Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”
Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.
No one saw that Harry.
And he preferred it that way.
But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.
And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.
One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.
It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.
Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.
The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.
“Harry! Over here!”
“Harry, how’s the new album?”
“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”
He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.
Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.
And that was it.
He snapped.
“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.
Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.
They knew his reputation.
They’d seen him do this before.
They thought that was the whole show.
Until Y/N appeared.
She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.
The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.
His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.
And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”
Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.
As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.
The paparazzi?
Fucking shook.
The clip blew up online within hours.
Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:
🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨
Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.
WHO IS SHE?!
HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!
The discourse was endless.
And Harry?
Didn’t say a damn word about it.
Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.
They weren’t digging deeper.
And that meant she was still safe.
For now.
But the internet was relentless.
Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.
And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?
They become obsessed.
It started with something small.
Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.
Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.
But that wasn’t what fans noticed.
No.
What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.
A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.
And—most importantly—not his.
The theories exploded.
GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!
Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?
I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME
WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?
There was no confirmation.
No proof.
But that didn’t stop people from digging.
Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.
Then came the coffee shop photo.
Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.
Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.
He wasn’t alone.
There was a girl across from him.
A girl who wasn’t famous.
A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Too real.
The internet lost its collective mind.
HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!
HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!
WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.
I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!
The photo was picked apart frame by frame.
Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.
Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.
But not everyone was happy.
Because some people… some people wanted access.
Some people wanted control.
Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.
It started small.
A few comments.
A few tweets.
A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.
That she was using him.
That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.
Then the DMs started.
Vicious. Personal. Cruel.
You’ll never be good enough for him.
You’re ruining his career.
No one wants you here.
He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.
And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.
That it didn’t matter.
That these people didn’t know her.
That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.
But it wasn’t just online anymore.
Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.
Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.
Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.
She started pulling away. Just a little.
Stopped texting first.
Stopped answering right away.
Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.
And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.
“Alright, love?”
Her chest ached.
Because he was looking at her like that.
Like he knew.
Like he could see right through her.
Like he was already worried.
She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
And lied.
The industry party was a mistake.
Y/N had known it the second they walked in.
The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.
The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.
She felt out of place immediately.
It wasn’t her world.
It never had been.
And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.
He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.
Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.
But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.
That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.
He was a producer.
Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.
And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.
“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”
Y/N froze.
Harry stiffened next to her.
The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.
“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”
Her stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just the words.
It was the way he said them.
The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.
Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.
And that was when Harry snapped.
He didn’t move right away.
Didn’t react instantly.
Just went completely, unnervingly still.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.
And stepped right into the guy’s space.
Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.
Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.
All he had to do was look at someone the right way.
And the producer? He knew.
He fucking knew.
Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.
The smirk faded.
The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.
“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.
And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.
It was a warning.
A claim.
And everyone in the room fucking knew it.
He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.
Didn’t stop touching her.
Didn’t stop checking on her.
And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.
She should have felt safe.
Should have felt protected.
But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.
Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.
It was about all of it.
The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.
And maybe… maybe they were right.
Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.
She wasn’t going to say it.
She wasn’t.
But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”
And it just—it broke her.
Her breath hitched.
And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.
“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Harry froze.
“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”
His entire body tensed.
Like she had just physically hit him.
Like the words had physically hurt him.
“Don’t you ever say that again.”
It wasn’t a plea.
It wasn’t a request.
It was a command.
His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.
Because he was devastated.
Shattered.
“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”
She swallowed. “Harry—”
“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”
She closed her eyes.
Breathed him in.
Let him hold her together, piece by piece.
Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—
Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.
The storm hadn’t passed.
Not really.
The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.
But Harry… Harry never wavered.
Not once.
Not even when the headlines got uglier.
Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.
Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
But he didn’t push.
Didn’t force her to talk about it.
Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.
No.
Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.
He showed her.
And the whole damn world saw it.
Madison Square Garden.
A sold-out crowd.
Phones up. Lights blinding.
It was a big night—bigger than most.
The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.
And she wasn’t supposed to be there.
Hadn’t planned on coming.
Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.
But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.
It was impossible not to be captivated.
Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.
He was in his element.
He belonged here.
And she—
Well.
She was just trying to stay invisible.
But then—
He turned.
Looked right at her.
And everything stopped.
Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.
He talked about her.
On stage.
For the world to hear.
“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.
The crowd screamed.
A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.
“But she is my world.”
Her breath caught.
And then—before she could process what was happening—
He started playing.
A new song.
Unreleased.
Just for her.
And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.
They were filled with pieces of them.
Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.
A love letter.
A declaration.
A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.
The internet lost its mind.
Clips went viral within minutes.
Fan theories exploded.
But none of it mattered.
Not really.
Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—
It was just them.
And she belonged.
She didn’t hear the rest of the set.
Not really.
Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.
For her.
For everyone to hear.
The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.
But she couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.
Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.
He dodged questions in interviews.
Shrugged off rumors.
Gave the media nothing to work with.
And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.
And she had no idea how to breathe through it.
Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.
Because she knew what this meant.
Knew what it would cause.
Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.
But she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Because he’d said she was his world.
He’d said she belonged.
And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.
She was still in a daze when the show ended.
Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.
She barely noticed the way people moved around her.
Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.
Until—
“There you are.”
Her breath caught.
And then he was there.
Harry.
Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.
He didn’t say anything at first.
Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.
Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.
Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.
And she—
God.
She melted.
Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.
The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.
And then—so quietly she almost missed it—
“Tell me you’re staying.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Because he knew.
Of course he fucking knew.
Knew how much she had struggled with this.
Knew how many times she had almost walked away.
Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.
And yet—
His voice was steady.
Not desperate.
Not pleading.
Just… certain.
Like he already knew the answer.
Like he already knew her.
And maybe he did.
Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—
She nodded.
Just once.
And Harry fucking collapsed against her.
Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.
Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.
Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.
Because it wasn’t a question anymore.
Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.
It was real.
It was them.
And she was staying.
His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.
But she barely noticed.
Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.
Harry.
Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.
His hands were everywhere.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.
Slow, teasing touches down her spine.
Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.
Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.
"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"
Her breath hitched.
Because fuck.
She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.
But this?
This was different.
This was a promise.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.
Because Harry didn’t just take.
He worshipped.
And she felt it.
In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.
In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like she was the only thing in it.
His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.
The dip between her ribs.
The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.
Every inch of her.
And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.
"You're everything, love."
"Perfect for me."
"Mine."
Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.
Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.
Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—
He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.
And fuck, that look.
Like she was something sacred.
Like she was something he could never get enough of.
"Look at you, taking me so well."
Her breath shuddered out of her.
And God, he knew what he was doing.
The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—
It was too much and not enough, all at once.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.
Didn’t stop until she was completely his.
And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms
Harry took care of her.
Of course he did.
Because he always did.
Pressed a kiss to her temple.
Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.
Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.
Only ever his.
And just before sleep pulled her under—
Just before her body fully relaxed against his—
She heard it.
Soft.
Low.
Meant just for her.
"Love you, you know that?"
And she did.
God, she did.
But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.
Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.
He said it like a fact.
Like the sun would rise tomorrow.
Like the sky was blue.
Like her being his was something permanent.
And maybe it was.
The airport was a nightmare.
The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—
He ignored them.
Of course he did.
Didn’t even flinch.
Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.
And he was carrying everything.
Her suitcase.
Her tote bag.
Her carry-on.
Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.
Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.
The contrast? Insane.
And the internet lost its mind.
The tweets came fast.
@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.
@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.
Because, yeah.
He was.
It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.
The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.
And now?
Now he was wearing it in public.
On purpose.
Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.
Like a middle finger to the world.
But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.
A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.
Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.
Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.
And the caption?
"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."
And fuck.
If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.
Because the world still didn’t get it.
But he didn’t care.
Because she was his.
And that was enough.
That had always been enough.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖
harry has to walk his drunk girlfriend home after girls night, but is that even his girlfriend?
wordcount: 2.2k+
—————
Harry swore he could have spotted (Y/N) from a mile away, even without the liquid shimmer of her dress wrapped around her form. Despite the glow of the neon lights over the entire sidewalk with the club name displayed in all caps, she still outshone every person still waiting in line to get in, the grouping of others on standby for their ride shares, and her group of friends that had been so gracious as to let him know that she was ready to go home and much too tipsy (read: drunk) to walk herself home despite her insistences.
Only when he made it close enough to hear the soft echoes of laughter and drunken conversation, sparkling heels clicking against pavement, was he spotted. It was almost heartbreaking to watch the way her jaw dropped in grinning surprise. He could feel his own lips stretching into a dimpled smile, though he attempted to temper the reaction when her grouping of friends followed her line of sight to catch his approach.
"Harry!" she bubbled, closing the distance between them on wobbly legs. Despite the even, obstacle-free length of the sidewalk, she still found something to catch under her heel to send her right into his arms.
"Woah," Harry laughed, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist with their chests now pressed flush together. Swathes of bare skin displayed by the heart-shaped cutouts stations on either side of her waist allowed him to graze his fingertips over the warmth of her. The candied raspberry liquor on her breath was especially sweet with the way her eyes sparkled up at him. "Hey, you."
"Hey yourself," she giggled, unperturbed by the lack of distance between them, "What are you doing here?" Her eyes momentarily widened as her arms clumsily looped around his neck. "Oh my god, did you come here to dance with us? 'M so sorry, H—we're just getting ready to leave!"
The silky material that made up her dress in between the sweetheart cutouts fluttered around her thighs as a faint breeze glanced between them. Goosebumps erupted over her skin though her moony eyes didn't so much as flick away from his.
"'M actually here to take y'home, love. Tara called me, said y'were trying to walk home all by yourself," he explained, tipping his head to the side only for her to mimic the movement without a thought.
"Tara called you?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, heels teetering underneath her. "How'd she get your number?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Y'called her from m'phone the last time y'stayed the weekend with me, remember? When y'didn't have service, but y'wanted to see if she'd watered your plants?"
Harry wasn't prepared for the way she practically went boneless in his arms. Her eyes went from moony to completely dreamy as she gazed up at him, her arms around his neck now shifted to card her fingers through his hair, nails drifting over his scalp.
"Oh yeah, huh," she smiled, just barely containing a giggle just short of being described as girlish, "We should have a sleepover again soon."
"Yeah?" Harry prodded, unable to help himself as he raised a single brow, dimples denting his cheeks, "Y'wanna? Y'have a crush on me or something?"
This time she really did giggle, pitched and sticky sweet, before diving into his neck in a clinging hug. Stumbling some on his own feet, Harry let out a puff of laughter before steadying the both of them, hands warm and heavy on her waist.
She was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. Hopefully she'd had all the fun she wanted tonight to make it worth it.
Tara, dressed sleek and dark in a velveteen black dress, approached then. Her own eyes were glossy though they held much more clarity than the girl who was currently hanging off of him.
"Thanks for coming," she smiled, words only a tad slurred and slower than normal, "She's—Yeah, you see. There's no way she can go home by herself."
Another short breeze skimmed over the pavement, Harry bringing his hand down to his giggly girl's skirt to keep it pinned to the back of her thighs. A quiet hiccup sounded against his neck.
"No way," Harry agreed, speaking through his smile, "Thanks for calling me. Y'guys all have a way to get home?"
Tara glanced over her shoulder to the small grouping of the other girls who were half-watching the interaction. Harry was sure there had been an audience from the first moment (Y/N) had stumbled into his arms.
"Yeah; Gena's boyfriend's picking her up and then the rest of us are sharing an Uber," Tara rattled off, casting her eyes out to the street. "But, you two are good to start home whenever you're ready."
"Wait," (Y/N) suddenly chirped, pulling her head from where she had burrowed herself away in Harry's neck, "I didn't pack for a sleepover. I don't have any of my stuff, and I can't sleep in my dress."—her eyes abruptly widened, fingers tightening in his hair—"Oh my god, I cannot sleep in my makeup. I can't go home with you, H."
Tara just managed to stifle a laugh behind pursed lips. "Goodnight, guys. Text me when you make it home—whoever's home you get to," she teased, almost cracking herself into laughter.
Momentarily distracted, (Y/N) twirled away from Harry, though he made a point to keep his hands on her waist when she almost toppled face-first into the concrete before getting to hug her friend goodbye with coos of how much she loves her and how much fun she had.
Not long after she sent a tinkling wave to the rest of her friends did she spin again, back into Harry's chest. The lightness she had shared with her friends had fled as soon as she matched his gaze, canting her head with a puffed pout to her lips.
"Harry," she all but whined about the syllables, "I can't go home with you."
The pads of his thumbs ran careful, hopefully soothing circles, on the exposed skin framed by the heart cutouts of her dress. "Then, can I come home with you?"
This had been the original plan anyway, but she didn't need to worry about that right now.
She perked up at the offer, glittery lashes fluttering against her browbone. "You'd have a sleepover at my house?"
A lopsided smile took over his features. "If you'll let me."
An eager nod of her head threw her tousled hair over her shoulders before she pulled Harry in for another hug. "Yes, yes, yes," she practically cheered, "Of course, I'll let you."
"Thank you, love," he murmured, dropping a careful kiss on the line of her jaw just before drawing away from her embrace. "Let's head home then, 'kay? 'S getting a little cold, isn't it?"
"It is, huh?" she bubbled, taking it upon herself to tuck herself under his arm and right up against his side. "Has it been cold the whole time out here, or have I been too drunk to notice until now? You can be honest, it's okay."
Harry didn't even try to hold back the burst of laughter that left him at her words. His volunteered arm around her shoulders tightened, leading them away from the small club and towards her home. "I think you've been a little too drunk to notice until now, but 's alright, love. Y'had fun tonight, right?"
"So much fun," she sighed, steps slowing into lazy stumbles as she reminisced about times only hours earlier. "Those girls are my best friends, it's crazy, you know?"
The amusement on his features melted into pure affection as he glanced down at her. "'M happy y'had fun—especially with them. Are y'gonna see them again soon?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she drawled, "I think we made plans, but I really can't remember. There'll probably be something in the group chat tomorrow, maybe."
"Well, let me know, and I can plan on dropping y'off and picking y'up. That way y'don't have to worry about figuring out how you're getting home or packing to stay at my house, or anything like that."
She had her eyes trained on him only as he gently steered her out of the way of a murky puddle, the kind that would have no doubt ruined her shoes. Her starry eyes were on him only as she fluttered a blink up at him, just about making Harry forget which street to turn them down to head them down to her apartment.
"Okay," she sighed, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Did she even know that a pink glitter from her dress had somehow ended up on the tip of her nose? And that it was possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever seen?
"And promise me you'll be honest."
One corner of his mouth quirked up. A sly glance was sent her direction from the corner of his eye.
"Okay. I can be honest."
She coiled her fist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to him—as if there was anywhere he was going to be that wasn't right here.
"If I ask you to be my boyfriend, would you say yes?"
In his heart, Harry knew that the right reaction was not to laugh. Not to let his grin stretch wide enough over his lips that his eyes creased, lashes tangled, dimples deepened. That his chest could ache from the lack of air in his lungs. That was far from the right reaction to a question like that, Harry knew that.
And yet.
At his side, despite the fact he hadn't slowed his own steps, the girl at his side significantly stalled. She still had her fist tucked into his shirt, his arm around her shoulder, but was not as enthusiastic to keep up with his pace as before.
Stifling back any more chuckles, Harry looked down to his girl, tightening his arm around her shoulders before he dropped it to her waist. He corralled her in, looping her closer to his side and closing the distance that had opened with her slowed gait.
"Love, 'm sorry, 'm sorry," he started pleading. Though, he could admit that he may not be the most convincing given the fact that he was saying all of this through an amused grin. "I didn't mean to laugh, I promise."
"Then why did you? I wasn't trying to be funny, Harry."
At the sound of her wavering voice, Harry immediately sobered. This wasn't so funny now that she wasn't so much as pouting as she was pursing her lips to keep her chin from wobbling, that her fluttery lashes weren't something cute and flirty, but a technique to keep her tears at bay. The pretty, glossy sheen over her eyes wasn't the stars descending to her irises, but her hurt feelings coming to the surface.
"Hey," he started, pausing their journey home to tuck her out of the way and into an alcove between two late night restaurants. "Hey, 'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to, really. I wasn't laughing because—like... I don't think the idea of being your boyfriend is funny, I jus' thought your question was funny because...I already thought I was your boyfriend, love."
That wobbly bottom lip dropped, leaving (Y/N)'s mouth open in awed shock, brows pinched. Glossy eyes remained, though more from the alcohol than the tears that were now wading away.
"Huh?"
A gentle smile spread over his lips. A hand that had made a home over her waist drifted up to cradle her cheek, the pad of his thumb resting on the height of her cheekbone, the very tip feeling the tickle of her eyelashes.
"Remember?" he prompted, "I asked you a week ago. With all those roses, and the strawberries in the shape of a heart after dinner? It was Valentine's Day, baby."
Harry watched the moment that the memory returned to her. He got to see in real time as she relived the moment she had teased him, calling him "lame" as if she didn't have this same glossy sheen over her eyes though it was definitely from tears back then, before covering his face in kisses.
Does this mean yes? he'd said when he'd had a chance to come up for air.
What do you think? she'd said back, kiss swollen lips and moony eyes, You did all this just to ask me to be your girlfriend, of course I'm saying yes.
She'd spent a long weekend at his house then. Tara was on plant duty.
"Oh," she sounded, "Oh, yeah. Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm way drunker than I thought."
"A little bit," Harry laughed, this time only a puff of air shaped by his smile. "'S alright, baby. No tears, yeah."
"No tears," she agreed, pliantly nodding, "I'm sorry I got upset—I can't believe I forgot all of that."
"But y'remember now, right?"
"I do," she nodded, a sweet smile on her lips, "I really, really do. Best weekend ever." She let out a dreamy sigh only for her features to melt into something sweetly distressed. "I'm going to be really sick in the morning, huh?"
"Probably," Harry deigned, unable to bite back his smile, "But I'll make sure y'have water and some medicine, and I'll hold your hair back."
Starry eyes, sweet smile, fluttery lashes were all trained up at him as Harry held her cheek in his warm palm. Her hand on his chest flexed, right over his beating heart, the pumps surely beating out the syllables of her name.
"Best boyfriend ever."
Harry could only manage to press a kiss to the tip of her nose—right over that pink glitter.
—————
I wrote this over a week but in a collective of like an hour and a half so I fear this may be rough but I really wanted to just get something out since its been so long since ive even written anything and I wanted to just try! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any ideas or anything u want to send please send them in!
omg omg idk if u take requests if u are can you do a winter soldier x little reader? maybe like bucky somehow gets into the winter soldier mode and is scary towards everyone else but the reader (like he goes soft for the reader)😭
Code: Winter
Pairing: daddy!Bucky x little!reader
Warnings: age regression, soft!Winter Soldier, mentions of guns, angst?, some fluff
⭒𖥸⭒
You whined when your nap got interrupted by the blarring alarm and constant repeating words 'code winter'.
Holding your hands over your ears you turned on your other side, expecting your daddy to lay beside you reading a book but frowned when you found his side of the bed empty.
Grabbing your stuffie you got up from your comfortable bed, making your way to the door and opening it slightly, peeking your head out.
You saw several agents and trainees running past your room, all seeming rather panicked and your little mind can't grasp the thought of there being a reason, or someone, for them being so scared, instead your curiosity got the best of you and you decided to go and look for yourself.
Meanwhile in the common area Steve was trying to console Bucky with Sam and Natasha behind him, aiming their weapons at him.
"Buck, come on, you know us-" Steve placed his shield down, trying to show he's no threat to the soldier.
"Steve! Look out!" Natasha shouted all three of them throw themselves to the side when the couch was being thrown their way.
Just as the soldier started approaching them he got send back by a repulsor shot from Tony who flied in just in time, in his iron man suit.
"That was a 2 thousand dollar couch, Terminator."
The soldier now grabbed the gun he had tucked in the waistband of his pants, aiming it at Tony when a small voice had them all turning their heads.
"Daddy...?" Your bottom lip trembling you held your stuffie close to your chest, not understanding why he was being mean to your aunt and uncles. "What you doin'?"
The soldier slowly made his way towards you, aiming his his gun straight at Steve when he took a step forward.
While walking to you the voice in his head he kept pushing away became even louder than before.
Do. Not. Hurt. Her. I dare you.
When he stood before you he tilted his head at the tear that was rolling down your cheek, his metal hand reaching up to wipe it away gently. In the deepest of his mind he knows you're no threat to him and picked you up with his metal arm placing you on his hip, his other hand still aiming the gun at the others to keep them at a good distance while walking out of the room.
The others all let out a sigh, still not at ease knowing the freaking Winter Soldier has you with him with no supervision.
"What are we gonna do now? If we step one foot in their room we'll have a bullet in our head." Sam said crossing his arms.
"He won't hurt her." Steve assured them.
"And how do you know that?" Tony laughed at him.
"I just know, alright. As much as the Winter Soldier wanted to, he couldn't. Bucky would never let that happen, even in this state."
"You better be right, Capsicle." Tony pointed a finger at him.
Back in your room, you were sitting on his lap, trying to analyze his expressions but there were none. Cold and dull eyes where staring at you, not the bright blue ones that you got used to and loved so much.
"You not daddy?" You asked, nervously playing with a lose seam of your stuffie.
When he shook his head you frowned a little. It confused you how he can be the Bucky you've known for years now but also doesn't at the same time. It's like talking to a clone, a much more colder one at that but still you can't help but feel safe in his arms.
The soldier doesn't like to see you upset, some inner part of him feels the need to comfort you in any way possible.
"Call me papa." He said with a russian accent and your face lit up at that, glad you didn't lost your caregiver completely.
You nod with a small smile, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck, your interrupted nap now catching up with you.
"Love you, papa." You mumbled, yawning before finally closing your eyes again.
The soldier hummed in response, his metal hand rubbing subconsciously on your back and feeling your body relaxing against his.
