#forbiddenlove

[gondorunsessizbahcesi]

Shadows know our secret

[cloudyluun]

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

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

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

Because some love stories are meant to be legendary.

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

Word Count: 8,5k

Warnings: 

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

Secret relationship chaos

One rain-soaked love confession

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

Paparazzi stress & PR nightmares

A duet so romantic it might ruin your standards

Fleetwood Mac lyrics used as emotional warfare

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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

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

They made one up.

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

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

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

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

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

She ignored them. Mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

There had been a beat of silence. Then—

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

That had made her pause.

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

She had hated that.

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

Harry had only chuckled. "Just a feeling."

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

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

But they had never been close.

Not yet.

That would come later.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N hated it.

And yet, here she was.

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

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

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

She had grown into herself.

And so had he.

She saw him before he saw her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something she didn’t want to name.

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

She heard his voice before she felt his presence.

“Well, if it isn’t rock royalty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirk deepened. “Touché.”

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

She had always liked that about him.

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

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

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

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

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

But neither of them touched it.

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

She didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Still hate the spotlight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something unspoken passed between them then.

A shift. A breath.

A moment on the edge of something inevitable.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them said a word.

But in the silence, they both felt it.

A crack in the walls they had spent years building.

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

Harry called her three weeks after the party.

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

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

She didn’t need to check the name.

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

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

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

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

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

That made her sit up.

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

And now, he was inviting her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was singing something new, something unfinished.

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

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

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

She swallowed hard, looking away first.

Harry smirked.

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

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

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

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

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

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

Some nights, they wrote.

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

She hadn’t expected this.

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

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

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

One night, she fell asleep in his hotel room.

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

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

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

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

Something in his chest tightened.

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

But he didn’t.

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

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

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

He hovered there, so close, so fucking close—

And then he pulled back.

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

Not now, he told himself.

Not yet.

He sat back, forcing himself to look away.

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

He was already in too deep.

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

The withdrawal was annoying.

But not unexpected.

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

“You still in town?”

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

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

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

“Dinner.”

That made her pause.

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

Intentional.

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

Still, she played it cool. “Where?”

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

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

Let him try and tell her what to wear.

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

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

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

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

The air shifted.

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

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

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

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

Harry tilted his head. “Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did.

That was the problem.

They should have known better.

A quiet dinner in London? No such thing.

The next morning, the headlines were everywhere.

Harry Styles and Rock Royalty: A New Power Couple?

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

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

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

Harry’s name lit up her screen.

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

Harry chuckled. “It’ll blow over.”

“You’re lying.”

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

“Obviously.”

“Or…”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Or?”

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

She snorted. “You wish, Styles.”

He hummed. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Her stomach flipped.

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

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

Then she opened the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N scowled. “It’s not love.”

Stevie’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Love is messy in this business, honey.”

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

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

Because she knew.

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

She spotted him immediately.

Harry.

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

Y/N swallowed hard.

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

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

The pull. The inevitable, undeniable pull.

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

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

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She couldn’t take it anymore.

So she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me.”

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence. Then—

“You think about it too, don’t you?”

Her stomach clenched.

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

Harry took a step closer. “This.”

Her heart hammered. “Harry—”

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

The air crackled between them.

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

Harry moved before she could take it back.

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

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

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

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

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

She melted.

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

The city blurred around them.

There was only this.

Only him.

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

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

Harry smirked, eyes dark and hazy.

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

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

“Shut up and do it again.”

And so he did.

They didn’t talk about it, not really.

They just acted.

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

The secrecy of it all was intoxicating.

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

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

It was thrilling.

It was dangerous.

It was them.

Harry had sent her nothing but a single text:

Room 1107. Door’s open.

So she went.

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

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

It smelled like him.

It felt like home.

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

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

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

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

But sleep had other plans.

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

And then—

A knock at the door.

Her eyes flew open.

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

“Harry? You up?”

His assistant.

Shit.

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

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

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

“Harry—”

“In, love.”

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

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

She could hear everything.

The door creaking open.

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

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

A pause.

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

Her glare could have burned through the door.

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

Then—

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

Silence.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Harry, to his credit, barely missed a beat.

“Right. Yeah. Noted.”

The door shut a moment later.

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

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

Y/N smacked his chest.

And then kissed him.

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

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

“I know.”

Neither of them moved.

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

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

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

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

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

And right into a camera flash.

The second she stepped onto the pavement, she knew.

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

Her phone buzzed before she even reached her apartment.

Maddie: Shit. Have you seen TMZ??

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

The headline screamed at her in bold print:

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

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

And then the comments.

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

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

She should have known.

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

And worse—Harry’s PR team.

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

It was bullshit.

By mid-afternoon, she was at his house.

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

Y/N’s breath caught. “What?”

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

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

He hesitated. And that was enough.

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

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

Her laugh was hollow. “Oh, the fans.”

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

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

His jaw clenched.

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

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

“Then why are you acting like you are?”

Silence.

Her heart hammered.

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

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was her answer.

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

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

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

And yet, it echoed.

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

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

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

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

She went silent.

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

She just didn’t have the energy.

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

And Harry?

Harry didn’t reach out.

Not once.

Which, of all the things, hurt the most.

It had been three days.

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

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

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

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

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

She sat down.

And she played.

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

"You could be my silver spring..."

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

"Blue-green colors flashing..."

Her voice wavered.

"I would be your only dream..."

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

"You will never be my lover..."

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

God.

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

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

She barely heard the footsteps approaching behind her.

But she felt the presence.

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

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

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

She just listened.

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

"Oh, baby," she murmured softly.

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

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

Stevie just held her.

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

She just let her cry.

Because what was there to say?

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

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

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

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he was never hers to begin with.

Meanwhile...

Harry hadn’t slept.

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

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

But nothing about this felt right.

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

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

Or maybe it was the video.

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

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

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

And he knew what that song meant.

His stomach dropped.

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

It was her.

It had always been her.

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

The rain was relentless.

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

But he didn’t care.

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

This was it.

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

His knuckles hit the wood. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

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

The door swung open.

And there she was.

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

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

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

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

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

She blinked.

“I love you.”

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

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

The rain hadn’t let up.

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

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

And she—

She just stared.

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

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

Her fingers fisted in the damp collar of his shirt.

She yanked him inside.

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

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

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

Their mouths crashed together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His whole body tensed.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Losing Control

They didn’t make it far.

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

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

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

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

They hit the couch.

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

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

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

Her breath caught.

A single heartbeat. A moment suspended in time.

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

Heat.

That was all she could feel.

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

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

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

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

And then everything blurred.

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

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

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

She did.

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

It was everything.

They collapsed against each other, breathless, bodies tangled.

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

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

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly—

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

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

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

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

Her heart ached.

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

His hand tightened on her waist.

“I’m done running.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

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

So was she.

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

None of it mattered anymore.

Because they were done hiding.

They chose the timing.

They chose the words.

They chose each other.

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

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

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

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

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

She nudged him, a silent Behave.

He ignored it.

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

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

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

“And you?” the interviewer asked gently.

Y/N looked at Harry.

He was already looking at her.

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

The arena was packed.

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

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

The crowd roared.

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

And then—he extended his hand.

She hesitated.

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

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

“C’mon, love,” he said. “Duet?”

The audience screamed.

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

But she took his hand.

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

But none of it mattered.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

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

And then—

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

Soft.

Lingering.

Devoted.

The crowd melted.

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

It wasn’t about the world watching.

It was about them.

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

They had each other.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[rainbowsarah12]

Watch me fall....

Again my favorite ZeLink couple. Sry for the lack of bright artworks atm, it´s the season. I usually prefer some darker tones until Spring arrives :D

[authorhopeswriting]

Claimed By The Hyde - Prologue

I hated Tyler Galpin.

The smirk, the cocky attitude, the way he always acted like he knew me better than I knew myself. He was the boy every girl in Jericho had liked at least once... and the one I wanted to strangle.

But Tyler didn't just notice me-he watched me. He pushed and teased and cornered me until I couldn't breathe without thinking of him. And no matter how many times I told myself I hated him, my body betrayed me every single time.

Because the truth is, Tyler never hated me. He wanted me-always had. And he wasn't going to stop until I was his. In every way.

Enemies. Rivals. Obsession.

~~~

"You're obsessed with me."

"Maybe I am. What are you going to do, sweetheart?"

"I hate you."

"Funny... your body doesn't seem to agree"

~~~

Master list:

Prologue

One: Through The Mist

Two: Coffee Complications

Three: A Face I Never Wanted To See Again

Four: The Boy I Refuse To Think About

Five: If She Wants War, She’ll Get It

Six: The Game Begins

Seven: The Storm Breaks

Eight: Collision

~~~

ALL CHAPTERS AND NEW UPDATES ACCESSIBLE ON WATTPAD @authorhopeswriting

~~~

Prologue

I've lived in Nevermore my entire life. Some people call it small-town charm, but I call it a cage. The streets are narrow, winding, cobblestones slick with rain or frost, the buildings leaning like they've been watching me since I was a child. The fog rolls in early, curling between the trees and over the rooftops, leaving the world quiet, muted, like it's holding its breath.

Most people see Nevermore and think peaceful, think quaint, think safe. I see something else. Shadows that linger too long, windows that stare back, and whispers that slip through the cracks if you know how to listen. I've grown used to it. I've learned to keep my eyes down, my pace steady, my voice small when I need to be invisible.

School is no different. The halls of Nevermore Academy echo with footsteps that don't belong, with eyes that watch a little too long. The students all have secrets; the faculty even more. I've learned to navigate it the way I navigate the streets outside: carefully, cautiously, never looking for trouble. Trouble always finds you anyway.

Some nights, I lie in bed and think about leaving, about escaping, about finding a place where the shadows don't follow. But those nights are rare. I've always been tied to this town, to the streets and the rain, to the unshakable feeling that something waits just beyond the edge of my vision. I've learned to live with it.

It's not that I'm lonely. I'm not, exactly. I have my routines, my small circles, the places I go and the people I tolerate. But there's a hollowness that creeps in when I'm walking home at night, when the fog presses against my coat and I can't see more than a few feet ahead. That's when I feel it most: the pull of something I don't understand, the thrill of danger I've been taught to ignore.

I've convinced myself that's enough. That I'm safe, that my life is ordinary, that nothing could possibly disrupt the fragile balance I've built. I walk the streets, keep my head down, and pretend I'm untouchable.

And yet, I've always known the storm is coming.

It doesn't matter that I don't know when. It doesn't matter that I don't know what form it will take. Storms don't announce themselves, and this one is no exception. I feel it in the way the wind stirs at night, in the way the mist curls through the trees like it has a purpose, in the way my pulse races for no reason I can name.

Tonight, I'm in my room at Nevermore Academy, sitting by the window with the rain sliding down the glass in silver ribbons. I've finished my homework, I've read the chapters I needed, I've checked my phone enough times to know no one has messaged me. And yet I feel restless. I feel something crawling under my skin, something impatient, waiting.

I glance at the street below, at the empty courtyard beyond the dorm, at the fog that rolls through the treetops. Everything is still. Everything is quiet. Everything is too calm.

I shouldn't want excitement. I shouldn't want chaos. And yet, I do. I feel it like an ache in my chest. I don't know what form it will take, who it will come with, or what it will demand of me. I just know it is coming, and that one day soon, my carefully constructed world will tilt. I will be forced to see what I have been hiding from and what I have been waiting for without knowing it.

And when it comes, I will remember this night. I will remember the quiet, the fog, the rain sliding down my window. I will remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, I was ready.

But I'm not.

~~~

This story was originally posted on my Wattpad account: @authorhopeswriting. Go there to see regular updates and the full, complete story!

Recommended for 18+ readers. This story contains mature, dark, and explicit themes that would likely be rated R or MA15+, depending on your country.

This is a fictional and transformative work inspired by the Wednesday series. All characters, names, and events are fictionalised interpretations and do not represent real people, situations, or the official canon.

Wednesday and all related characters, settings, and source material are the property of Netflix, MGM Television, and the creators of the original series. I do not own or claim any rights to these materials. No copyright infringement is intended.

[inkandanarchy]

BROKEN FINDS BROKEN

SUMMARY: The world doesn’t stop when Opie dies. It just… drags. Slower. Heavier. Like every mile is uphill, and no one told your lungs how to breathe without him in the room.

You’re left picking up pieces that don’t fit anymore—his cut still hanging by the door, his voice living in the silence, his absence louder than anything else. And Jax… he’s just as wrecked. Different kind of broken, but just as deep. He lost his brother. You lost your husband.

Grief makes strangers out of people. Or it stitches them together.

WARNINGS: Grief and loss, major character death (Opie), emotional trauma, slow-burn romance, guilt, mentions of violence, canon-typical themes, healing through shared loss.

CHAPTER 1 - BROKEN BONES

CHAPTER 2 - FRACTURED LINES

Time didn't heal. That was a lie people told so they could sleep at night. Time didn't stitch you back together — it just dulled the edges until you stopped bleeding on everyone around you.

Weeks stretched into months, and the hole Opie left in your chest was still wide open. But you'd learned how to cover it up. You went to TM every morning, put on a smile that didn't reach your eyes, and buried yourself in work. Grease under your nails, paperwork stacked high, and Abel tugging on your shirt when he wanted you to chase him around the lot.

Abel was your anchor. That little boy could drag a laugh out of you when no one else could. You held him through tantrums, through sticky popsicle fingers, through nights when he cried for a mother who wasn't there. You whispered to him in the dark that he was safe, that you'd never leave, even though you weren't sure you believed in forever anymore.

Jax noticed. He noticed everything. The way you lit up when Abel reached for you. The way your hands shook less when you had him in your arms. And the way your grief, sharp and raw, softened around his son.

One night, after a long day at TM, Jax leaned against the garage doorframe, cigarette glowing between his fingers, watching you wipe grease off Abel's cheeks. His voice was low, rough.

"You're good with him, darlin'."

You shot him a look, tired but fond. "He's the only man around here who doesn't drive me crazy."

Jax smirked, but there was something in his eyes. Something heavy. He didn't push it, just took a drag of his smoke and exhaled slow. But that look stayed with you long after you drove home.

Sleep never came easy. Nights were the worst — the house too quiet, the bed too big. You started leaving the TV on, static voices filling the silence, but it didn't fool your body. You'd wake in a cold sweat, reaching out for a man who wasn't there.

One of those nights, there was a knock on your door. You dragged yourself out of bed, hair a mess, sweatshirt hanging loose on your frame. Jax was standing there, helmet in hand, eyes tired like he hadn't slept either.

"Couldn't stay at the clubhouse," he muttered.

You didn't even hesitate. You stepped aside, and he walked in. He didn't take the couch — he just dropped down on the floor by your bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For hours, you lay there in silence, both of you staring at the ceiling. Every now and then, he'd shift, the leather of his kutte creaking. Finally, in the dark, his voice came quiet.

"I see him everywhere, y'know? Close my eyes, he's there. Hear his laugh, his voice. Then I wake up, and he's fuckin' gone."

Your throat tightened. "Me too."

Jax didn't move, didn't look at you. But after a beat, his hand slid up onto the bedspread, resting close enough that your fingers brushed. He didn't grab your hand, didn't push. Just let it sit there, steady, until you finally closed your eyes and drifted off.

It was the first time you'd slept more than an hour since Opie died.

The weeks stacked up, grief twisting into routine. You and Jax worked side by side at TM, fixing bikes, running parts, sharing smoke breaks in the alley. You didn't talk much about Opie — sometimes the silence said more than words could.

But there were moments.

Like when you found one of Opie's old ratchets buried in a toolbox and froze, staring at it like it might burn you. Jax was at your side instantly, his hand curling over yours, voice low. "He'd want you to use it, babe."

Or when you saw Opie's photo taped to the memorial wall, that wide grin that had been yours alone. Your knees went weak, and Jax was there again, arm steady around your waist, holding you up without a word.

The bond between you was unspoken. Shared loss welded you together.

But there were cracks in the weld, too — sparks of something you didn't want to name.

Like the way your heart thumped when Jax leaned over your shoulder, warm breath brushing your ear as he showed you how to fix a carb. The way his laugh pulled a smile from you, even when you swore you'd forgotten how. The way Abel's little voice calling "Mommy?" by mistake made your chest ache in a way you didn't know how to handle.

You shoved it down. You had to. He was your husband's best friend. The man who carried his coffin. Anything else was betrayal.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

One evening, you and Jax sat on the porch steps outside Gemma's, Abel asleep inside. The crickets buzzed in the warm air, smoke curling from Jax's cigarette. He passed it to you, and you took a drag, the burn grounding you.

"You ever think it's wrong?" you asked suddenly, voice sharper than you meant.

Jax's brows furrowed. "What?"

"This." You gestured between you. "Us sittin' here, pretendin' like it's normal. Like we ain't thinkin' about him every second."

Jax was quiet for a long beat. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It ain't wrong to breathe, darlin'. He'd want you to. He'd want me to. If all we do is drown in it, then what the hell did he die for?"

You stared at him, anger and guilt and longing all tangled in your chest. "You make it sound so simple."

He huffed a humorless laugh. "Ain't simple. Nothin' about this is. But I can't lose you too."

The words hung heavy in the night. You didn't respond. You just handed the cigarette back, fingers brushing his, and stared at the stars until the silence swallowed you both whole.

The first time it almost happened was at TM, late one night. You were both finishing up paperwork, the shop quiet except for the ticking of cooling engines.

You looked up from the desk to find Jax watching you. Not in the casual way he always did, but something deeper, heavier. His eyes swept over your face, lingering like he was memorizing every line.

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, slow, hesitant, like he was giving you every chance to stop him. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb trailing soft along your jaw. For a second, you swore you felt the world tilt.

But just before his lips touched yours, you flinched back, heart pounding. "I can't. Jax, I—"

Pain flashed in his eyes, but he pulled back instantly, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in your throat. So you just turned back to the paperwork, pretending the moment hadn't just split you in two.

The push and pull tore at you in the weeks that followed. Every time you laughed with him, guilt gnawed at your ribs. Every time his hand brushed yours, you burned and froze at the same time.

But the truth was there, unspoken, lurking between every glance, every shared silence. Jax was the only one who understood the depth of your loss because it was his loss too. And in that shared grief, something new was taking root, whether you wanted it to or not.

One night, Abel crawled into your lap, half-asleep, mumbling against your chest. Jax watched from across the room, a softness in his eyes you hadn't seen in years.

"You look good with him," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. "Don't, Jax. Don't make this harder."

He stood, crossing the room, stopping just inches from you. His voice dropped low, rough. "Ain't tryin' to make it harder. Just tellin' you what I see."

You met his gaze, heat sparking in your chest despite the guilt, despite the grief. And for the first time, you didn't look away.

CHAPTER THREE - SHADOWS AND SPARKS

[mypovkmv]

Where Soft Things Bloom

Chapter 10 - Ours

Azriel and Elain choose each other — not in silence, not in stolen moments, but openly and deliberately. And for once, they allow themselves to fully have it. Without hiding.

READ NOW ON AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/83391311/chapters/221787906

[tytarax]

I loved writing this <3

This is a pipa in case you don't know

Earth was lively that morning, sunlight gleaming off Capsule Corp’s domes, laughter echoing from the garden where Trunks and Goten were sparring again. Bulma shouted something from the kitchen about breaking her furniture, Vegeta barked threats from the gravity chamber, and amid all the noise, you sat quietly beneath the shade of a large tree, a book open in your lap.

The sound of the breeze through the leaves was softer than a whisper. It was the one place you could breathe, away from the chaos that came with being the eldest Briefs-Saiyan hybrid. You had always been calm where your family was not, patient where your father was furious, and kind where your mother was fiery.

You turned a page, and the sky trembled.

A ripple of energy swept across the atmosphere like thunder laced with divinity. It wasn’t ki. It was something colder and divine.

When the light descended, the entire planet seemed to hold its breath.

Inside Capsule Corp - Moments Later

Bulma was already yelling when the doors opened. “Whoever you are, this is private property! And if you’re here for another food sampling—”

“Shut up, woman,” Vegeta hissed, every muscle in his body tightening. His instincts screamed. He knew that energy.

Beerus floated through the air as if gravity was a mere suggestion, Whis just behind him, smiling with polite amusement.

“Lord Beerus, this is Earth,” Whis said lightly, “the planet with the marvelous food I mentioned.”

Beerus hummed, eyes wandering lazily, until they stopped.

Not on Vegeta. Not on Bulma.

On you.

You stood at the far end of the room, half hidden behind a pillar, clutching your book to your chest. You hadn’t meant to stare, but his presence was impossible to ignore: cat-like, lean, purple, and impossibly composed, radiating a strange kind of quiet destruction that made your heart thrum in both fear and fascination.

His golden eyes blinked once, then again, slower this time.

The corners of his lips curled.

“Whis,” he murmured, “remind me why you didn’t tell me this planet housed a goddess.”

Vegeta nearly choked. “What did he just call her?”

Bulma gasped. “Excuse me, she’s my daughter!”

Beerus tilted his head, completely unbothered by the outrage in the room. “Mm. Then I suppose I’ll have to thank you for her.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to crush a mountain.

Later - Private Garden, Capsule Corp

You hadn’t even realized how fast everything had happened. One moment your father was preparing to attack, the next, Whis had blinked him into a corner and Beerus was... simply talking to you.

He’d followed you outside, apparently done with everyone else.

“You’re different,” Beerus said simply, examining a delicate pink blossom between his claws. “Your energy… doesn’t irritate me.”

“I… thanks?” you offered softly.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that somehow didn’t sound cruel. “You should. It’s rare for me to meet mortals who can exist near me without trembling or posturing.”

You smiled faintly, eyes dropping to your lap. “I just don’t think fear helps anyone. And my family trembles enough for all of us.”

“Hm.” His gaze softened, only a fraction. “You’re calm. That’s dangerous.”

You blinked. “Dangerous?”

“Yes,” he said, stepping closer until you could feel the faint hum of his divine aura. “Because calm makes me forget what I’m supposed to destroy.”

Your breath hitched. He noticed.

He smiled. “You’re beautiful when you’re startled.”

Before you could answer, Vegeta’s voice roared from the distance: “GET AWAY FROM HER, YOU PURPLE MENACE!”

Beerus sighed audibly. “And there’s the migraine.”

Bulma stormed out behind Vegeta. “If you even think about touching her—”

“Oh, I don’t think,” Beerus interrupted calmly, “I decide.”

His tone was mild, yet the words carried such weight that even Vegeta froze mid-step. Whis appeared just behind Beerus, looking positively delighted.

“Well,” Whis chimed in, “this certainly took an unexpected romantic turn.”

Your cheeks flushed. Beerus smirked.

“I like this one,” he said, nodding toward you, “so I’m keeping her.”

The world stopped.

“Keeping-?!” Bulma shrieked.

Whis raised a brow. “Lord Beerus, perhaps a more... tactful phrasing?”

Beerus ignored him entirely. “She’ll be my companion. My wife.” His gaze flicked to Vegeta, eyes glinting. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to challenge a God of Destruction over family politics?”

Vegeta’s ki flared—and then, under Bulma’s death glare, fizzled out.

“Unbelievable,” Vegeta muttered, jaw clenched. “Unbelievable!”

Beerus turned back to you, and for the first time, you saw something sincere beneath the arrogance.

“I’ll protect your planet,” he said simply. “And I’ll protect you. That’s my promise.”

You hesitated. Then, softly, you nodded.

Somewhere deep inside, something told you this was not the end of Earth, but the beginning of something far greater.

...

Years Later - Beerus’ Planet

The temple was peaceful. You sat near the edge of the floating palace, legs folded neatly, playing your pipa. Each note shimmered through the air like light through water, wrapping the planet in calm.

Beerus lay nearby, tail lazily flicking, eyes half-closed.

“I destroyed three moons today,” he murmured, voice low, “and somehow, I still don’t feel at peace until you play.”

You smiled, not looking up. “I can play forever.”

He cracked one golden eye open. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”

The laughter that followed was soft, and for a god of destruction, oddly human.

Whis appeared beside you both, smiling knowingly. “Ah, harmony and chaos in balance. How poetic.”

And somewhere in the temple halls, a small child’s laughter echoed, their daughter’s ki flaring briefly like a tiny star, before fading into warmth.

The universe remained safe that day because its most dangerous god had found something even stronger than destruction.

---

The planet of the Destroyer God was quiet again, at least, for the first few seconds of the morning.

Then came the soft, rising hum of a familiar melody: your pipa, echoing across the floating gardens. The strings shimmered under your fingertips, their tone bright and calm, filling the vast emptiness with something Beerus didn’t have a word for.

Peace.

He lounged on the nearest stone pillar, eyes half-closed, tail lazily curling around his leg. Whis floated nearby, smiling in that infuriatingly knowing way of his.

“Your wife’s music has improved, my Lord,” Whis said, voice light and teasing. “One might say she’s achieved divine resonance.”

Beerus’s ear twitched. “She was already perfect. The music simply caught up.”

Whis chuckled. “Ah, I see. And here I thought you didn’t do sentimentality.”

Beerus cracked one golden eye open. “I don’t. I simply state facts.”

But his gaze softened when it found you, sitting on the edge of the platform, blue hair glowing under the morning light.

And then there was the other sound, soft giggles from the temple steps.

Your daughter, a small bundle of wild light blue fur (?, toddled toward him. Her eyes gleamed just like yours, but her face was unmistakably his.

“Papa!” she chirped.

Beerus sighed, long, theatrical. “I told you not to run on the stairs, little star.”

She climbed into his lap anyway, completely ignoring the “god of destruction” part of his title. Whis stifled a laugh as Beerus muttered something about mortals having no respect for authority.

“She’s learning from her mother,” Whis commented, smirking.

Beerus glared. “Watch it.”

You joined them moments later, carrying a tray of sweets you’d baked that morning, light, fluffy things that melted the instant they hit his tongue. The only reason Earth still existed, Whis often said, was because you’d learned how to bake.

“Breakfast for my two favorite beings,” you said softly, sitting beside them.

Beerus leaned back, pretending disinterest even as his tail brushed yours under the table. “Hmph. At least one of those beings appreciates your cooking properly.”

Your daughter’s cheeks were already covered in powdered sugar.

“Clearly,” you said with a giggle.

Whis poured tea for all of you, the moonlight reflecting off the golden cups. “It’s rather endearing,” he mused, “how a destroyer’s planet has become… domestic.”

Beerus scowled. “Watch your tone.”

“Oh, come now,” Whis teased, “if Vegeta could see you now, lounging in a robe, sipping tea, with your daughter using your tail as a pillow, he might actually faint.”

Beerus didn’t respond, but the faintest shade of pink brushed his ears.

Later That Day - Capsule Corp, Earth

“NO.”

“That’s not an option, Vegeta,” Bulma snapped, pointing her spatula like a sword. “You’re going. I want to see my daughter, and you’re coming with me.”

Vegeta crossed his arms, jaw tight. “You expect me to visit him?”

“He’s your son-in-law!” Bulma said. “And it’s been three years! Now get in the ship before I make Trunks drive us there.”

Vegeta grumbled the entire flight to Beerus’s world. Whis met them halfway through, teleporting them directly to the courtyard where you were serving tea.

“Mother! Father!” you greeted, joy bright in your tone. “It’s been so long-”

“MY BABY!” Bulma cried, crushing you into a hug before you could finish. “You’ve gotten even more beautiful, oh, I knew the god thing would look good on you!”

Vegeta only gave a curt nod, muttering, “Hmph. You look well, brat.”

Then his gaze slid to Beerus. The two locked eyes instantly.

“Still alive, I see,” Beerus said with an infuriating smirk.

Vegeta’s ki flickered. “Barely resisting the urge to fix that.”

Your daughter peeked out from behind your leg, tail flicking. “Grandpa?”

Vegeta froze. “She… called me.?”

You smiled. “She knows everyone by name. She’s smart like her grandma.”

Bulma was already sobbing. “Oh, she’s perfect! Look at that little tail!”

Beerus looked vaguely smug. “Of course she is. She’s ours.”

Vegeta scowled, but there was no fight left in him. Not when his granddaughter toddled over, reached up, and patted his cheek.

You’d never seen your father go so still. Then, slowly, Vegeta crouched down and let her climb onto his shoulder.

“...Hmph. Fine. She’s worthy of the Saiyan name.”

Beerus smirked. “She’s also part deity. So yes, I’d say she surpasses it.”

Bulma sighed dramatically. “You two are never going to stop competing, are you?”

Whis chuckled from behind them. “Oh, I rather hope not. It keeps the universe interesting.”

That Night

After everyone left, you and Beerus sat together on the edge of the floating temple, legs dangling into the starlight. The child slept peacefully inside, her tiny ki pulsing softly.

You leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder. “You were good today.”

Beerus hummed. “What are you talking about? I’m always good.”

You laughed quietly. “You didn’t threaten to blow anything up.”

“Because you were there,” he murmured, turning his head slightly. “That’s enough to keep me busy.”

You tilted your face up toward him. “You’ve changed, you know.”

“Don’t spread rumors,” he said, though his voice softened. “A destroyer isn’t supposed to change.”

“Then maybe you’re something new,” you whispered. “A god who loves.”

He didn’t respond, just leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. The stars reflected in his golden eyes, and for a moment, he looked utterly human.

“Don’t tell Whis,” he said softly. “He’ll never let me live it down.”

You smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

From somewhere behind a pillar, Whis’s amused voice floated out: “Oh, I heard everything.”

Beerus groaned. “Whis!”

You laughed into his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap around you, tail curling protectively around your waist.

The destroyer of worlds, the calm of creation, and their tiny spark of life, three heartbeats against an endless sky.

The universe was at peace again.

Masterpost

DBS Masterlist

@ultimate-percussionist

[orcofmine]

Page 180 of my comic: Orc of Mine