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yourladyofmercy · 3 days ago

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Back to Me || J.B.

☆ — Thunderbolts ! James "Bucky" Barnes x afab ! reader ☆ — He knew that you couldn't resist helping him, and he couldn't resist crawling back to you the moment he knew he had a chance to. Your wish for him to come back to you was granted, and yet he happened to be too late. ▹ —Content & Warnings : no use of Y/N, foul language, angst, past relationship mentioned, did i mention angst?, happy ending, MINOR THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS! ▹ — WC : 3.9 k ▹— A/N : oh my god hi this is my first post ever im peeing myself .. it took me so long to figure out how to do angst clean-up so they could have a happy ending so here you go !! I hope you like it xoxo

The sound of the buzzing from your fence. The notification from your doorbell app. you never planned to have someone here, especially this evening. Alpine’s fur rubbed against your leg as she walked by, giving you a curious look as you averted your gaze down to your phone.

The one person who hadn’t shown up when you had begged him to stay—to salvage whatever you two had left, is standing at your door. A hand rested on his ribs and a batch of misfits that fit a description of an off-brand Avengers were in worse shape than he was. You could see the group conversing between each other over your security feed.

Your heart seemed to be pulsing in your ears as you looked at his eyes, locking with yours as he stared into the camera in front of him. He had the same look in his face that you had seen on the nights that were plagued by the constant nightmares. The days where he couldn’t escape the pain that he had caused. He needed help—and God knows you couldn’t rest helping him.

———————

“If you all don’t shut up for once she won’t let us in” Bucky said, giving the slightest glare at the group behind him. His breath hitched as he said it, knowing that there was already a slim enough chance you would let him in, let alone a whole group of… well, whatever they were.

The house towered over the fence, lights coming from almost all of the windows on the first floor. Bucky remembered this house. His face deadpanned only leaving his eyes as a tell tale sign of his remembrance of this place—the love he left here. He remembers the rooms, the way you would wait for him on the stairs when he came home, the smell of the bathroom when the bath was running. All of it. Every moment flooded back to him, the life that he left. The life that he could have had. The big house, the family, the wife. Everything was on a platter in front of him, and yet it seemed as if the film had kept rolling without him in frame.

“By any chance are you going to tell us where you have us going?” Ava blurted out, resulting in Alexei sharply giving an elbow to her shoulder.“He said it’s a she. It’s probably a she-she.” Alexei said, giving a glance between Ava and Bucky.

A silence ran through the air as they all had the same thought running through their minds. They all seemed to have a lightbulb moment, immediately turning their heads to Bucky again. “Are we visiting your girlfriend, Bucky? Because I don’t think any of us are dressed to be making first impressions” Walker said, letting out a small chuckle when he finished. “And if this is your so called girlfriend why the fuck is she not letting us in?”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Walker.” He said, pivoting towards him and giving him a pointed stare. His shoulders were stiff and he stood more upright than he did before they had reached the gate. “Any more questions? Or are you all going to keep being irritable for the rest of the night when I’m the only one who has some sort of a plan here?” Bucky huffed in response, his hands exaggerating every single word that came out of his mouth.

The team took two steps back, John putting his hands up in surrender and shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake I’m sorry I’m the only one-“ Before Bucky could finish his sentence, the iron gate started to open with a creak. From their position, the driveway led up to only one of the large double doors open to the house. Distantly, a figure could be seen—leaning in the doorway with her hair swept to one side.

“What’s up with him.." Ava muttered to Yelena, earning her a shrug in response. The five walked up slowly, Bucky leading through the group ahead.

It was obvious life kept moving after Bucky left. Why wouldn’t it? The shrubs in front of the house were bigger. The flowers had bloomed, and he assumed you had planted more since hydrangeas were popping up now. Every flower was your favorite color and the scents were the ones you always pointed out when you two walked together around the neighborhood. He was surrounded by you again—and he hadn’t even said hello yet.

___________________

Once the group got closer, the image became even clearer for them.

“Hey, doll”

You leaned on the doorway with your arms crossed, no expression crossing your face. You couldn’t let him get to you again. Never again. Sure, you had thought about this moment. This fantasy moment of him coming back to you on a white horse and making amends—but it never came. Weeks passed, months, of waiting for anything. A call would have sufficed, and yet he’s standing at your door, half broken and bleeding.

Bucky felt himself falling apart as he inched closer to seeing you again. He could remember your face, wondering if you had changed your hair, or painted your nails another color than what he last saw you with.

“I’m guessing you got your ass kicked and my place was the closest?” It had taken you a second to respond, allowing the words that came out of his mouth to ripple in the air before you spoke. No one had called you that in upwards of a year and a half. The words felt foreign, like a knife entering a wound that had already healed once.

“That’s the long story short I guess–” John wanted to finish, but the death stare that he had received from Bucky was enough to result in his silence. “Doll you know it’s not like that– I swear” “What? Like you we’re going to call?” The rest of the “thunderbolts” felt like they needed a bucket of popcorn and lawn chairs to get through this argument.

Bucky shuffled closer to you, pushing his hair back with his left hand. “You know I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t serious. You’re the only person I thought of at the moment that would have dealt with… us.” Your eyes scanned the group in front of you, at least you knew who the off brand Captain America was. The rest… completely unfamiliar.

You moved to the side, gesturing them into the house with one arm. “Come on, before someone sees you all” your voice was little above a whisper, immediately locking the door once everyone was in.

___________________

“So… who are you guys?” All five of them sat on your couch, piled on top of eachother. The sofa jerked downwards as they all sat, slightly curving under their weight. “We are the Thunderbolts” Alexei said, waving his arms around for what he assumed added emphasis.

“The… Thunderbolts?” You furrowed your brow for a moment, looking at the whole group, then Bucky who was seated in an armchair alone. “Not officially, we did not agree on a name yet” Walker chimed in, placing his folded shield on the hardwood flooring. “It was the name of her childhood soccer team actually,” Ava said, smirking as Yelena covered her eyes and slid down in her seat. “Alexei’s idea originally.”

The house was cold inside, the type to make you wrap your arms around yourself when you walk in. The mantel was covered with framed photos, memories locked in a time of joy and laughter. Multiple spots on the mantel remained empty with a layer of dust covering the white paint, as if they were waiting for someone to fill them again. Empty Home Depot boxes were spread around, open but not filled. Books were still on their shelves with vinyl records mixed in between—except the house wasn’t a home. It felt empty and alone with only a young woman and her cat roaming inside. No shoes were left at the door, or coats being hung at the doorway. The firewood in the fireplace looks as if it was never lit, and everything was as if it was in a painting. Still and perfect.

Bucky almost didn’t recognize the house when he walked in. There was no jazz music playing in the background, cups littered around with tea and whiskey. The sound of laughter as the two of you danced barefoot across the floors. The house had turned grey, lost its color. No candles were lit and no sweet scents lingering around the house from them, or plants growing in each windowsill. Everything was shiny and unused, dust only covering up the small areas where his marks once were. The photo frames being taken down of the two of you, or the vases filled with flowers he would bring home whenever the old ones wilted. The house was perfect, but it was the complete opposite of the home he had with you.

Alpine had already made her way next to Bucky, and he cradled her like she was his first born. He was always the only one that was able to hold her like that. She purred as he pet her, nuzzling into his shirt. You gave a slight glance as he spoke to the cat in a low enough register that no one could hear. Even the cat missed him.

“Well, Thunderbolts.. make yourself at home” You were already making your way to the kitchen, peeking your head out of the doorway. “I’ll bring water and something a little stronger for those in need” You flashed a smile, rubbing your right arm as you walked in.

“I like her already,” Alexei shouted out “I do not understand why you do not stay here” Alexei made himself comfortable while pointing at Bucky. The whole team watched as he babied a white fuzzy cat—why would the winter soldier have a pet cat? Everyone seemed to feel like they were in an episode of the Twilight Zone, trying to figure out why Bucky would have given up a shot at domesticity.

“She is so out of your league man,” John said looking around the house, pressing his palms to his knees as he got up to look at the frames on the mantel. “Are any of these photos of you actually enjoying life by any chance?” He said while picking one of the frames up.

Bucky stayed silent, immediately putting Alpine down and walking towards the kitchen. He turned back for a moment, only muttering “Don’t break anything” before he disappeared to talk to you.

Yelena and Ava shared a look, Alexei suddenly having Alpine walking between his legs as he sat and John being entertained by looking at your shelves and photos. “We are having the same idea, right?” Yelena cocked her head slightly at Ava, quickly glancing at the doorway to the kitchen. “ohhh… yes. The same idea.” She gave a nod in agreement and the pair immediately sprung up and raced to the doorway, hoping to hear some strays of the conversation.

___________________

“Need any help?”

You could hear his boots on the wooden floors from a mile away. You knew his stride, his breath in silence, the way that he would tap on the kitchen counters as he waited for a response from you. You were scared of what you might let out if you opened your mouth, lashing out at him had no point, did it? It had been long enough for you to let this go—let him go. “There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge, too much for me to finish.” You pointed in the direction of the fridge as you put on the stove for some tea. It’s not like Bucky needed directions of where everything was, everything had still been in place from when he left. After all, what if he did come back home? You kept your head down, your eyes fixated on the stove burners. Bucky made his way closer to you, inching to the fridge while still looking for your face as your hair covered your side profile. Your arms were crossed, leaning on the kitchen island behind you. “Doll–” his breath hitched as he got closer, reaching out for the back of your arm. “Don’t.” You said sharply, flinching and then tucking your hair back into place as it fell out. He watched as you moved to the otherside of the island, acting like you were looking for something in the cabinets below. “We really don’t have to do this Buck.” You stood back up with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses in your hand, setting them down on the counter. “We can’t do this–I can’t keep doing this with you.” Your eyes looked like you were pleading. Pleading for this cat and mouse game to be over. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” His body hovered over the counter, leaning towards you as his hands gripped onto the marble. “I never want to hurt you– you know that.” He pushed his hair back with his right hand, closing his eyes as he awaited your response. Bucky knew that ending this was for the better. The lingering looks at parties, the nights sat drinking at the hotel bar and laughing over your childhood stories. A spark doesn’t always light a fire, he kept telling himself. He could mess around, find someone who eased the loneliness that constantly ate away at him. To fill his nights with something other than waking up in a cold sweat. He never wanted to get this attached to you.

New nightmares were added to his nightly rotation once he left and you were the main character. How he had left you haunted him, adding to his list of lives that he had lost one way or another. He knew you could find anyone, probably someone who is more in your league to actually agree with Walker for once.

You stayed silent, unable to look up at his eyes. “You know I saw dancing in our living room for the rest of our lives and children with your last name,” You pushed your hair back out of your eyes, twiddling with a ring that laid on your left hand. He didn’t know how he didn’t notice it before. He glazed back and forth at the ring, you could feel his eyes practically burning a hole into it.

“I had to move on Buck.” You finally looked up at him, as he met your gaze the silence was palpable. His mouth opened, then shut again, just analyzing this new person he stood in front of. You weren’t his anymore. “You didn’t have to go get fucking married.”

“What the hell was I supposed to do? Keep waiting for you?” You cocked your head to the side, tears starting to brim at your eyelashes. “And don’t play the ‘it was for your own god’ and ‘i wasn’t meant for this kind of life’ card.” The tea kettle started to whistle in the background, low enough for it to go unnoticed between the two of you even between the silence. The world felt as if it was just you two standing in it, no one in your living room and no threat to the world sitting right outside your door. “You know damn well I would’ve patched up every wound on your body. I would have dealt with every sleepless night that came with you because I would rather be knee deep in your blood and everything else that comes with you than go on without you”

He stayed silent. He never knew how to respond in these situations. He was made to observe, to stay silent and simply react. He watched you stare into his eyes, desperately looking for something in him that he knew wasn’t there.

James Barnes was the man that you wanted to marry, but he wasn’t the man that was going to marry you. He knew he couldn’t be the picture perfect husband. The one that could take care of children or simply take care of the house. He tried to be domesticated, for you, for your future together. But the world seemed to fight him in every way. Bucky felt as if he would do anything just to tell you that he was sorry, yet you probably didn’t want to hear any of it. He didn’t know if you had yearned for the day you two would touch again. Until the day that the two of you would meet again. He missed the way that you laughed in surprise when he remembered something small, or the way you would stay up talking to him until the sun came up. “You’ll get over this, doll.” His jaw clenched after he said it, a piece of his heart leaving with the words when they escaped from his mouth.

You shook your head silently, looking back down at the counter. “You haven’t.” The world seemed to stop spinning. A year of waiting, dreaming of when he would come back to you. You could see your face at the altar, marrying the man who you knew would stay. The one that had no risk, he was safe.

None of your friends had to worry that he may hurt you. That the love of your life would suddenly go rabid, killing anyone and everyone. Maybe even you. The man who didn’t have a foggy reputation, one who instead had a bright future. A stable life and a happy wife. A big white wedding with a dress that seemed to drown you and a life–

“Do you love him?” “What?” “Are you as in love with him as you were with me?”

“He’s a nice guy, Buck.”

The tea kettle continued to whistle, growing louder and louder as the two of you finally snapped out of each other. Your breath hitched, as you muttered a curse word under your breath, your hands slightly shaking as your hand brushed his body as you walked past. “You don’t have to marry him.” He turned towards you, the two of you now standing directly in front of each other. “I’ll always be waiting for you,” as you attempted to walk away again, you felt his hand lightly grab your forearm. “I will never get over this, but I did this for you.” Your head knew better than to give into this. To run out of this house while you still had the chance. “I did it so you could fall in love with someone who could have given you everything,” His hand cupped your face for a moment, you couldn’t help but lean into it, savoring it. Imprinting this moment into your memory so you would never forget this… or forget him. ___________________

The group all started saying their thank you and goodbyes as night completely covered your neighborhood, allowing for a safe exit for the whole group. It’s as if they only needed some water and food to actually be able to make a suitable plan to save New York.

The group started to walk away from your door, all looking like they had a renewed purpose in a good two hours of rest. John, Ava, and Yelena continued to bicker their way down your driveway. The only one left inside was Bucky, saying his final goodbyes to Alpine yet again. As he finally made his way out the door, Alpine threaded through your legs as you both watched him leave. “I don’t know how to make this up to you” Bucky turned towards you, a hand resting on his hip. “No need, Bucky.” Your breathing was heavy, as you looked at him again. Trying to take in those details that you’ll ‘get over’ anyways. The way that his eyes closed as he smiled, or the way that his eyes looked in the middle of the night. Closure was what this was. The light finally fading on a chapter of your life that you continuously tried to close by yourself. Maybe this is what you needed. Bucky pivoted on his left foot, giving a mock salute one last time. Your breath started to quicken and you found yourself blinking back the tears that threatened to escape again. You watched the man you thought was the love of your life walk away for a second time tonight. You waved, one hand slightly covering your mouth as you made an attempt to silent the small sobs that were about to fall once you locked your door behind you. ___________________ Bucky’s apartment buzzer continued to go off, his hands fiddling with a light blue tie that matched with his eyes—or at least that's what John had told him when he was picking out a suit for this evening. Tonight was just another one of Val’s PR stunts. She and Mel are in the midst of trying to make the New Avengers look like the shiny new heroes that come to the rescue for everything. They weren’t anything like Steve or Tony. Sam definitely didn’t think so either.

“Jesus christ…” He finally made his way over to the buzzer, automatically allowing them up assuming it was Yelena or John coming to pick him up. He slid on his grey suit jacket, giving a glance at his gloves before deciding to leave them on his foyer’s table. As the knock on the door finally came, he slid his boots on and walked over, “You know I told you to be here thirty minutes ago, we’re supposed to be at least slightly punctual–” His breath stopped at the sight in front of his door. It was you waiting for him outside of his apartment. You were in a white sundress that he recognized, with your hair pinned up and flowers in your hand. “Hi.” you looked like a deer in headlights when he opened the door. Everything you had practiced went out the door. “I had practiced this for days–and I brought flowers because I thought it was something you would do..” You swallowed all the spit forming in your mouth as you watched him look you up and down. Bucky looked down at your ring finger, seeing it completely bare from the last time he saw you nervously fidgeting with it. You caught him, watching his eyes go back to your face from your hand. “I couldn’t do it, Buck,” you said “I know that you probably don’t want me to be here and–”

Your whole speech was cut off by him matching his mouth with yours, pulling you in by your right arm. Your arms wrapped around him, your left arm reaching out and dropping the flowers on his foyer table. After all, flowers will not be wasted in this economy. You stood on your tiptoes, his hands moving to cup your face as your lips parted for a moment.

“You don’t know how much I thought about this moment” He said, slightly pushing your hair back behind your ear. “I do, actually” a slight giggle came out of your mouth, making a smile appear on his face again. “I’m sorry, for everything” he said, you watched him as he took in this moment, every detail seemed to be recognized by him. “Stop apologizing, I forgave you as soon as I saw you at my doorstep those months ago. I love you so much that I couldn’t help not forgiving you.” you grabbed his tie and reeled him back in, your arms wrapping around his neck as he leaned down to kiss you again.

Because what is love if not longing to have one come back to you?

#bucky barnes #thunderbolts #mcu thunderbolts #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #thunderbolts*#marvel #marvel mcu #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #bucky barnes x female reader

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callsign-fox · 2 days ago

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Over My Head - Bob/Sentry

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

This could technically be a 2nd part to Hard to Measure, but can also be read by itself :)

No warnings xo

You guys have been loving all my Bob content, thank you so much for all the positive feedback!

Bob soared through the thin mountain air, cloak billowing behind him as the compound came into view below—a mess of concrete bunkers nestled between jagged peaks. The night was quiet, stars glittering overhead, but the tension humming through his body said otherwise.

According to intel, the group holed up here was trafficking magical artifacts and powered weapons. Not a great combo.

“Get in, neutralize, and try not to get hurt,” Bucky groaned in his ear.

Bob touched down near the bunker door, boots crunching on gravel. He paused, head tilting. Inside, chaos was already unfolding—yelling, crashes, and distant bursts of power.

“Uh, Buck?” he murmured. “There’s a lot of noise coming from inside there.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I see a heat signature,” Bucky said finally. “But it doesn’t exactly look…human?”

A second later, the bunker door exploded off its hinges.

Bob’s arm shot up on instinct, golden energy wrapping around the metal slab as he hurled it aside. He squinted through the haze—and his heart stuttered.

She was already here.

Y/N.

The same woman who’d knocked him flat on his ass a week ago when they’d first met. She hadn’t broken a sweat—had just winked and walked away, leaving him speechless and bruised. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

Now, she was here—fire in her eyes, power humming around her like a live wire—and she was wrecking the place.

Bob dropped down behind her, just as she melted a soldier’s rifle into a puddle of goo with a lazy flick of her fingers.

“You always crash parties like this?” he called out, stepping over a groaning man.

She didn’t turn, but he noticed her heart rate spike. “Only when I don’t get an invite.”

He grinned. “You’re making quite the mess.”

She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes catching his with a spark that made something inside him jolt. “I like things messy. More fun that way.”

“I bet you do.”

Her brows arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The first time we met, you destroyed half a city block tossing me around.”

“I was proving a point.”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “That I had zero chance of winning.”

Before she could reply, a new group of mercenaries came charging into the room.

She didn’t miss a beat, hurling a wave of telekinetic force that knocked the front line flat. Bob launched forward beside her, slamming his fist into a soldier’s chest and sending him flying.

They moved like they’d trained together for years. Her powers twined with his, pulsing in sync, each movement fluid and sharp. She sent enemies hurtling into walls while he cleared the path with raw, burning force.

“You fight like a wrecking ball,” she called out, ducking under a punch. “No finesse. Just power and prayers.”

Bob laughed, spinning to knock a man out cold. “You fight like a pissed-off ballerina with anger issues.”

She threw him a look over her shoulder. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

She tossed a grenade back at the sender with a casual flick—boom—and gave him a sly smile. “Are you flirting with me or insulting me?”

“What do you think?”

She smirked. “I think you are, but you’re in way over your head, big guy.”

Before he could answer, something in his gut twisted. His powers sparked as he sensed the threat behind her.

“Y/N—.”

She turned too late.

Bob lunged, grabbing her waist and yanking her into him. Her back hit his chest just as a soldier lunged out of the shadows with a knife, blade flashing. The swing missed her throat by inches as Bob raised his other hand and unleashed a burst of golden light, blasting the attacker into the wall.

The air was thick with adrenaline.

Y/N spun around in his arms and blinked up at him, breath catching. Her body was pressed against his, her hand instinctively gripping the front of his suit. His hand still rested on her waist, fingers curling just a little tighter before he forced himself to let go.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“I had him,” she breathed, not moving away.

“Sure you did.” His grin softened, warm and teasing. “Just figured I’d save your life for balance. You know—after you humiliated me in front of my team.”

Her hand lingered on his chest for a second longer before pulling away. “I was told I had to knock the ‘new strongest Avenger’ down a notch.”

“Careful,” he murmured, stepping closer again, “flattery might get you dinner.”

She arched a brow, lips quirking. “Did you just ask me out?”

“I most definitely did.”

Another wave of mercs appeared, and she sighed, cracking her neck with exaggerated annoyance.

“We finish this first,” she said, power radiating off her. “Then maybe you can buy me that drink—if you don’t trip over another unconscious body.”

He gave a dramatic salute. “Tactical stumble. Very advanced technique.”

They surged forward together—her a blaze of focused chaos, him a golden storm of force. When the last merc fell and the smoke cleared, the compound was silent, not quite in pieces, but pretty damn close.

Y/N stood beside him, wind tugging strands of hair from her face, eyes still glowing faintly.

Bob glanced at her, heart hammering.

“So…” he started, brushing a cut on his cheek absentmindedly, “about that drink?”

She didn’t answer at first—just walked past him slowly, fingertips trailing over his arm in a featherlight touch that made him stiffen in surprise.

Then, over her shoulder, she said with a soft, dangerous smile:

“Why don’t you just take me home, and we see what happens?”

He stared after her, completely gone.

“…I am so in over my head,” he muttered—and followed her without hesitation.

There was a sharp crackle in his earpiece, then Bucky’s voice came through, deadpan and disgusted: “I just heard every word of that, and I want to throw up.”

Bob froze mid-step. Y/N turned around with a curious smirk. “Everything okay?”

Without a word, Bob pulled the earpiece out and dropped it on the ground, then stomped on it with a satisfying crunch.

He looked up at her, grin lazy and sure. “Everything’s perfect.”

Technically Part 3 - Late Night Arrival

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 1 day ago

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It’s You: Part 2

Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.

Content Warning: Smut

Word Count: 13.9k

Part one

The gallery was still humming with conversation and the clinking of wine glasses, but Y/N couldn’t hear any of it. Not really. Her eyes kept drifting back to the painting—the painting of her. And Harry, who now stood a few feet away, speaking with a couple dressed in all black, barely looking her way since he’d shown it to her.

She felt unsteady, like something in her had shifted and she didn’t quite know how to hold it.

After a few more minutes, she made her way outside for air. The cool night air hit her skin like a wave. She leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, mind spinning. She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel—flattered? Exposed? Seen in a way that scared her a little?

A few minutes passed before she heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t have to look to know it was him.

“You disappeared,” Harry said quietly, stopping beside her.

“I needed air,” she replied, not looking at him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Was it too much?”

Y/N’s heart twisted. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just… I didn’t know you saw me like that.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither did I. Not at first.”

She finally turned to face him, her voice quieter now. “So why didn’t you say anything before tonight? Why show me that without a word for days?”

He looked at her, and for once, his expression wasn’t guarded. It was raw. Honest. “Because I didn’t know what this was. Or what you wanted it to be.”

Y/N blinked, throat tight. “And now?”

Harry held her gaze. “Now I want you to tell me if I crossed a line. If I went too far. Because if I did, I’ll take the painting down.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “You didn’t cross a line. You just made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”

The silence between them was heavy but full of meaning.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

They stood like that for a long moment, not touching, not moving—just two people trying to make sense of the space between them.

Y/N slammed her apartment door behind her and kicked off her boots, her heart still thudding from everything that had unfolded just hours ago. The painting. Her painting. And Harry standing beside it like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just peeled back a layer of her she didn’t even know was visible.

Harper and Lila hadn’t stopped staring when they saw it—she could still hear Lila whispering “Is that—? Oh my god, it’s YOU.” And she hadn’t even answered, just stood there, stunned, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in her chest.

Now, curled up on her couch still in her outfit of the night, she opened their group chat.

Y/N:

I still can’t believe he painted me.

Lila:

Girl. I can’t believe you didn’t faint.

That was some Jane Austen meets indie film moment.

Harper:

Honestly? I’m still a little breathless. He really captured you.

Like, not just how you look—but you. Your expression, your energy. It was… a lot.

Y/N:

Yeah. Tell me about it. It felt like standing there naked in front of a room full of strangers.

And he just stood there, watching me react to it.

Lila:

That man is OBSESSED with you.

That was not casual. That was “I’ve memorized your every expression” energy.

Harper:

And then the two of you outside? What happened? You vanished.

Y/N:

He followed me. Asked if it was too much. Said he’d take it down if I wanted him to.

Lila:

STOP.

So he’s hot, mysterious, talented, and emotionally responsible??

Harper:

You’ve pulled the full fictional love interest arc.

I hate you (lovingly).

Y/N:

It just… caught me off guard. We barely talk about feelings. We barely even talked after we had sex.

And now this painting exists. Like it means something more than we’ve admitted.

Lila:

Because it does mean something more. You don’t paint someone like that unless they’ve gotten under your skin. And you’ve definitely gotten under his.

Harper:

And maybe you needed to see yourself the way he sees you. That painting? That’s how he feels, even if he hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N stared at the screen, rereading Harper’s words twice.

Y/N:

I don’t know what to do with all of this.

Lila:

You don’t have to do anything. Just don’t run from it.

Let it unfold.

Y/N let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass.

They were right. But it didn’t make the feeling any less terrifying.

She sent one last message before setting her phone down:

Y/N:

I think I’m in trouble.

She sat on the couch barely moving. The thought of sleep was nonexistent to her, not when she felt like this. It was just after midnight when Y/N found herself standing in the hallway outside his door. No text, no warning—just a growing heaviness in her chest and an ache in her ribs that wouldn’t let her sleep.

The gallery, the painting, the way he looked at her when he said “I’ll take it down if it’s too much”—it had all been playing on a loop in her head for hours. She couldn’t sit with it anymore. She needed to see him. To say something. To figure out what this actually was.

She hesitated for a moment, then finally knocked.

A long few seconds passed before the door cracked open, Harry blinking at her with sleepy, surprised eyes. He was in gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, his hair mussed like he’d been half-asleep on the couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her.

Y/N shifted on her feet. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Harry opened the door wider. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, the air between them already thick with tension—not angry or awkward, but heavy. Real.

He didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t try to find small talk. Instead, she turned to face him, arms crossed like she was bracing herself. “That painting… you said you didn’t know what this was.”

Harry nodded, watching her carefully. “I didn’t. Still don’t. Not exactly.”

“Well, I don’t either,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I know it meant something. You meant something when you painted it. So stop pretending like it didn’t.”

The honesty hit the air like a match against flint. Harry’s jaw flexed, and he stepped toward her slowly, stopping just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, voice low. “That painting—it’s the most honest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “Because I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Well,” she said, heart hammering, “I’m still here.”

Harry reached up, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made her chest ache. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Y/N closed the gap, resting her forehead against his chest, exhaling like she’d finally allowed herself to let go.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he’d been waiting for this moment all week.

Whatever this was—undefined, complicated, intense—it was real. And it was just beginning.

Harry’s arms were still wrapped loosely around her when he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, his voice like velvet.

She watched as he disappeared down the hall, the soft creak of a closet door opening in the background. When he returned, he held one of his shirts—a worn black tee that looked impossibly soft, sleeves slightly stretched, the kind that held onto a person’s scent. He stood in front of her, calm but unreadable.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Get undressed.”

Y/N’s breath caught—not from surprise, but from the sudden weight of the moment. There was no pressure in his tone, only quiet assurance. Like this wasn’t just about changing clothes—it was about trust. About letting herself be seen.

She nodded slowly and reached behind her to unzip the back of her jumpsuit, easing it off her shoulders and down her body. The room felt still, heavy with tension as she peeled the fabric down past her waist, letting it fall in a soft puddle around her feet. Her bra followed, slipping off with practiced ease, but she left her black panties on—something about the vulnerability already hung thick in the air.

Harry didn’t move, but his gaze swept over her like a slow tide, intense and quiet. He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t asking for anything more. He just… looked. And somehow, that made it more intimate than anything else could have.

She pulled his shirt over her head, letting it drape over her frame, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. The scent of him wrapped around her instantly—clean, musky, a little earthy.

His eyes lingered for one more second, then flicked toward the hallway. “Come on,” he said gently. “Get in my bed.”

Y/N nodded and padded past him, barefoot and warm all over, feeling the shift between them settle into something quiet but undeniable.

She slipped beneath his sheets, the cotton cool against her legs. And when she felt the mattress dip behind her moments later, she didn’t need to turn around to know—Harry wasn’t just letting her into his bed tonight.

He was letting her in.

Y/N nestled beneath the sheets, the warmth of Harry’s t-shirt and the residual buzz of everything they hadn’t said settling over her like a second blanket. The bed smelled like him—like cedar and laundry and something quietly masculine—and even though her heart was still racing, she felt her shoulders start to relax.

The mattress dipped as Harry climbed in behind her. He didn’t reach for her right away. For a few moments, they just lay there in the quiet, their breathing slowly syncing, the soft hush of the city outside muffled through the windows.

Then, gently, his hand found her waist beneath the covers. He didn’t pull, just rested it there, his thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of her shirt. It was tentative, thoughtful—like he was making sure she was still with him, still okay.

Y/N rolled to face him, their noses nearly brushing in the dim light.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “The painting… it wasn’t just about you. It was what you made me feel.”

She blinked, throat tight. “Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry hesitated, eyes searching hers. “Because it’s easier to paint than talk. But you… you make me want to try.”

That—those eight words—hit her harder than anything else had. Her chest cracked open a little more.

She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, then resting lightly at the base of his neck. “You don’t have to try with everyone,” she whispered. “But you can with me.”

He nodded, just once, then leaned forward and kissed her—not hungry or fast, but slow. Like a confession.

His hand stayed on her waist, his other finding the small of her back as she pressed closer. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, but it never turned frantic. It was warm and unhurried, the kind that made everything else fade away.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, Y/N felt his fingers skim down her spine.

“Stay tonight,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” she murmured back.

And with that, Harry pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping himself around her like he was holding something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

They didn’t speak again. There were no more questions, no more walls.

Just them, tangled up in silence, in warmth, in whatever this was becoming.

Morning crept in softly, sunlight slipping through the sheer curtains and casting golden lines across the room. The air was still, warm, and quiet—except for the sound of Harry breathing beside her.

Y/N blinked awake slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft light as she realized where she was. His bed. His shirt still on her body. His arm still draped lazily across her waist, his hand resting low on her stomach, as if he’d never stopped holding her.

For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, the weight of his presence so grounding it made her throat ache.

Everything from last night replayed in her mind—the quiet tension, the painting, the way he had looked at her like she was something sacred. She’d fallen asleep feeling seen. Still did.

Then she felt him shift behind her, his arm tightening just slightly, and his voice—still sleep-rough and low—cut through the silence.

“You’re still here.”

Y/N smiled faintly, keeping her eyes closed. “You sound surprised.”

“I kind of am,” he admitted, his lips brushing the back of her shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d still want to be here this morning.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” she said honestly, turning slowly to face him.

His green eyes were barely open, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. He looked softer in the daylight—hair a mess, features relaxed. Real. Human.

“You look different,” she murmured, studying him.

“Better or worse?” he asked, eyes flicking up to hers.

“Less grumpy,” she teased, fingers gently brushing over his collarbone.

He smirked, pulling her closer by the waist. “Give me a few minutes. I’m sure I’ll ruin that.”

Y/N laughed quietly, burying her face in his chest for a second. Then she pulled back enough to meet his gaze. “What happens now?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then said simply, “We don’t have to define it right now. But if you want to stay… I want you to.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

He pressed a slow kiss to her forehead, his hand still drawing lazy patterns against her hip. “Good.”

They didn’t rush to get up. They didn’t need to

Sunlight had fully stretched across the room by the time Harry finally untangled himself from the sheets, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder before sitting up.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Y/N, still curled in the warmth of his bed, stretched her arms above her head with a sleepy smile. “Starving.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “I make a mean breakfast. Stay here, I’ll bring you something.”

But she was already sliding out of bed, tugging his shirt down a bit and padding barefoot into the apartment. “No way. I’m not letting you do all the work while I lounge around in your bed like some spoiled mystery muse.”

Harry gave her a smirk over his shoulder. “Mystery muse, huh? That’s a new one.”

He moved into the kitchen, starting to pull out eggs and a skillet while she wandered through the open living space. In the daylight, it all felt different—less broody, more lived-in. The walls were still moody gray, the shelves cluttered with art books and paintbrushes in chipped mugs, but there was life here. She could see it in the textures, the controlled chaos, the way every object felt chosen.

Her eyes landed on a small canvas leaning against the wall by a bookshelf. It wasn’t framed, and it looked unfinished, like something he’d tucked away and never meant to display. But it pulled at her immediately.

It was bold—brushed in deep, haunting colors that twisted and layered in on themselves, like smoke caught underwater. In the center, barely visible through the paint, was a figure curled in on itself, more emotion than detail. It felt heavier than anything else she’d seen of his.

Y/N crouched down to get a closer look. “Harry?” she called, her voice soft. “What’s this one?”

He paused, mid-chop, and glanced toward her. The moment he saw which piece she was pointing at, something in his expression shifted. Not closed off—but cautious.

“That one’s old,” he said after a pause, setting the knife down. “I never finished it.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of the canvas, careful not to touch the surface. “It’s… intense. It feels like grief.”

Harry wiped his hands on a towel and walked over slowly, standing behind her. “It is,” he said quietly. “I started it after my mom passed. It was the only thing I could make for months. Couldn’t bring myself to show it to anyone.”

Y/N looked up at him, surprised by the openness in his voice. “It’s stunning,” she said, meaning it. “Raw. It doesn’t feel incomplete to me.”

Harry let out a breath, crouching beside her. “It was never about finishing it. It just needed to… exist.”

They sat there for a moment, side by side on the floor, the skillet forgotten for now.

And for the first time, Y/N realized that while Harry may have been painting her into his life… he was also starting to let her in.

Y/N stayed quiet for a beat, her eyes lingering on the canvas, on the emotion poured into every brushstroke. She didn’t need to ask what it had cost him to make it—it was all right there in the paint. And sitting beside him now, in his t-shirt, barefoot and raw in the morning light, she felt something settle between them. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just real.

“You don’t show this side of yourself often,” she said softly, glancing at him.

Harry was quiet, his gaze on the floor. “No. Most people don’t want it.”

“I do,” she said, before she could second-guess the honesty. “I want to see all of it.”

He looked at her then, really looked, like he was weighing whether to believe her. Whatever he found in her eyes must’ve been enough, because he gave a quiet nod.

“I didn’t think I could let someone in again,” he admitted. “But then you showed up. Loud. Messy. Making everything feel… alive again.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to crash into your life, you know.”

Harry tilted his head, that faint smirk returning. “I think you did. And I think I needed it.”

A pause hung between them, thick with something unspoken.

Then he stood, reaching down to pull her up with him. “Come on,” he said. “Before I burn breakfast and give you a real reason to leave.”

She let him pull her to her feet, laughing softly. “You really think bad eggs would scare me off now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “They’d scare me off.”

They walked back to the kitchen, shoulders bumping, hands brushing. Harry went back to the stove, and this time, Y/N stayed close—leaning against the counter, watching him move, quietly wondering how this man who once barely looked her way had ended up here, in a space that already felt different just by having her in it.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because even in the soft glow of morning, after all the walls had come down, she wasn’t sure if they were still just figuring this out—or if they were already halfway in.

After breakfast—surprisingly not burnt, though Harry insisted on calling the eggs “aggressively rustic”—Y/N lingered for a while in the calm warmth of his apartment. They washed the dishes together in a sleepy rhythm, brushing shoulders, trading quiet glances. It felt domestic in a way that was almost too comfortable, too soon.

Eventually, she pulled her jacket on over his t-shirt, still wearing it beneath as she stood by the door.

“I should head back,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I’ve got laundry, meal prep… all the thrilling realities of being an adult.”

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You could leave the shirt, you know.”

She smirked as she opened the door. “You could try taking it off me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tempt me.”

She lingered for a beat, then stepped out into the hallway. “Thanks for breakfast,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“Thanks for staying,” he replied, voice lower now.

When she reached her own apartment, the silence was immediate—no music, no conversation, no lingering scent of coffee and warm cinnamon toast. Just her. And the soft thud of her heart still pacing to the rhythm of the night before.

She tossed her keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off her jacket, and exhaled.

Back to reality.

The next hour was spent in a quiet whirlwind of laundry, jotting down her weekly to-do list, and tossing together a grocery plan she’d probably ignore. She moved through her small space with purpose, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the gallery, the painting, his hands on her waist, the way he looked at her like she was something he didn’t quite know how to hold, but wanted to anyway.

There was something grounding about being home. But it also made the whole thing with Harry feel almost unreal, like a fever dream that had followed her back from a night she couldn’t quite define.

Still wearing his shirt, now paired with a pair of old sweatpants, Y/N paused by her window, sipping lukewarm coffee. The city moved on outside, people living their ordinary lives.

And here she was, standing in the middle of hers, wondering what came next.

Because Harry Styles—the grumpy, guarded, unexpectedly tender art gallery owner—was no longer just the neighbor she teased or passed in the mailroom.

He was something else now.

Something more.

It was Tuesday morning when her phone buzzed—right as she was standing in her kitchen, hair in a messy bun, staring blankly at the fridge and wondering if coffee could count as breakfast again.

The text was from Harry.

Harry:

You busy tonight?

Y/N blinked at the screen, warmth blooming in her chest before she could talk herself down. It had been a couple days since she’d left his apartment—quiet ones, normal ones. She hadn’t seen him around the building, and aside from a few playful Instagram likes and a “you made it home alive?” text, he’d been giving her space.

Which, weirdly, she appreciated. But she hadn’t stopped thinking about him either.

She typed back quickly.

Y/N:

Define “busy.” If it involves real pants, probably yes.

He replied a second later.

Harry:

No pants required. Might even encourage that.

But mostly I was wondering if you’d want to help me start organizing the next show at the gallery.

She smirked, chewing her lip.

Y/N:

Are you inviting me to work or inviting me to flirt while pretending to work?

Harry:

Yes.

She laughed out loud and leaned against the counter, thumbs flying.

Y/N:

Fine. I’m in. What’s the dress code? And don’t say “grungy creative chic,” I don’t own anything with paint stains on purpose.

Harry:

Wear something you can move in. There’s lifting. And maybe pizza.

And I’ll owe you one.

Y/N:

I like the sound of pizza and emotional debt. Text me the time.

Harry:

7. Front door. Don’t be late. Unless it’s a dramatic entrance.

Y/N:

With me, is there any other kind?

She set her phone down, heart buzzing a little too fast for 9 a.m.

It wasn’t a date.

It was just helping him.

But still, she caught herself opening her closet a few hours later and thinking, What do you wear when you’re about to hang art with the guy who painted your soul into a canvas?

At exactly 7:03 p.m., Y/N pushed open the glass door of the gallery, the bell above chiming softly as the early evening light filtered in behind her. The space looked different without the crowd—quiet, a little messy, and full of possibility. Framed canvases leaned against walls, packing materials and tools scattered across the floor.

And standing in the middle of it all, clipboard in one hand and sleeves rolled up, was Harry.

He looked up as she walked in, and the corner of his mouth immediately twitched into a smirk.

“Well,” he said, eyeing her slowly from head to toe, “you look like you should be harvesting peaches in Georgia.”

Y/N glanced down at her outfit—a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls over a fitted black tank top, her hair twisted up in a clip, and paint-splattered Converse on her feet. She raised an eyebrow, smirking right back.

“Excuse me, but this is high fashion in the functional art world,” she replied, tossing her bag onto a nearby bench. “And don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Harry said, stepping toward her. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you in something with actual pockets.”

“Pockets and emotional stability,” she quipped, patting her front pouch. “I’m a new woman.”

Harry chuckled, his gaze softening slightly. “You look good.”

The compliment hit her like a quiet note in a still room. Simple. Warm. Unexpectedly sincere.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice a little quieter now. “You ready to put me to work?”

He handed her a roll of painter’s tape and nodded toward a stack of bubble-wrapped frames near the far wall. “Always.”

As she walked past him to get started, he reached out and tugged gently at the strap of her overalls.

“You sure you’re not here to flirt while pretending to work?” he murmured low against her ear.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

A few hours passed in a blur of laughter, rearranging artwork, measuring tape arguments, and the occasional accidental graze of fingers as they passed tools back and forth. Music played softly from an old speaker in the corner—Fleetwood Mac giving way to Miley Cyrus, then something ambient and wordless that matched the growing stillness of the gallery as night set in.

Y/N had just finished helping Harry hang one of the larger canvases when she wandered toward the back of the studio space, brushing dust off her hands. That’s when she saw it—half tucked near a supply shelf, a pottery wheel. The base was covered in dried clay, clearly used but currently dormant.

She turned to him, eyes lighting up. “No way. You have a wheel?”

Harry looked up from where he was sketching a quick layout note. “Yeah. I don’t just paint, you know.”

She crouched down beside it, brushing her fingers along the edge of the basin. “I’ve always wanted to try this. Like, really try it. The messy, ‘Ghost’ movie kind of way.”

He set his pencil down and smirked. “I’m not recreating Ghost with you.”

She laughed. “Relax, Swayze. I didn’t say I needed a soundtrack and a tragic love story. I just think it looks… kind of meditative.”

Harry walked over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached. “You want to try it?”

Y/N looked up at him, almost surprised. “Can I?”

He nodded once, then pulled up a nearby stool, spinning it around to face the wheel. “Sit.”

She hesitated for a second, then settled onto the stool. He moved behind her, not hovering but close enough that she could feel the shift in the air between them. He reached around to the small shelf beside the wheel and grabbed a lump of clay, placing it in the center.

“Okay,” he said, voice quieter now. “Let your hands rest here.” He reached for her wrists gently, guiding them forward until her fingers hovered over the clay.

His touch lingered—light, steady, grounding.

“You have to center it first,” he continued, flipping the switch to start the wheel. It began to spin slowly. “Keep your hands firm. Don’t fight it, just stay with the movement.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the clay blur beneath her palms. Harry moved behind her, sliding in closer until his chest brushed lightly against her back. His hands ghosted over hers, adjusting her grip. His breath was warm near her neck, and the wheel wasn’t the only thing spinning now.

“You’re too stiff,” he murmured. “Relax your arms.”

“Hard to relax when someone’s breathing down my neck,” she muttered with a dry laugh.

“You’re doing great,” he said, ignoring her deflection.

And maybe it was the weight of his voice, or the heat of his chest behind her, but Y/N felt something ease inside her. The clay began to shift under her fingers, rising slightly as she moved with the spin.

Harry’s hands stayed over hers, guiding, never forcing.

“This part,” he said, his voice softer now, almost in her ear, “you let it take shape on its own. You don’t force the form. You feel it.”

Y/N blinked, heart hammering, clay slipping through her fingers like water and tension. “That sounds… familiar.”

He smiled against her hair, just barely. “Yeah. Thought you might notice that.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, her hands clay-covered, his presence all around her. When she finally pulled her hands away, her breath was shaky—not from the wheel, but from the way he was still looking at her like he wanted to mold her into something he could hold on to.

She turned on the stool to face him. “Okay,” she said, voice hushed. “That was… kind of amazing.”

Harry’s eyes searched hers. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

Y/N’s fingers were still streaked with clay, her chest rising and falling a little too fast as she sat facing him on the stool. The wheel had stopped spinning, but something else between them hadn’t.

Harry stood just inches from her now, hands in his back pockets like he was holding himself there on purpose—like if he moved even slightly forward, he wouldn’t stop.

“You really never tried that before?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “Nope. First time.”

“You were a natural,” he said.

Y/N smiled softly, eyes dropping to his chest for a beat before flicking back up to his face. “Pretty good teacher.”

He hummed in response, watching her for a moment that stretched a little longer than it should have. Her breath caught—just slightly—as the air between them thickened again.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward.

Before she could react, he reached up and brushed his thumb gently across her skin, wiping it away. His hand didn’t fall immediately. It lingered near her jaw, knuckles grazing lightly beneath her ear.

She didn’t pull away.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You always like teaching people like that?”

His lips twitched at the corner. “No.”

“So I’m special?”

Harry leaned in just a fraction—not enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the restraint.

“You always have been,” he said.

Her throat tightened, and she didn’t know whether to close the distance or stay perfectly still. His hand dropped slowly from her face, and the loss of it sent a pulse through her.

“I should wash my hands,” she said, more to break the silence than anything else.

He nodded, but didn’t step away. “Bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, nodding toward the back hallway.

Y/N slid off the stool, brushing past him gently, and headed toward the sink. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her cheek, his breath near her collarbone.

She turned the faucet on and let the cold water rush over her hands, watching the clay swirl away down the drain like everything she was trying not to say.

Behind her, she could feel him still watching.

And though neither of them had said it aloud—not yet—it was clear now:

Whatever this was becoming, it wasn’t casual.

It was careful.

It was slow.

The moment passed like smoke—lingering but untouchable. Y/N returned to the main space, hands clean, heart still pacing a little too fast. She didn’t say anything as she rejoined Harry, and he didn’t comment on it either. Instead, he handed her a wrapped canvas without a word, and they quietly picked up where they left off.

The soft hum of a playlist filled the space again, the two of them working in easy rhythm—measuring, hanging, stepping back, adjusting. The gallery took shape little by little as the night stretched on, until finally, Harry set down his level, dusted his palms on his jeans, and said, “That’s it. We’re done.”

Y/N stepped back from the wall where she’d just hung the final piece and let out a breath. “Really?”

He nodded. “Show’s built. You’re officially hired.”

She laughed, letting her shoulders drop. “Do I get paid in sarcastic commentary and wine again?”

Harry pulled his phone from his back pocket, already typing something out. “Tonight? You get pizza.”

Her eyes lit up. “God, marry me.”

He gave her a side glance, smirking. “Let me feed you first. Then we’ll negotiate.”

She watched as he tapped a few times on the screen, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“It’ll be here in twenty,” he said.

“Is that a promise?”

“Better,” he replied. “It’s a delivery tracker.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She sank onto one of the low benches near the wall and stretched out her legs, exhaling. “I forgot how good this kind of tired feels. Like the creative kind. Not the soul-sucking email-at-9-p.m. kind.”

Harry grabbed two bottles of water from a small mini fridge tucked in the corner and handed her one. “Welcome to the artist’s high,” he said, sitting beside her. “It’s real.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, their shoulders just barely brushing. The gallery, once chaotic, now looked purposeful. Curated. Ready.

And yet, somehow, it felt more intimate now that it was finished. Like they’d built something together—something more than just a show.

Y/N glanced over at him, watching the way his gaze roamed the space with quiet pride.

“Hey,” she said, nudging him slightly. “You did something really incredible here.”

He looked at her, his expression softer in the warm, low light.

“So did you,” he said.

And there it was again—that feeling.

They stayed side by side on the bench, their knees barely touching, the hum of the gallery soft around them. It felt like a liminal space—finished work behind them, warm pizza on the way, and something unspoken simmering between them.

Y/N took a long sip of her water, tilting her head toward him. “Okay, be honest,” she said. “What would you have done if I’d dropped that massive piece earlier while hanging it?”

Harry looked at her, straight-faced. “I would’ve told you to get out and never speak to me again.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Harsh.”

Then he smirked. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Y/N nudged him with her elbow. “You know you would’ve forgiven me the second I brought you a cappuccino and an apology playlist.”

“Only if the playlist was good,” he said, turning toward her. “I don’t suffer through sad girl acoustic nonsense just because you feel guilty.”

She grinned. “Noted. I’ll keep the moody indie to a minimum.”

Harry stretched his legs out, glancing up at the ceiling. “You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly, voice a little quieter now.

“Yeah?” she asked, tone light. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable again. “I thought you were going to be loud, nosy, annoying.”

“Accurate,” she said, nodding. “And yet…”

“And yet,” he repeated, giving her a sideways glance. “You make the place feel different.”

Before she could answer, the door buzzed.

Harry stood and headed for the front, muttering over his shoulder, “Saved by the pizza guy.”

Y/N smiled, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

She watched him open the door and exchange a few words with the delivery guy, the smell of garlic and melted cheese wafting in seconds later. He carried the box in triumphantly, holding it out like an offering.

“Feast, my muse.”

She rolled her eyes but took the box, setting it on the small table nearby. “Flattery will get you extra slices.”

He handed her a stack of napkins and two paper plates. “Flattery is all I’ve got.”

She caught his eye, a little too long, a little too openly.

“Not all,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t answer, just gave her the smallest smile, and sat back down beside her as they opened the box.

They each grabbed a slice, steam curling up as they folded the greasy crust in half and leaned over their plates. For a few minutes, it was just quiet chewing and occasional muffled groans of approval.

“Oh my god,” Y/N mumbled, mouth half full. “This is criminally good. Are you sure you’re not secretly a pizza snob?”

Harry wiped his hand on a napkin and leaned back, watching her with a smirk. “I’ve lived many lives.”

She laughed, taking another bite. “Yeah, I bet. You’ve got that vibe.”

“What vibe?”

“That whole ‘I’ve done mysterious things and don’t talk about them’ vibe,” she said with mock drama. “Like maybe you studied sculpture in Italy and had a love affair with a woman named Alessandra who broke your heart and turned you into a brooding creative.”

Harry gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You have a very vivid imagination.”

“I have to,” she said with a shrug. “You’re so quiet I have to fill in the blanks somehow.”

He reached for another slice. “For the record, I’ve never dated anyone named Alessandra.”

“Mm,” she said, licking tomato sauce off her thumb. “But you didn’t deny the brooding part.”

“Hard to deny when you keep calling me out like this.”

She grinned and leaned in slightly, eyes dancing. “Don’t worry. I like it. Makes me feel like I’m in a slow-burn romance novel.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think this is slow?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his tone. He didn’t sound defensive—just intrigued. Amused.

“A little,” she said carefully. “But in a good way.”

He set his plate down and leaned toward her, elbows on his knees, his voice lower now. “That night at my place… you didn’t seem like you wanted slow.”

Her breath caught, but she kept her eyes on him. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

The question hung there, heavier than she expected.

She set her own plate down, brushing a stray crumb from her lap. “Okay,” she said softly, “maybe not.”

Harry leaned in just a little more, close enough now that she could feel his breath when he spoke. “You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmured, “or are you finally gonna kiss me again?”

Y/N smiled, heart fluttering. “Oh, I’m definitely still teasing you.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

It started slow, just a brush of lips—soft, easy, unhurried. But when Harry’s hand slid around the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, it deepened—growing warmer, closer, fuller. He tasted faintly of pepperoni and red pepper flakes, and somehow it just made it better.

She shifted on the bench, her knees bumping into his, and he tugged her closer, the pizza forgotten entirely now.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’ve got marinara on your lip.”

She grinned. “You gonna wipe it off?”

Harry kissed her again instead—slow and deliberate, and just a little smug.

The kiss lingered, slow and teasing, until Y/N pulled back just slightly—her lips still tingling, her breath shallow. She looked at him, eyes bright, smile hovering on the edge of something deeper.

“I think you like the teasing,” she murmured, voice low.

Harry’s fingers were still resting at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing gently along her jawline. “You’re not wrong,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “But don’t get cocky.”

“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head, her knees now angled toward his. “That sounds like a challenge.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth again, but he didn’t lean in this time. Instead, he let the space stretch—just enough to make her breath hitch. Just enough to make her ache.

“You always like pushing?” he asked softly.

“Only when I know someone’s going to push back.”

He gave a quiet laugh, eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’ve got that look. Like you want to see how far you can get before someone snaps.”

She leaned in closer, lips hovering just a whisper from his, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

“And are you close to snapping, Harry?”

The silence that followed was heavy. He didn’t answer, not right away. He just studied her—really studied her—as if he were deciding something. Like he was measuring the air between them, the weight of what would happen if he gave in.

Then he leaned in so close his lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath warm and slow.

“You don’t want me to snap.”

A chill ran down her spine, her entire body suddenly still—stilled by the tension in his voice, by the way he hadn’t touched her any further, by the unbearable pause he left behind.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again. Her voice was steady, but low, tight with anticipation. “I think I do.”

Harry exhaled hard through his nose, like he was grounding himself. His jaw clenched once before he stood up abruptly, backing away and dragging a hand through his hair.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, half to himself, pacing toward the center of the gallery.

Y/N watched him—heart pounding, lips parted.

“And you like it,” she said, not as a question.

He turned toward her, his expression unreadable now. Controlled. But his eyes… they were anything but calm.

“I really, really do,” he said.

Y/N stood slowly, her body buzzing with the kind of electricity that made her skin feel too tight. Her eyes never left Harry as he stood across the room, his hands braced on the edge of a display table, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady himself.

She took a step toward him. Then another.

“You keep walking toward me like that,” he said without looking up, “and I’m not going to be able to keep pretending I don’t want to touch you again.”

She didn’t stop.

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said softly.

That made him look up. His gaze locked with hers, sharp and unguarded now, like all the tension he’d tried to smother was right there at the surface, barely contained.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, voice lower now, like it cost him something to say it.

Y/N reached him, closing the space until she was standing just in front of him. Not touching—not yet—but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“I think I do,” she said. “And I think you’ve been waiting for me to ask.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, a slow drag of breath like he was still holding onto some kind of self-control. His fingers flexed against the table, knuckles white.

“You want me to lose control?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Y/N looked up at him, her voice calm, certain. “Only if you’re going to do it with me.”

That was all it took.

He moved fast, but not rough. One hand slipped to her jaw, the other to her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth met hers again—this time deeper, hungrier, like the weeks of tension between them had finally cracked open.

She gasped into the kiss, hands finding the front of his shirt, clutching the fabric as he backed her gently into the wall behind them. His body pressed into hers, his hips aligning with hers in a way that made her head spin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, his lips grazing down her neck.

She shook her head, breathless. “I’m not going to.”

His hands gripped her hips tighter, his touch hot and grounding. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Y/N’s fingers slid up his chest, curling around the back of his neck. “Then show me.”

Harry groaned quietly, his restraint thinning with every second. But even in the heat of it, his movements were careful—intentional—as if the tension wasn’t just about lust, but about all the unsaid things still hanging between them.

And maybe that was what made it burn hotter.

Harry’s mouth was back on hers, but this time there was no hesitation—just fire. The kind that came from restraint snapping, from knowing exactly who you wanted and finally being allowed to have them.

His hands roamed her body like he was memorizing it—over her hips, her waist, her back—pulling her tighter against him with a hunger that made her knees weak. She gasped into his mouth, and he caught it, deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers in a slow, devastating rhythm.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping underneath to find skin—hot, firm, tense beneath her touch. He hissed softly when her nails dragged up his stomach, his hips pressing into hers in return. Every movement was deliberate, every shift of weight, every brush of breath.

“Say it,” he murmured against her mouth, voice rough and low. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she whispered, already breathless. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Harry reached behind her thighs and lifted her effortlessly, her back pressing against the cool wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. She clutched his shoulders, dizzy from how easily he handled her, from how right it felt to be held like this.

He kissed her harder now—his lips demanding, his grip tightening—like he was unraveling everything they’d both been holding back.

Y/N moaned into the kiss, her body arching into his, and he growled softly at the sound, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp again.

The world shrank to the heat between them—the friction of denim and cotton, the electric drag of his mouth on her throat, the low groan he let out when she bit gently at his jaw.

“Not here,” he said against her skin, voice barely controlled. “I need you somewhere I can take my time.”

Her answer was a desperate nod as he carried her down the gallery hallway, their mouths finding each other again between whispered curses and stifled laughter.

And when he set her down inside the dim back room, closing the door behind them, there was no space left for questions.

Only touch.

Only them.

Harry set her down carefully, his hands not leaving her body for a second. The back room was dark except for a small amber-toned lamp glowing in the corner, casting everything in soft, golden warmth. It was quiet here. Removed. Like the rest of the world had been left out in the gallery.

They stood chest to chest, breathing heavily, their foreheads brushing as if neither one of them wanted to break the closeness.

He cupped her face gently, the same hands that had moved with such certainty just moments before now holding her like something fragile. His thumb swept across her cheek as his eyes searched hers.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough but steady. “I need you to say it again.”

“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again—slower now, deeper—his hands sliding under her overalls, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at her hips. She tugged at his shirt and he let her lift it over his head, revealing his chest, his inked skin glowing faintly in the soft light.

She ran her hands across his stomach, up his chest, over his shoulders. Every inch of him was warm and firm and real—no longer the guarded neighbor, but him, here, undone in front of her.

He made quick work of her straps, dragging the overalls down her arms and letting them fall to her waist. His mouth followed the path of bare skin he uncovered—pressing soft, heated kisses along her collarbone, then lower.

His fingers dipped beneath the band of her underwear, hesitating just once—giving her one last chance to stop him. She kissed him instead, hungry and breathless, her hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

He groaned against her lips and pressed her back gently onto the cushioned bench in the corner, kneeling between her legs. His hands were everywhere—gripping, exploring, guiding—his touch reverent and firm, like he’d dreamed of this too many times to rush it now.

Y/N arched into him, her breath catching as he dragged his mouth down her neck again, whispering things she couldn’t quite hear but felt—in the way he moved, in the way he looked at her, like this wasn’t just want.

It was need.

It was craving.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Harry eased her down onto the bench, his hands hot and certain as they swept across her body. His touch was deliberate—fingers dragging slowly over her curves like he was memorizing every inch of her, tracing the places that made her breath catch, the spots that made her hips shift beneath him.

He hovered above her, his body a perfect weight between control and temptation. One arm braced beside her head, the other slid along her waist before dipping under the hem of her shirt—his shirt, oversized and thin, clinging to her in all the right ways. When his fingers brushed bare skin, she lifted her arms, wordlessly offering herself up as he pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.

He stared for a beat—like she was sacred. Like stripping her down didn’t make her smaller but somehow more powerful, more captivating. His gaze was reverent. Worshipful. Like he’d been starving for this, for her.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed, voice low, lips grazing hers.

“Then don’t stop,” she whispered, tugging him closer.

Their mouths met again, deeper this time. His kiss wasn’t just hungry—it was consuming. Tongue sliding against hers, his hand fisting in her hair. Her legs parted around him, thighs cradling his hips, inviting more. Wanting more.

His hands explored her—palming her breasts, brushing his thumbs over hardened nipples, coaxing soft sounds from her throat that only made him groan in response. His mouth followed soon after, dragging down her neck, then lower, slow and sure, until she was squirming beneath him.

“Harry,” she gasped, hips lifting instinctively.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against her skin, his breath hot as he pressed kisses along her stomach, then lower still. “If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t.”

He peeled her underwear down, eyes never leaving hers. She felt bared to him, open in every way—and yet she wasn’t nervous. His touch was gentle even as it was firm, teasing even as it made her ache.

When his mouth found her, she cried out, fingers threading into his curls. He worked her slowly, deliberately, taking his time like he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. She couldn’t think—only feel. Wave after wave built and crashed inside her as he drew it out, licking, sucking, moaning into her until she shattered.

And still, he didn’t rush.

When he moved back up her body, she caught his face in her hands, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and relief. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, and he let her, pushing his jeans down just enough to free himself. He was hard, hot, and heavy against her thigh, and when he pressed forward, she arched up to meet him, bodies aligning like they were made for this.

“Are you sure?” he murmured, voice almost ragged.

“Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”

He slid into her slowly, both of them gasping at the contact—how right it felt. He held still for a second, buried deep, forehead resting against hers, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even closer.

They moved together, rhythm building from a slow, grounding pulse into something deeper, hotter. He fucked her like he needed her—like this wasn’t just about lust but something more primal, more profound. Her name fell from his lips in a broken whisper, and she clung to him like she didn’t want to let go. Like she couldn’t.

When they finally collapsed together, chests heaving, limbs tangled, neither of them spoke right away. The silence was thick with everything that hadn’t been said—everything that had been felt.

Harry brushed the hair from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. “You okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

The stillness after was thick—not uncomfortable, but not exactly easy either. Y/N lay quietly for a moment, curled into the crook of Harry’s arm, listening to the low hum of the city outside the gallery’s back room window. The weight of what had just happened settled in her chest like warm gravity.

But reality crept back in slowly. The dim light. The distant sound of a car passing. The fact that they were tangled up, half dressed, on a bench in the back of his gallery with a few half-eaten slices of pizza growing cold in the front room.

She shifted slightly, glancing up at him. “We’re really going to pretend this bench was comfortable?”

Harry gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand brushing over her bare arm. “It was a terrible idea.”

“But effective,” she said under her breath, lips tugging into a crooked smile.

He smirked faintly, but the moment that followed felt… fragile.

Y/N sat up slowly, reaching for her shirt and slipping it over her head, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. The intimacy between them still hung in the air, but now it was layered with something new—uncertainty, maybe. Or the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Harry stood and pulled his shirt back on, running a hand through his hair before reaching for a roll of paper towels on a nearby shelf. He handed one to her without meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking it.

He nodded, then rubbed the back of his neck. “We should probably… finish cleaning up. Lock up soon.”

There it was.

The shift.

Y/N nodded, swallowing the knot that rose in her throat. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

They dressed in silence, save for the occasional shuffle or zip. The room that had felt like a world of its own an hour ago now felt too quiet, too small.

Harry grabbed the empty pizza box and the napkins from earlier. “I’ll toss this,” he said, already heading toward the door.

Y/N lingered a second, tugging on her boots, trying to decide what to do with the tension coiling under her ribs. Part of her wanted to ask what this meant. Another part didn’t want to risk hearing the answer.

When she walked back out into the gallery, Harry was stacking chairs near the wall, calm and methodical, like he needed the routine to ground him.

“Do you want help?” she asked.

He paused, glanced at her, then gave a soft shrug. “Sure.”

And so they moved in quiet tandem—rearranging furniture, switching off lights, pretending like their bodies hadn’t just been wrapped around each other in the dark.

Pretending like they weren’t both waiting for someone to say something.

They finished the last of the cleanup in near silence, the clatter of chair legs and the soft creak of wood against tile filling the space where words wouldn’t go. Y/N tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket as Harry flipped the gallery’s lights off one by one, casting the room into gentle shadow.

By the time they reached the front door, the air outside had cooled. The streets were quiet, the buzz of the city dimming down to the low hum of night.

Harry locked the door behind them, the metallic click echoing in the stillness. Y/N stood beside him on the sidewalk, arms folded over her chest—not cold, just unsure what to do with them.

He turned to her, the gallery now behind him, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I’ve got a few more things to finish up in the back,” he said. “Paperwork. Inventory stuff.”

She nodded, looking up at him. “Right. Of course.”

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to hers for half a second before drifting away again. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around the building.”

The words hit her like a soft thud—gentle, but impossible to miss.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a small smile. “See you around.”

They stood there for one more breath of stillness before she turned and walked toward her car, her shoes quiet against the pavement. She didn’t look back, didn’t ask if this was the part where things were supposed to change—or if they already had.

Harry stayed at the door, watching her go. Not calling out. Not explaining.

And maybe that was the most honest part of it.

Because some things weren’t defined in the moment—they just were.

Unspoken. Lingering.

And still unfinished.

It had been four days.

Four days since the gallery.

Four days since the kiss, the heat, the quiet shift that followed.

Four days of silence from Harry.

Y/N hadn’t texted him. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to be the first to break the tension—but really, it was because she didn’t know what she’d say if she did.

Now, juggling a grocery bag and her keys, she stepped off the elevator onto their floor and turned down the hall toward her apartment. She didn’t expect to see anyone—definitely not him—but as she rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock, one hand holding a canvas bag. He looked up the second he heard her, and for a moment, they both froze.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey,” she echoed, shifting the weight of the groceries on her hip. “Trouble with the lock?”

He held up the keys. “It hates me.”

Y/N gave a small smile, the awkwardness thick between them but not unbearable.

They stood there for a second too long—neither making a move to keep walking.

Harry broke the silence first. “You been good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Busy. You?”

He gave a small shrug. “Same.”

The silence stretched again. Not heavy—but loaded.

Y/N shifted, finally moving toward her door. “Well… see you around, then.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t move to unlock his door. “Y/N,” he called quietly before she reached hers.

She turned back.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

She stared at him for a beat. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wanted to. I still do.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Then say it.”

Harry hesitated, then took a small step toward her. “Can we… not pretend it didn’t mean something?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face—but underneath that, something softer. Relief. Warmth. Something that had been waiting.

“I wasn’t pretending,” she said. “I was just waiting for you to mean it out loud.”

He nodded slowly. “I do.”

There it was. Simple. Uneasy. True.

And maybe still uncertain—but not silent anymore.

Y/N hesitated by her door, keys still in hand, groceries forgotten. Harry stood just a few steps away, his words still echoing quietly between them.

“I do.”

That should’ve been the end of the conversation—awkward hallway moment, followed by days of thinking about it again. But instead, she found herself speaking before she could overthink it.

“You want to come in?” she asked, tilting her head toward her door. “I bought too much pasta. You can help me feel less like I have a carb problem.”

Harry looked at her for a second—like he wasn’t sure if she was serious, like he was still caught in his own head. But then he gave a small, crooked smile.

“Only if I get to judge your sauce,” he said.

“Deal.”

They stepped into her apartment a few minutes later, the soft click of the door behind them oddly grounding. Y/N set the groceries down and flicked on the lights, trying not to overthink the fact that he was here, in her space, again—but this time without the haze of heat or distraction.

She unpacked silently while he leaned against the counter, watching her. The weight of whatever had been lingering between them still hung in the air, but softer now. Like it was ready to be unwrapped, not pushed away.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said again after a moment. “I just… felt weird. Not about you, but about me.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Weird how?”

“I’ve never let something happen that fast,” he said, eyes focused on the corner of the countertop. “And I didn’t want you to think it was just…” He trailed off.

“A one-time thing?” she finished.

He nodded once.

She set the pasta down, crossing her arms. “Did you want it to be?”

His eyes met hers immediately. “No.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it felt like the right kind. The kind where something important was settling.

“I didn’t either,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t sure where you were. And I wasn’t going to chase you through the hallway if you didn’t want to talk.”

“I did want to talk,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to say any of it without messing it up.”

She smiled gently, stepping closer. “Then just say it badly. Say it honestly. Say it however. But don’t say nothing.”

Harry let out a soft breath, then nodded. “Okay.”

They stood in the quiet for a few seconds more, the kind of quiet that felt okay now—like they could breathe in it.

Then Y/N bumped her shoulder into his gently. “Now sit down and be quiet while I cook, or I’ll burn the garlic on purpose.”

He gave a soft laugh and leaned against the counter beside her. “See? Already making threats. We’re back to normal.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “Not normal. Just… honest.”

And maybe that was the most intimate thing they’d done all week.

Y/N stirred the sauce slowly, the scent of garlic and basil filling the small kitchen. The moment between them had settled into something quieter—light jokes, soft glances, the kind of closeness that came from shared silence more than shared words.

Harry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. Not in the casual way someone watches a friend cook, but with that same low-burning intensity he always carried, like he was holding back something far more dangerous than a comment about seasoning.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah,” he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then dragged slowly back up to meet her gaze. “Because you look good like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, voice softer now.

Harry pushed off the counter and crossed the small space between them until he was just behind her. Not touching. Just there.

“Like you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “Like I could wrap my hand around your throat and leave marks only I get to see.”

Her breath caught, sauce forgotten.

“And I’d ruin you,” he added, even lower now, “if you’d let me.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his, heart thudding. “You think I wouldn’t let you?”

Harry stepped closer, the heat of his body against her back now, his hand brushing her hip. “I think you’d let me pretend I’m in control,” he said, “right until you decided to take it from me.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her fingers tightening around the wooden spoon. “And what if I like the idea of being ruined a little?”

His hand slid from her hip to her waist, gripping firmly, grounding her.

“Then tell me to ruin you.”

She turned fully to face him now, back against the counter, eyes locked with his. “You already are.”

There was no kiss. Not yet. Just heat. Just space charged with every word, every breath between them—closer than they had any right to be, and still not close enough.

“Harry,” she said, her voice almost trembling now.

But he didn’t move.

He just looked at her like he was memorizing her all over again. Like the next time he touched her, it wouldn’t be soft.

It would be deliberate.

And she’d beg for it.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first—she just looked at him. Her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling faster now, like her body already knew what was coming even if her mind hadn’t caught up.

Then, slowly, she reached up and slid her fingers along the collar of his shirt, curling them just enough to pull him closer.

Harry didn’t resist.

Their mouths met in a rush—nothing soft about it. This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t slow. It was hungry. Like the silence between them had been a dam, and now it had finally cracked open, spilling out all the want they’d swallowed for days.

His hands gripped her waist, then her back, then her hips—like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted everywhere. She moaned into his mouth, the sound desperate and low, and he groaned in return, deep in his throat like it was pulled from somewhere primal.

He walked her backward blindly until her thighs hit the edge of the kitchen table, scattering a box of pasta and a wooden spoon. Neither of them cared.

“I’ve been trying to be patient,” he said, voice strained, his lips brushing hers between breaths. “But you—”

“You don’t have to be,” she whispered, fingers already tugging his shirt from his jeans.

He kissed her again—deeper this time, with a groan that vibrated through her bones—and then his hands were everywhere. Under her shirt. Against her ribs. Sliding up her back. He lifted her onto the table like she weighed nothing, stepping between her legs as she wrapped them around his hips, pulling him impossibly close.

The table creaked beneath them, but neither of them moved to stop it. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him there as his mouth traveled along her neck, her shoulder, biting down just enough to make her gasp.

She arched into him, her voice raw in his ear. “Touch me.”

His breath stuttered. His hand slid between them, slow, sure. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispered, almost trembling. “All of you. Like you said. Ruin me.”

Something in him broke at that.

He pulled her against him so tightly it felt like there was no line between where she ended and he began. His mouth found hers again, and this time it was rougher, deeper. Like he was trying to consume her. And she let him.

Because this wasn’t just heat.

It was everything they hadn’t said.

Everything they felt.

And in that moment—pressed against the table, hands frantic, lips bruised and searching—they weren’t neighbors. They weren’t taking it slow. They weren’t teasing.

They were coming undone.

The room had fallen still again, the air heavy with heat and something unspoken—something tender beneath the wreckage of what just happened.

The pasta sat forgotten on the counter. A spoon had rolled onto the floor. Her shirt was somewhere behind her. And Harry was breathing hard, standing between her legs, one hand still wrapped around her thigh, the other braced against the table like he needed it to stay upright.

Y/N leaned into him, her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Not after that.

He rested his chin against the top of her head. Neither of them spoke.

Her heart was still racing, and not just from the physical high—it was the weight of what had just passed between them. Because that wasn’t casual. That wasn’t just lust. That was raw, and real, and terrifying in the way that made her want to both run and stay at the same time.

Harry finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “Y/N.”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

He looked at her like he wanted to say something important. But all that came out was, “That was…”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

They stared at each other for a moment, silent, stripped of the tension that had once built everything between them.

He ran his thumb slowly along her knee, grounding himself in the feel of her skin. “I meant it,” he said. “When I said it wasn’t just that night. Or this.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I know,” she said softly. “Me too.”

He exhaled, brushing his hand along her cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice softened even more. “You scare the hell out of me.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “Good. You should be scared. I bite.”

He smiled, barely, then leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Not her lips. Not again.

Then he stepped back just enough to help her down from the table, their hands still laced for a moment too long before she bent to grab her shirt from the floor.

They dressed in silence again, but it wasn’t awkward this time—it was full. Full of something new and heavy and bright all at once. Something that didn’t need defining just yet.

When she handed him a towel to wipe down the table, he took it with a smirk. “So… pasta?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Definitely ruined the sauce.”

“You ruined me,” he muttered under his breath, and she caught it.

She didn’t respond.

She just walked past him, fingers brushing his as she said, “Let’s eat anyway.”

And he followed—quiet, wrecked, and maybe already a little bit hers.

The days blurred together, soft and hazy and full of quiet moments that felt like stolen time.

Harry would show up at her door with a bottle of wine and a crooked smile. Sometimes she’d end up at his place, curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, her legs draped over his lap. And almost always, one of them would end up pressed against a wall or tangled in the sheets—breathless, hands gripping, lips searching like they couldn’t not touch.

It was easy. Familiar. Addictive.

But never once had either of them said the word “relationship.” Or “dating.” Or even “us.”

Which is exactly why Y/N found herself pacing her living room on a Tuesday night, staring at her phone with a furrowed brow and a nervous pit in her stomach.

Finally, she opened her group chat.

Y/N:

Okay. So. Please tell me it’s not crazy that I still have no idea what’s going on with Harry.

Lila:

Omg HERE we go.

Are we finally addressing the hot sex haze you’ve been floating in?

Harper:

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Drop the details. Are we in too-deep territory?

Y/N:

We’ve been… seeing each other. Not just once. Not just a hookup.

It’s like we hang out, we sleep together, he stays over sometimes…

but we’ve never talked about what this is. Or what we want it to be.

Lila:

Y/N. Babe. That’s not nothing.

If he’s coming back, staying over, showing up for more than sex—it means something.

Harper:

Have you thought about asking him directly?

Y/N:

Yes. Constantly.

But what if I ask and ruin it? What if he doesn’t want what I do?

Lila:

But isn’t not knowing already ruining it?

Harper:

You’re not asking for a proposal. You’re asking for clarity.

And you deserve that.

Y/N read their replies twice, then sat down slowly, her thumbs hovering above her screen. She knew they were right. She knew she couldn’t keep riding this line between casual and committed without knowing where he stood.

But the truth was… she was scared.

Scared of what would happen if she asked.

The laundry basket dug into her hip as Y/N walked barefoot down the hallway, still warm from the dryer. Her oversized tee clung slightly to her side from the heat of the clothes inside. It was late—close to midnight—and the building was quiet, lights dimmed, the kind of hush that made everything feel softer.

As she turned the corner to her apartment, she nearly walked straight into him.

Harry.

He stood outside his door, barefoot, holding a half-finished glass of red wine, his black hoodie hanging loose over his frame. His eyes flicked up from the phone in his hand—and when he saw her, something in his face changed. Warmer. Softer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little rough from the quiet.

“Hey,” she replied, slightly breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

He looked her over once, slow and easy. “Laundry night?”

She held up the basket. “As glamorous as it gets.”

Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped aside slightly, nodding toward his door. “You want to come in? I’ve got wine. The good kind. The kind you pretend you only drink one glass of and then accidentally finish the bottle.”

Y/N hesitated for only half a second, then gave a crooked smile. “Twist my arm.”

He opened the door and let her in. The lights were low—just one lamp on in the corner, casting the apartment in that familiar golden glow. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table, two glasses, a record playing something soft and instrumental in the background.

It felt intimate. But not planned.

She set her laundry basket down near the door and slid onto the couch. He poured her a glass and handed it over before settling beside her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers just barely brushing her shoulder.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded, sipping the wine. “Long week.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the tension not uncomfortable—but present. Lingering like it always did with them now. Like the question neither of them had asked was sitting there between the glasses and the silence, waiting to be said aloud.

The wine made everything feel warmer. Softer. Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath her, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She wasn’t drunk, not really—just loose enough that her thoughts were slipping closer to her mouth.

Harry was beside her, one arm still resting along the back of the couch. Every now and then, his fingers brushed her shoulder, absentminded. Familiar. Like they’d done this a hundred times.

But she was quieter than usual. No teasing, no casual sarcasm. Just silence.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “You’ve barely said anything since we sat down.”

She hesitated, staring into her glass like the right answer might be floating somewhere in the swirl of merlot.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, after a beat: “I’m just tired.”

Harry turned slightly, studying her. “You sure?”

Y/N gave him a small smile. “You’re not even grumpy right now. I don’t want to be the one to ruin it.”

That made his brow furrow. “Ruin what?”

She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes. “Us.”

The word hung there—bare, trembling.

“I mean, not us us,” she rushed to add, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Just… whatever this is. I don’t want to mess it up. But I’m also kind of losing my mind trying to figure out what it actually is.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I keep thinking maybe I should just ask,” she continued, voice softer now, “but then I picture you getting that broody, quiet look and pulling away, and I just… don’t. Because I don’t want to ruin something that’s good.”

A silence stretched out between them—thick with vulnerability and that fragile hum of maybe-something-more.

Harry set his glass down carefully, then reached for hers and did the same. When he turned to her again, he was closer—his knee brushing hers, his voice low and steady.

“You’re not going to ruin anything,” he said. “And I’m not pulling away.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“I know I haven’t said much,” he went on, “and I’ve probably made this more confusing than it needed to be. But I’m not here for casual.”

Y/N’s eyes searched his, her heart in her throat.

“I don’t always know how to say what I want,” he admitted, “but I know I want you. Not just late at night. Not just when it’s convenient.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve wanted to say something for a while,” he added. “I just didn’t want to say it wrong.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

He gave a faint smile. “You kind of said it for both of us.”

Then, quieter still, he added, “Is that okay?”

Y/N nodded, something in her chest loosening. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s really okay.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with the kind of ease that only comes when you know it’s more.

And in that moment, she didn’t feel confused.

She just felt chosen.

Harry’s thumb traced soft circles over her knuckles as the quiet stretched, comfortable now—no longer heavy with what wasn’t said, but filled with the warmth of everything that finally had been.

Then he pulled his hand away gently and stood up.

“I want to give you something,” he said, voice almost shy.

Y/N watched him walk across the room, barefoot and a little flushed, as he opened one of the wooden cabinets near his kitchen counter. He rifled through for a moment before turning around with something in his hands—small, rounded, and painted in muted tones of deep green and soft blue, like sea glass.

A vase. Delicate, imperfect in the most beautiful way. Swirled with color, thumbprints still subtly visible in the shape of its curve. It looked like it had been loved.

Harry brought it over and placed it gently in her hands.

She blinked down at it, smiling. “Harry… it’s really beautiful. What is it?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time all night. “You remember that night at the gallery? When you were messing around with the pottery wheel?”

She glanced up, heart flipping.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I remember.”

It hit her all at once—a flash of memory: her hands caked in clay, his arms around her, guiding her movements, his voice low in her ear as he taught her how to shape something from nothing.

“I kept it,” he said. “The piece you made. After you left, I fixed it up a little. Smoothed the shape, made sure it didn’t collapse in the kiln. Painted it. Fired it properly.”

Y/N stared down at the vase in her hands, something tightening behind her ribs.

“You saved it?” she asked, looking up at him, her voice catching slightly.

Harry shrugged, eyes softer now. “You said you’d never done it before. I figured you should get to keep your first piece.”

Her throat tightened. She ran her fingers over the glaze, touched by how intentional it felt—not just the object, but the gesture. The way he’d taken something she hadn’t even thought twice about and turned it into this.

Into something permanent.

“You’re kind of ruining your whole ‘emotionally unavailable’ vibe,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

He laughed under his breath, then sat beside her again. “Yeah, well. You’re ruining my ‘grumpy loner’ brand, so I guess we’re even.”

Y/N looked at the vase once more before setting it carefully on the table and curling back into his side, her head against his shoulder.

“I love it,” she said.

And she meant the vase.

But maybe… she meant more.

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runninriot · 2 days ago

Text

Trust

written for the @steddiemicrofic may prompt 'delay'

wc: 408 | rated: M | tags: pre steddie, implied sexual content, sex talk, Eddie has a crush on Steve, open ending

Eddie nearly chokes on the fries he just stuffed into his mouth, has to wash them down with a big gulp of strawberry milkshake to clear his throat. He wipes a stray tear from his eye before looking at Steve, whose face has turned bright pink.

He's avoiding Eddie's gaze, keeps his head tilted down, eyes fixed on the untouched burger in front of him.

"It's- stupid. Just forget it," he mutters and yes, yes, Eddie would gladly forget.

But that's just not going to happen, unfortunately.

"No, it's- fine. You just caught me off guard."

Eddie nervously swipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, curses himself for not letting it go.

He should, is the thing. Because there's no way he'll survive any kind of sex talk with Steve without making a fool of himself. Especially not after the question Steve just dropped.

"You're just gonna make fun of me."

"I won't. Promise," Eddie swears. If anything, he might combust and die of horny shame.

"I-I read this article and-"

For how confident Steve usually is, he suddenly seems untypically shy. And that just makes it worse. It meaning the secret crush that's been playing Eddie's heart for some time now.

"You're into this kind of stuff, right? I mean- I don't know. Guess I'm just curious."

Lord have mercy.

Are they really having a conversation about edging right now? Not that Eddie would know how it feels to be on the receiving end of things - he prefers to be the one in control. Loves to make pretty guys beg for relief. Pretty guys like the one sitting across from him.

Sweet, innocent Steve.

God, this is torture.

"Delaying an orgasm can be fun. For both parts," Eddie hears himself say before he can stop it.

"Sounds frustrating. Not being like, allowed to- y'know."

Eddie's traitorous dick answers with an interested twitch and he'd be ashamed if this was the first time his body reacted to Steve in this way. Only it's not.

"Maybe? But that just makes it even more rewarding once you... let go. Giving up control can be freeing."

This isn't a conversation they should be having in public. Or at all, for his sanity's sake.

"I think I'd like to try it."

Eddie's heart sinks at the thought but he tries his best not to show it.

"Just- make sure it's with someone you trust, okay?"

Steve hesitates, then smiles.

"I trust you."

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficmay

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astars-things · 17 hours ago

Text

Birthday posts

Summary- SMAU where Jack, Lando, Quinn, Luke and Half of the grid post y/n for her birthday and a bonus Insta edit of what y/n posts for Jack

*all photos are from pinterest I do not own them

Family posts↓

liked by @.Landonorris @.Y/n_hughes and others

@.QuinnHughes Happy 24th birthday to these two crazy idiots. As your older brother, I've witnessed your wild nights, chaotic ideas and questionable fashion choices over the years, and documented most along the way. Watching you grow up side by side has been one of the greatest joys of my life. Love you both

tagged @.Jackhughes @.Y/n_hughes

view comments

@.Y/n_hughes who tf is cutting onions near me rn

@.Jackhughes not crying just... sweating from my eyes bro

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liked by @.Jackhughes @.Y/n_hughes and others

@.lhughes_06 happy birthday to the two people who made growing up equally fun and mildly traumatic. thanks for being my built-in best friends, role models (sometimes), and constant sources of chaos. love you both, even when you roast me in group chats

tagged @.Jackhughes @.Y/n_hughes

view comments

@.Jackhughes its called charater development and you're welcome

@.Y/n_hughes Love you baby bro. Also role models sometimes?? please. i’m clearly the best example you’ve ever had 😌

→ @.lhughes_06 who are you trying to lie to rn?!

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liked by @.Landonorris @.trevorzegras and others

@.Jackhughes Y/n, You are many things in life and I'm so lucky to call you my little sister, wombmate, my best friend and my partner in crime. From the moment we entered the world (a whole 2 minutes apart), you’ve been right by my side through everything. You have supported my hockey dream since we were little and I couldn't be more thankful for you. No matter how far apart we are from each other our bond grows everyday. Love you forever and always lil sis ❤️

tagged @.Y/n_hughes

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@.Y/n_hughes Jacky...I'll forever support my partner in crime ❤️ but why you got me sobbing on my bedroom floor

→@.Landonorris I can confirm she is on the floor sobbing

@.trevorzegras broo this made me cry

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Grid posts ↓

Liked by @.User @.Y/n_hughes and others

@.danielricciardo Happy birthday to this absolute legend who matches my australian energy perfectly. Thank you for capturing my good angels whenever we shot for Mclaren social media very much appreciated. You make every paddock day 10x more fun. Don’t ever change, Y/n 🍾

tagged @.Y/n_hughes

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@.Y/n_hughes Danny ric...Love you so much pookie and hey, you’re welcome for the content

→@.danielricciardo love you too

@.Landonorris when did half of these photos even happen?

→@.Y/n_hughes next Question

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liked by @.Y/n_hughes @.charles_leclerc and others

@.carlossainz55 Happy birthday pequeña estrella (Little star) Thank you for being a number one Carlando supporter even when we didn't ask for it. When I moved on from McLaren you still showed me support and cheered me on and I couldn't ask for a better friend and also thank you for putting up with Lando, Your paycheck for emotional labor is in the mail

tagged @.Y/n_hughes

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@.Y/n_hughes Love you always Carlitooo

@.landonorris wait she’s getting paid for putting up with me??? → @.carlossainz55 mate it’s back pay at this point

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Landos post↓

liked by @.oscarpiastri @.User and others

@.Landonorris To my dearest Y/n, Happy Birthday my love. You love me on my best and worst days, You cheer the loudest for me even when I want to give up, You help keep me humble when my ego gets to big, You are the calm to my chaos and You make my smile on days I don't want to smile. Words don't do it justice on how much I love you but I’ll spend forever trying to show you. You are my heart, my peace, and my favorite person in the world.

tagged @.Y/n_hughes

view comments

@.y/n_hughes currently sobbing. you’re everything, lando. always have been, always will be 💛 → @.landonorris and you’re stuck with me forever. sorry not sorry 🫶

@.jackhughes this is cute and all but if either of you makes out in front of me today i’m walking into traffic → @.lhughes_06 he’s not kidding.

@.oscarpiastri glad someone keeps his ego in check tbh → @.landonorris betrayal from inside the team?? wow.

@.danielricciardo ok but who actually wrote this for you?? → @.landonorris rude. I’m soft sometimes.

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Y/ns post↓

Liked by @.Jackhughes @.trevorzegras and Others

@.Y/n_hughes Jack, You are my older brother by two minutes but you never make me forget that. No matter what you're doing whether its sleeping, getting ready for a game or out partying you make sure to always make time for me to have a five minute phone call just to check in on each other. And those five minutes mean more to me than you know. And those five minutes mean more to me than you know. You're my wombmate, partner in crime and I would give you my kidney if you asked for it but I'll never let you borrow my phone charger and I think that sums up our relationship perfectly. Love you forever, even when you steal my fries.

tagged @.Jackhughes

view comments

@.jackhughes this made me emotional. love you always, wombmate ❤️ → @.y/n_hughes love you too. fries? no. charger? never. My kidney? fine.

@.trevorzegras watching the hughes twins bicker is better than 90% of TV shows → @.landonorris petition for a reality show. just them. no filter.

→ @.y/n_hughes Yeah no...not a good idea

@.quinnhughes i blinked once and y’all went from fighting over who got the front seat to this 💀 → @.jackhughes i still deserve the front seat → @.y/n_hughes he’s delusional, your honor

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please reblog, like and comment 🫶

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shaisuki · 19 hours ago

Note

How many babies do you think Zayne wants? I feel like he'd be a big family man, but forcing himself on his wife again isn't something he exactly enjoys.

And if the reader, after thinking about it and accepting his situation, were to let her bear him more children, how many would they have?

Three. That's all.

Zayne's an only child who recently learned that he's a brother to a monkey his parents had adopted in the tropics named Sweet Potato.

It gets lonely sometimes when he was still a child and sees the joy in your eyes when you bonded with your siblings. The laughter, the quarrels as you all chased each other in the meadows and going home to be scolded with dried mud caking all of your faces. That's when he decided if he was ever going to have a family of his own, he's going to have more than one but that depends on his wife.

Which you didn't had a decision in the first place. It was necessity in his side cause you were going to leave and it was rather a haste decision which he didn't normally do. He does not enjoyed your tears while it happened, considering it was your first time and his.

The pregnancy was a total fluke. It only happened one time and when your blood results coming positive for pregnancy. He felt happy. He was going to be a father even though you weren't still open in the idea of being a mother, let alone being his wife.

Two heartbeats! The stars aligned for this moment when you laid in the hospital bed where Doctor Myra in the OB-GYNE was the one who handled your first ultrasound to detect a fetal heartbeat to know that your child is alive. Imagine the surpise on his face which was the same stoic look when he heart those two heartbeats.

You were different though, the pregnancy mortified you. The first days upon the news of you being pregnant — you were numb for a few days. This time you were perplexed. Twins at the first try and you were about to cry and had been staring at your plush stomach where inside your babies are thriving.

Zayne held you tight every night and spoiled you every chance he can get minus when you attempted to escape. You didn't dare harm your babies, attached to the feeling when they started moving inside you. You cried the first time they kicked. Blaming him for putting the babies inside you when you were struggling and vulnerable. That hurts him but he deserves it.

When the twins were born, you changed drastically. Bloomed into something like you were always meant to be. A mother. He often hears you say that you won't be like your mother and you would give them all the love they deserved and the constant apologies when you wished them dead.

The twins turned out to be fine. He's contented with this life. You didn't scream at him no more. Yesterday was the past and you didn't want to put your children in a stress, thinking how much you loathed their father. You don't want them to grow and blame themselves for the things they can't control.

Zayne was surprised when you whispered to him one night that you wanted a another child. In your own terms, of course. In which he agreed without hesitation.

You were pregnant again within a month. Yue and Aurora starting kindergarten. It was a perfect time. They weren't going to have a much larger age gap and can play with their new sibling when it is born.

So, three children and that's all.

#✉ ⋮ shai's mail⸝⸝#zayne x reader #love and deepspace #chubby reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 23 hours ago

Text

Not a Word 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, violence, parental abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note:😻.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"We can come back for the rest," Sy assures as he lifts the suitcase into the bed of his truck. "This should do for the night."

You stand beside the truck. You twist to look at the house. You've always lived there; so long that you never imagined leaving. Yet, after what happened to your father, you can't fathom staying. Still, what lays ahead is just as scary.

"Come on then," Sy shuts the door of the truck bed. "It's gon' be dark soon. We should get home."

He urges you around to the passenger's side. He opens the door. You look at him then the seat. You frown.

You turn and grab the interior of the door. Your eyes widen as his large hand boosts you up from behind. He chuckles and quickly recoils.

"Ah, sorry, darlin', promise I wasn't gettin' handsy."

You sit heavily and stare ahead. He does that. He touches you. He never asks.

"You okay?" He asks as he lingers. You shrug and look at your knees. You slowly pull the seat belt across your body.

He shuts the door then marches around the hood and climbs into the driver's seat. The truck axle lurches with his weight. He buckles up the seat belt and flips the engine. It rumbles noisily and he shifts into gear.

You crane to stare at the house as he drives away. Your heart sinks as it fades into the grim horizon. Even though he promises you'll be back, you know it won't be for good. The life you knew there is over, yet what is there to miss about it? What about the one ahead of you? Will it really be any better?

"You're tired. Well, I got some new sheets just for ya," Sy says. "And some tea. You can just relax."

You shift and lean into the door. You stare through the window. He rolls along the country roads, just along the edge of the town centre, and you watch the crops blow and the trees sway. The air feels like sludge around you. The world is not real to you. Not yet.

He pulls up to a farmhouse. It's in much better shape than your dad's. The siding must've been painted recently and the roof doesn't have shingles peeling off. There's a garage to one side with four doors, almost as big as the house. Sy cranks into park and turns the truck off.

"Home sweet home," he declares.

He looks at you. You don't react. He clicks his tongue and taps the steering wheel. He undoes his seat belt and hops out. The descent is nothing to a man his size.

He circles around and opens your door. You reluctantly unbuckle the seat belt. He keeps his hand on your arm as he helps you down.

You shrug away from him and he peers around. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. You cover your ears at the sharp noise. He waits and you look around in confusion.

It's then that you notice the flap in the lower half of the front door. A dark snout pokes through as a dog pushes the flap out. The german shepherd prances happily across the porch and down the steps. Sy greets her with an extended hand.

"There y'are, Aika," he scratches her head. "Told ya I'd be comin' back. Did ole Walt come and feed ya?" The dog hops up on her back legs and hops, trying to get higher as she dances. He gently urges her down as he chuckles. "Good girl."

She pants happily and her nose twitches. She turns to you and sniffs your hand. Your eyes round. She's a big dog.

"Aika's a nice girl," Sy assures as he trods around the truck bed and opens it with a loud creak. "She's happy to have ya."

She licks your fingers as you freeze up. Your dad never let you have animals. He didn't like dogs and told you how one nearly took off his ear as a boy.

"You can pet her," Sy suggests as he approaches once more. "She only bites who I tell her to."

You look at him and bring your hands up to clutch over your chest.

"I'm kidding. Didn't mean to scare ya," he says. "Aika, inside."

The dog obeys. You watch her bushy tail as she runs back to the porch, her claws tapping on the wooden steps. Sy nudges your arm gently.

"She's good to have around. 'Specially at night. There's all sorts of wild critters out in the woods."

You peer out at the cluster of trees. There were some possums around your dad's place but nothing too worrisome. Mostly field mice trying to eat through the garbage bags.

You head toward the house. You don't have much of a choice. You never have, yet it feels all the more oppressive now.

Sy opens the front door and lets you in ahead of him. The entryway is nice and tidy. There's a bouquet of sunflowers on the side table next to a coat rack and the shoe mat. You turn and examine the mostly bare walls.

"You got a lady's eye. I figure you could help liven up the place. Maybe hang some of them pictures you make. Something right here," he frames a part of the wall with his hands.

You nod. Whatever he wants. That's the way life is. It's how it's always been, it's just with someone new now.

The dog sits in a bed in the corner of the front room. You peer around, feeling lost, feet treading along without direction. This place is nice but strange.

"You tell me if I missed anything," he says.

You stop in the middle of the front room. This can't be done overnight. This takes time. He claims it's all for you, but is that true? If it is, how long was he planning this? Was it all planned? Hurting your dad, lying to the police...

"Is it alright?" He sounds almost nervous.

You look at him. You just feel small. And tired.

"You hungry? We didn't have dinner yet."

You shake your head. His brow furrows.

"How about I show ya the bedroom? You can get settled."

You walk forward. He waits until you're in the hallway then he leads you toward the back of the house. Opposite the kitchen, there's the bedroom. It's spacious and done up as nicely as the rest of the house. He must have had some help... right? You couldn't do all this.

The bed is made up with floral sheets and a thick coverlet. And the lamps on either side look like drooping tulips. He slips in past you as you stand just inside the door. He opens the sliding doors to reveal a closet.

"Found some nice stuff. I don't know too much about clothes but..." he takes out a dress. The lavender farm dress is pretty; a drawstring waist and little eyelet patterns around the collar. You nod. "Something to sleep in..."

He turns and puts the hanger back and takes out another. The white nightgown is shorter than the dress. And has only straps. He brings it to you. "All your intimates in the dresser. I'll bring your bag in for you to unpack what you brung."

You take the nightie. He leaves you and you examine the cotton. You shiver as you look around the room. Home? You guess.

He comes back with your bag and leaves it on the bench at the foot of the bed. He goes and you change into the nightgown. It's fresher than the linen pants and dusty tee. You put your clothes on top of the bag. You'll deal with it later.

You climb into the bed and hide under the blankets. You curl up and close your eyes. You push yourself away from this place, away from this reality. You just want to stop being, stop thinking for a little bit longer.

🌼

A coolness spreads over your back and just as quickly, dissipates. A warmth swirls around you, pluming beneath the fresh linens. Your eyes roll back and forth beneath their lids as you slowly wade up from the grey. There's a tickle along your side.

"Sugar, you okay?" Sy's deep timbre weaves tension through you. "Hey, you awake?"

He squeezes your side and you roll onto your back, poking your elbow into his chest to keep him away. You look at him sharply. It's dark, you can barely make out his silhouette. He lowers himself down to his side.

"Just wanna make sure you're alright. You been quiet." He drawls.

You tut and roll over again, keeping your back to him. He huffs and you lay rigid, waiting for him to touch you again. He doesn't.

You close your eyes. You listen to his breathing. He fidgets for a while, tossing and turning. Eventually, he begins to snore and you're reassured by the steady tempo.

You're tired enough to doze. You float in and out of consciousness. Each time you wake, the wall is a bit lighter. When the birds begin to sing, you're kept awake by their ceaseless tweeting.

You lay on your back as the morning hues light the plaster. You shiver as you feel something crawl up your thigh and onto the fabric of your nightgown. Sy spreads his hand over your stomach and shimmies closer.

"Morning," he grumbles.

You blink at him. His eyes are sleepy as he blinks and his beard has shanks jutting out. Your eyes follow the thick tendons of his neck down to his bare shoulders and chest above the blankets. He moves even closer and you realise he doesn't have much on.

"I like waking up next to you," he pets your stomach through the fabric.

You clasp onto his wrist and shake your head.

"I'm not gonna go too fast. I'm just... getting a feel of ya. Let you get a feel of me, too."

He twists his hand around and catches yours. He yanks on your arm. You're not strong enough to resist. He presses your palm to his furry chest. Your eyes round and your brows arch.

"Not so bad," he pushes your fingers into his firm flesh.

You shake your head and try to sit up. He won't let go.

"Relax," he insists and slides his hand up your arm. He pushes you back down. "I know you heard me. We're gonna get married so we go get used to each other."

You shake your head again.

"Now, I know it's new for you," he wraps his arm around you and traps you against him, "but you gotta try."

You pout and lean away from him, pushing on his chest.

"You needa think. No one else is gonna take care of you. No one else ever said nothing to your daddy. Only me," his voice darkens. "The least you can do is let me hold ya."

You wriggle against him. Panic stirs in your chest and tingles behind your eyes. His heat is overwhelming, his strength too. All this touching is too much.

"Not like I'm tryna do more," he growls and squeezes you until your arms collapse. He curls his arms around you, holding you flush to him.

You heart pounds. More? You're not stupid. Maybe inexperienced. He will eventually. Especially if he's talking about marriage.

"You're nice and warm and soft," he keeps you locked in his arms. He rests his chin against your hair. "And you smell sweet." Your lip trembles as his hand grazes down the back of your nightgown. He gropes your bottom and you twitch. "Just touching. Just a little." He purrs. "You got a nice figure, you know? You're built well."

You close your eyes and shudder. You couldn't move, even if he didn't have you trapped.

"I think you'll like me too, sugar," he rasps. "You know, you can touch. I don't mind. Get to know me." He hums into your hair and inhales your scent. "I know I'm your first and only man, so I'll be gentle. Long as you're gentle with me."

#captain syverson #syverson x reader #dark syverson #dark!syverson #series #sand castle #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #not a word

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sramoonlight · 2 days ago

Text

Superstar

How is Conner as your boyfriend?

Content you’ll see here: Gn!reader, 90’s Conner Kent, nsfw

English it’s not my first language so please be patient

Let me tell you something, everyone thinks Conner is the fuck boy who doesn’t care about you and would only want you for a night, he isn’t.

I see this man having to develop a deep relation with someone for him to let his guard down

Like seriously, Conner is someone with a big ego but at the same time he’s a insecure boy so you have to wait for him to stop his whole act.

He’s a yearner, a hopeless romantic even if he doesn’t show it much.

His love language? Words of affection, but not the “u r pretty” nah, this man is giving you nice words about how smart you are, do you care about strength? He’s pointing it out every time he has the chance, you work out? He’s already telling you how good you do, seriously, he would tell you he wouldn’t take you in a fight even if he can.

That means he enjoys when his partner tells him something nice, his appearance is fine, he would accept being called handsome with a big smile

He also enjoys to give his partner gifts or do something from them, I can see him giving you a rock from another country only because you said you liked the culture

I know what you are thinking, yes, he loves your touch, I see him having a hand on you all the time, either holding yours or hugging your shoulders.

I don’t see him caring about your appearance, maybe he loves a partner that can fit on his arms but if you don’t, he would be more than happy to fit in your arms!

He doesn’t forgive anything, older? Hell yeah, he loves it, younger? That’s his little cutie pie! Feminine? He’s drooling for your delicate figure, masculine? He is holding you tightly so you can’t see how his heart is beating faster than ever.

Speaking of heartbeat, he has yours memorized by now, not in the weird way

It happened one night, he’s paying attention to you even if he’s away and suddenly he started tapping his feet at the rhythm of your heartbeat

You know what that implies, if your heart is going faster than before he would text you to see if you are okay, you don’t answer? He’s flying to you,

I see him cuddling, he’s a yearner so when he’s feeling too tired he’s laying his head on your chest, hearing your heartbeat like it’s his drug

You need put your hands on his ears, oh god how you need to do it, that’s literally being trapped on his favorite sound over and over again.

He texts you, so much you are surprised when the new notification isn’t a text from him

He would send you pics of whatever he is doing, he’s fighting crime? That’s a selfie of him with a criminal. He also sends you pictures of the sky wherever he is always with “it’s beautiful like you <3”

Speaking of pics, he is active on social media, he has a instagram profile where he used to post photos of him but once he started dating you that became your profile

His pfp? A childhood photo of you, every highlight are photos or dates with you or just you looking cute

He does post selfies or photos of him, he likes doing it but every since, there is a small text mentioning you like “Damn, does (Reader) eat all this?” Or “ready to marry (Reader)”

You are private, well, that is what he says but at this point everyone knows he is your man, he would be mad if someone doesn’t know it!

His friends started to joke how dumb if for you, and him? He nods with a smile, Tim once asked him if he would put a collar for you and he accepted it with a smile.

He is a good boy, he does it for you, I’m not lying

He would be play fighting with Bart and he would absolutely stop if you are around.

I see him calling you his woman/man, like, “my woman/man and I went to this place” he isn’t ashamed, why doesn’t he call you his girl/boy? Damn no, that would mean he just wants you for a moment, he wants you for eternity.

He is the type of boyfriend that shivers whenever you call him “Conner” don’t get him wrong, he enjoys when you call him but it’s usually “love” or “Kon” but his full name? God no, that’s nor him.

NSFW minors do not interact

Don’t mind me but this man doesn’t fuck you, he does love, seriously, it’s almost disgusting how his voice changed when he tells you to “make love”

You see him as a fuck boy, he is not, he can be with whenever he wants but you are the only person he would hug and kiss

He hugs you, he does, he can’t do it if he isn’t touching you in a intimate way, at least he needs to be holding your hand or he is stopping everything.

I see him telling you how cute you look and how good you are for him, if he isn’t telling you sweet words that is not him.

You know that moment where he is so close he can’t think? He’s whispering “I love you” like a mantra.

He doesn’t see sex as a important thing, he used to have a lot of partners before you but if you don’t bring the topic he wouldn’t even know he is in celibate for you

But if you are active, damn that man is on his knees for just a little of you.

He fucks until he is dumb, when he can only remember your name and no more, that’s when he knows he did good

#conner kent #kon el x reader #kon el luthor #kon el superboy #kon el kent #kon el #superboy 1994 #superboy #superboy x reader #conner kent x reader #conner kent x male reader #dc superboy #headcanon

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thatlongspringnight · 2 days ago

Text

Unrestrained Echoes (Caleb/MC)

Couple: Caleb Xia/ MC

Word Count: 3785

Content Warning: Smut, tooth rotting fluff, yapping, they are in a grave yard

Summary:

It starts off as a date idea, and a silly one at that - you’ve made it a tradition with Caleb, once a month you go and visit grandma’s grave…and then you take a detour to his.

Sometimes it’s just so you can stare at him, that you can realize there is nothing there, under that headstone, throwing yourself into his arms and letting him remind you that he is real, that he is alive and his heart is still beating under your touch.

And sometimes it’s so you can - very dramatically, mind you - talk to his grave, while he watches, snickering as you air your problems about him, to him, in front of him. He protests, every now and again, saying it’s rude to bring up grievances with the dead - but at the end you end up giggling, tugging at his cheeks, just so happy he is with you.

Tonight, it’s late, very late, and you’re watching a meteor shower. Sprawled out onto a comfy blanket, and curled into the crook of his arm.

You’d planned on watching from the balcony of your place, before Caleb reminded you the light pollution would ruin it.Then you had brought up going out to the country, but he had simply tutted his tongue and reminded you the last time you did this, you were kids, and it was with grandma.

And so to the cemetery you went, saying hi to her before he slyly remarked that his headstone is a better place to sit, with a better view of the stars.

“I thought you wanted to watch it with Grandma?” You elbowed him in the side, and he laughed, pulling you close.

“She’s here, we said hi, I think she’d appreciate the gesture.” He shrugged a little, already marching off towards his headstone. “And anyway, I can feel her glare any time we get to cuddling. She always wanted you to end up with ‘Doctor Zayne’.” And you had watched him mimic the fawning way Josephine used to talk about him.

“Grandma just didn’t…” You paused, trying to figure out the best way to say it. “She didn’t realize the depth of our feelings.” And you nodded to yourself - yeah that’s a pretty good way to put it. Better than saying that Grandma didn’t want you being in love with and having sex with the boy she raised as your older brother.

Oh well, you sighed. As much as you miss her, you know if she was still here…neither of you would have been brave enough to go this far. You shot an apologetic look towards her grave, before grabbing Caleb’s hand, entwining your fingers and swinging your arm.

And she would be happy you're both happy, you're sure of it. Caleb is taking care of you, like he always promised her…and now you get to stand by his side, you get to take care of him too.

“Why're you so quiet?” He murmurs, here in the present, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Don't tell me you're falling asleep, pipsqueak.”

“Not a chance.” You huff, shifting to look up at him, to catch his sweet - adoring gaze. The starlight makes his eyes almost shimmer, galaxies laid bare for you…and you alone. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.” he snickers and you huff, swatting at him, just for him to grab your hand, drawing it up to his lips to press a gentle kiss there.

“Ugh, how am I supposed to be grumpy with you when you are so sweet.” And he grins, a wolfish flash of his teeth before pressing another kiss, just a little lower, to your wrist.

“You aren't.” He says cheerfully. “You're supposed to always forgive me, even when I'm being big dummy Caleb.”

“Where is your hundred-year forgiveness coupon?” You ask him, reaching to pinch his cheek, rewarded with the sweetness of his laugh.

You wish you could capture the moment of his genuine smile, of his sweet laugh - and hold it forever, keep it those weeks where he's gone with the fleet, or when you're gone on missions.

“There is that look again.” His smile shifts to something like concern. “When you're thinking of things that make you upset -”

“I just….ugh.” you shake your head, reaching to grip at the material of his shirt, letting your fingers slip under the fabric so you can nervously rub circles against his skin. “It sounds stupid because you're here , you're right here with me.” And you shift so that you're pressed as close as you can be to him, your leg hooked over his, and your hand over his heart, feeling the steady beat. Here he is, alive and breathing, and full of concern as he looks up at you. “I miss you.” You grumble, like admitting it is a chore. “Preemptively. You're here, but I'm already missing you, thinking of when we are apart again.” You don’t know how else to say it. “When you leave…when you aren’t here, all i can think about is this place. Where I thought you left me.”

“Pipsqueak.” And Caleb sighs softly, shifting you so you're sprawled on top of him, his arms around you. “D’you want me to tell you you should focus on thinking about right now, instead?” He isn't teasing now, he can tell your mood is serious. “or….D’you want me….to admit that i’m always missing you too. That….after I left, all I could think about was you, and how I had left you…How I had left you all alone.” There is regret there, even as He's gently stroking at your cheek with his thumb, and cradling you against him. “I think about you, about leaving you, and about coming back, down to the minute.” And his nose brushes yours as he kisses you softly. “And when we aren't together, all I want is to be with you.”

“Maybe it's because I'm staring at your grave.” You sigh, pressing your forehead against his. “I'm…I'm - I just feel like there will never be enough time. I lost you once, after all.” It’s a bit petulant, in the way you can be with him, as you lightly pound on his chest. “I can’t…I can’t lose you again.” And he sees right through you, you know it, sees past the childish fit, to the heart of it. To how terrified you are to lose him, to end up in a world where he is gone, where he won’t come back to you.

“I'm right here.” He reminds you, grabbing your hands, to bring to his heart, to feel it thrumming again, to feel the fact that he is alive. “I'm here now, and I'm alive, I'm with you.” His purple eyes are so soft, so sweet and you kiss him. Because you can, because he’s here, and he’s alive and he’s yours.

The miracle of it, that he would be with you, isn’t lost on you, and as soon as he lets your hands go, you are moving them to cup his face.

“Big dummy Caleb.” You mumble, and he pushes himself up, taking you with him. “Hey- “ and now his back is against his grave stone, and right behind his head you can see the picture of him, the one you picked to memorialize him…from his DAA graduation.

A picture you had snapped of him, looking so handsome, so happy. Before…before all this. Before the explosion, before the fleet, and before that damn chip -

“This is more comfortable.” His voice shakes you from your thoughts. “And I can hold you closer.” Which he does, squeezing you tightly, till you whine, the dark cloud above your head lifting just a little at his antics. “That’s better.” He whispers against your ear. “I just had to squeeze out a bit of your sadness, Now I need to find something to replace it with.”

“With Caleb.” You answer him, dropping your voice a little low. “I want you to replace all my sadness with you.” and your hands drift down his chest. He’s so firm, and so warm underneath your touch, and you can feel the pit in your stomach - where dread is being replaced with something altogether more…Carnal.

Its heat swirling just under your skin, a coil you badly want to break. The best way to be reminded that he’s here with you - when he’s buried to the hilt inside of you.

“You…” and you can see the way his Adam's apple bobs as he gulps, just a quick movement. Just enough to clue you in. “Here, are you sure?”

“Here…” and you lean forward, your mouth against his ear. “Should we put on a show for grandma?” You have no idea why you say it, but once it’s out, Caleb’s eyes are wide, and then narrowed, a heavy breath leaving his lungs as he grips at your arms.

Not painful, but strong. Strong and sturdy.

“That is…you are really something else.” But he sounds eager, wanting, like he always is for you. “Are you really sure?” “Ask me that one more time, and we will be going home.” You huff. “And not to…to do that either.” One of his worst habits in your opinion, it's like he can’t fathom just how much you want him, and how you want him…literally all the time.

“One of these days you’re going to have to just get over it and say the word.” Caleb snickers. “You’re a big girl, right Pipsqueak? You’re a grown up.” And okay, he wants you to fight him, you think to yourself, scowling at him.

“You - you think I can’t say it?” you ask him. “Seriously?”

“I mean…you still haven’t. Are you worried Grandma will hear?” He says, his eyes full of mischief. “Are you a coward - “ “I am trying to - to fuck you. Here, in a cemetery, at your grave.” You blurt. “Fuck, have sex with you, copulate, have intercourse, make love - “ and he silences you with a heated kiss, one of his hands tangling in your hair, pulling it free from the scrunchie you had keeping it up.

“You’re such a bad girl.” He teases, his breath so hot against your skin, you shudder. “Saying all those things here. In a cemetery! Who raised you?” and you gently smack at his shoulder. “She’s right over there, don’t be mean!” and it’s joking, a way to overlook the trauma of it all - at least for you. The more time passes, the more complicated you realize Caleb and Josephine’s relationship was. Both united in a love for you…and not much else.

“Stop thinking so loud.” Caleb is kissing you again, lips warm, and you grin when you taste the lip balm you gave him on them. “Focus on me.” He trails kisses along your jaw, then into the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking in a love bite.

“Ngh - Caleb -” it's a whine, soft and sweet for him. “Be gentle.” “We both know you don’t want that.” That timbre in his voice, God he makes you feel weak in the knees. “Always beggin’ me to be gentle, then demanding I be rough. You’re so bossy.” His hands slip under the cozy dress you had popped on for this adventure, meeting the pretty lace panties you were wearing. “What’s this? Did you plan this whole trip for mischief, Pipsqueak?” He asks.

“I know a certain Colonel of the farspace fleet likes to see meteor showers.” You very coyly raise the material of your dress, revealing what his hands are touching. “And I also know he likes it when I wear pretty lace panties.”

Before you realize it, he’s got you scrambling to grasp onto his grave stone, his fingers rubbing your clit through that oh-so pretty lace.

“Then you also know that the colonel likes it best when they’re soaked.” His teeth graze your ear and you shiver, the feeling of his firm chest pressed to your back making you almost as dizzy as the feeling of his fingers rubbing your clit. “Gonna make you cum in these - “ “So you can keep them?” You are panting, gripping at the cool stone. “So Colonel pervert can use them to get off when he’s on long missions?”

“Colonel pervert, eh?” You can feel his hard on pressing against your ass, and he’s shameless about it, bucking his hips against those panties. “That’s a new one.” and he is slipping your panties to the side just enough to slide his fingers into your cunt, to grind his palm against your clit.

“Ngh - Caleb - !”

“Nope, Caleb isn’t here right now.” He leaves another mark against your neck, this one enough to make your eyes roll back at the feeling of his teeth, of his mouth hot on your skin. “Just the colonel - punishing his naughty aide.”

“Does the Colonel want - hngh - “ and you shift, pressing your ass against his hips. “Does the colonel wanna fuck me for being such….such a bad girl?” and heavens above, the sound that leaves his mouth will haunt all your wet dreams from here on out. “Is that my punishment?”

“Haah - we need to work on your understanding of what a punishment is.” with every thrust of his crooked fingers, you feel stars burst behind your shut eyes. He knows exactly how to work you over. “Generally speaking the other person shouldn’t like them.”

“But I-i - oh - love it when you touch me.” You counter, your breath and words stuttering as you try to talk through what he’s doing to you. “So I guess you aren’t doing - ah - you aren’t doing a good job of punishing me.”

“You’re the colonel’s weakness.” Caleb’s words are softer now, even if his touch isn’t. “And Mine too. So I’ll always let you off easy.” Yeah, you think to yourself, trying to hold on for dear life to his literal gravestone while he fingerfucks you into oblivion - he isn’t exactly letting you off easy right now.

And the sound, you'd have the decency to be embarrassed from the squelch of his fingers inside of you if you weren't actively grinding against him, seeking out more - more of him.

“You -” he grunts, and he's bent over you, his free hand wrapped across your stomach, both to hold you closer and to keep you from falling over against the grave stone. but whatever he's going to say is lost as you clench around his fingers, gasping his name as you cum.

And he's always one to let you ride it out, his touch softening immediately, not keen on giving you more than you can handle before he's had the chance to properly handle you. As soon as his fingers slide out of you, you're whining, but it's harmless, just the feeling of the loss of him making you shift, circling your arms around his neck as you slam your lips against his.

You nip his bottom lip and he obediently opens his mouth, letting you taste the remnants of the apple soda you shared earlier, and the soft mint lip balm. he is panting when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed, the soft sounds of his breathing making you fond. How can he….how can he make such pretty sounds?

“Caleb.” And your hands are grabbing at his belt, quick to undo it and shift down to the button, the zipper. “You drive me crazy, you know? Whenever…when you make those sounds. I just want to - you sound so pretty.” You decide against telling him you want to lock yourself in his room with him, and never leave his bed.

“Pipsqueak -” his cheeks have darkened, and he has to clear his throat. “You always say that -’

“And I always mean it.” You slide a hand up his cock, eager and not at all gentle, rewarded with a whimpered hiss, his hand grabbing your wrist.

“Rough -” he pants and you shoot him an innocent look from under your lashes. “Don't try and pretend you don't know what you're doing.” He says and you simply lick your palm, going to touch him again, just for your hand to drop to your thigh, his evol freezing you in place .

“Caleb -” but he's hoisting you up, met with your whining as he shifts behind you. “But I wanna see your face -”

“Nope. That's for when you're being a good girl.” And it's a fun little game you think, this banter between the two of you.

And you reach to grab the top of the stone, resting your upper body against it as you look back at him.

“I'm such a bad girl, Caleb, what are you going to do about it?” You grin, snickering as he groans, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“Right now?” And he loops his fingers into your panties, tugging them down. “Right now I'm going to fuck you till you behave…or at least I'll give it my best shot.”

“Mm, I want a shot of you, Caleb - ngh!” Before you can even bask in your funny joke, he’s inside of you, all the breath leaving your lungs as your brain short circuits. He didn’t give you the usual slow slide, where he was sweet and gentle, but the burn is delicious like this, your nails digging against stone as you try to hold yourself up.

“Mm, it already made you quiet, at least.” His hold on your hips is bruising, and you hope it leaves marks - that it leaves his fingerprints to tide you over when he’s back in Skyhaven. You’re still sensitive from your orgasm, trying to muffle your sounds with your hand as he slams his hips into yours.

No mercy - that thought is hazy in your pleasure addled brain.

“Why’re you covering your mouth?” He asks, smug. “Are you worried someone will hear? Is it Grandma?” And you gasp at that, tossing a look back at him, just to catch his gleaming, mischievous gaze.

“Caleb! Ba~ad!” Every time he thrusts into you your breath stutters, a shiver working its way through you as he traces the curve of your spine with his fingers, pushing your dress up as he does.

“Caleb is bad.” He agrees. “Caleb is absolutely terrible.” He punctuates each statement with a - with a slam of hips against yours, his cock buried deep inside of you. “Caleb is the worst.” “C-Caleb…Caleb is the best.” You counter, eyes shut tight, your body just so full of him. “Caleb is my favorite.” It's stammered and stuttered and punctuated by whimpers you can’t control. “Ca~aleb!” and okay, you can’t help how loud you’re being, he isn’t leaving you a choice. The way he’s fucking you, the way he just…

He knows your body best, knows you best, knows how to leave you breathless and begging for him. His sharp, quick thrusts that fade into languid strokes only to speed up again, the way his hands roam your body, conscious of the places that will have you wiggling away, and those that will have you whining for more.

“I love it when you say my name like this.” He reaches an arm around your stomach, pulling you up. ““You should only ever call out for me, pipsqueak. Only I get to have you like this.” and now that he has you pressed against him, his chest against your back, you can turn your head, begging for a messy kiss he’s eager to give you.

All tongue and teeth and torturous desire. His free hand sliding up your dress to cup one of your breasts, fingers pinching gently at the nipple.

“Mmmph!” You whine against his mouth, pulling away just to look at the glistening trail of saliva that connects you to him. “Bully. As - As punishment, hurry up a-and make me cum.” and he gives you a little smirk.

“You keep forgetting what punishments are, I’m not supposed to enjoy doing it.” But he’s already shifting his hands so he can rub circles around your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Your wish is always my command.”

Now he is everything. Your every thought, every neuron in your body tied to him, just to him, all encompassing and divine. You resonate with him, without even having to try, in this moment, your pleasure bleeding into his, so that you can feel him tensing, something that sounds like your name leaving his lips.

But you hardly hear it, hardly hear anything but the unrestrained echoes of your pleasure across the cemetery as you cum again, dragging him with you - the explosion of heat spilling from your core, till your thighs are dripping in him.

And you are sure if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d be flat on the ground, face first in the blanket you brought, but instead, his hand is gentle as he grabs your chin, tilting your face up. “Look” He murmurs, pointing up.

You’re greeted with the meteor shower at its peak, streaks of light shooting across the night sky. You’re entranced, letting him gently maneuver you back onto the blanket, your panties disappearing into the pocket of his pants…after he cleans you up with them.

Then, once he’s fixed his own clothes, he's laying beside you, letting you gently play with his hair as you watch the universe’s mysteries unfold just above you, just for the two of you. “I was worried we’d miss it.” He yawns. “But look at us, we finished with perfect timing.” Caleb, your heart is fond, Caleb, always looking to the sky, even with his feet planted firmly on the ground. “Mmhmm.” You snuggle against him. “I could sleep here, you’re going to have to carry me back to the car, if I do.”

“I figured as much.” He chuckles. “As much as I would be happy to oblige, I don’t like the idea of you falling asleep on a grave, Pipsqueak.” and he’s gently coaxing you to watch the stars, hoping the flashes across the sky will hold you enough to keep you awake.’Even if it’s my grave.” “Well, then you shouldn’t have made me see stars before there were stars to see.” You attempt another bad joke, rewarded by him groaning, laughing as he calls you corny, letting the two of you fall into comfortable silence.

“Is it all you hoped it would be?” Caleb’s voice has gone soft and sweet, unaware that your eyes are on him, not the stars. “Better.” You try to memorize the shine in his eyes, the childlike wonder and hope as he looks up at the night sky. This is your favorite version of him, when you both feel safe, when you’re together. “More beautiful than I could have imagined.”

#love and deepspace #lads #lads caleb #caleb xia #lnds caleb #xia yizhou

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