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ijustmissyouraccenths · 3 months ago

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It’s You

Where Y/N’s chaotic energy clashes with her grumpy, tattooed neighbor, her mission to get on his good side turns into stolen glances, quiet moments, and a connection she never expected.

Au Harry

Word count: 13,395

Content warning: Cursing, smut, alcohol.

The warm glow of string lights illuminated Y/N’s cozy Los Angeles apartment as the sound of laughter filled the air. The small space was a mix of bohemian chic and personal touches—a gallery wall of polaroids, a cluttered coffee table covered with open bags of snacks, and a few empty wine bottles standing like trophies from their earlier indulgence.

Y/N flopped back onto the couch, a glass of red wine in hand, her cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and nonstop giggling. Her two best friends, Harper and Lila, sat cross-legged on the floor, snacking on popcorn and chips, fully embracing the childlike joy of their adult sleepover.

“This feels so right,” Y/N said, her voice slightly tipsy. “Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because we’re responsible adults now, remember?” Harper teased, adjusting her oversized hoodie. “Nine-to-five, bills, and pretending we know what we’re doing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lila quipped, popping a gummy bear into her mouth. “I’m thriving in my chaos era.”

Y/N snorted, and Harper rolled her eyes with an affectionate grin. Lila was the wild card of the group, always coming up with unpredictable ideas. And she didn’t disappoint tonight.

“You know what we should do?” Lila suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “Karaoke.”

“Yes!” Harper exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Oh my God, yes. Do you still have that mic we bought for New Year’s Eve?”

Y/N groaned dramatically, but her smile betrayed her fake reluctance. “You mean the mic that nearly got us evicted? Of course, I still have it.”

Lila grinned wickedly. “Perfect. Let’s wake up the entire building with our stunning renditions of 2000s throwbacks.”

Without waiting for further approval, Lila dashed to the hall closet and pulled out the karaoke mic, triumphantly waving it in the air. Harper grabbed her phone, already scrolling through a playlist.

“You’re starting,” Harper declared, pointing the mic at Y/N.

“What? No!” Y/N laughed, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m not ready!”

“Too bad,” Lila said, shoving the mic into Y/N’s hands. “You can’t escape destiny. Pick your song.”

Y/N sighed theatrically before smirking. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when your ears bleed.”

As Y/N queued up Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, the room erupted in cheers. The first few notes played, and soon enough, Y/N was belting out the lyrics with unrestrained enthusiasm, her friends joining in for the chorus. It didn’t matter that they were slightly off-key; in that moment, they were superstars in their own private concert.

Wine glasses were forgotten, snacks spilled, and every lyric was sung at full volume. It was the kind of night they’d remember for years—a reminder that no matter how grown-up they pretended to be, some things never lost their magic.

The girls were in full swing, harmonizing (poorly) to “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. Lila stood on the couch holding the mic as if she were performing at Madison Square Garden, while Harper played air guitar with a half-empty wine bottle. Y/N was doubled over in laughter, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Just as they hit the iconic, “Tell me why—” part, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, cutting through their drunken fun like a record scratch. The girls froze, their voices trailing off mid-note. Y/N straightened up, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Harper and Lila.

“Uh… did someone order pizza?” Lila whispered, her voice unsure.

“Nope,” Y/N said, setting her wine glass on the coffee table. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

With a mix of nerves and annoyance, Y/N padded to the door. She peered through the peephole and groaned. It was her new neighbor, Harry. She’d only exchanged a polite “hello” with him in passing, but he’d already struck her as the brooding, grumpy type.

Bracing herself, she opened the door.

There he stood: tall, disheveled hair pushed back in a lazy attempt at taming it, wearing a faded gray hoodie and black joggers. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he took in her flushed face and the muffled chaos behind her.

“Good evening,” he started, his British accent dripping with sarcasm. “I just wanted to say how much I’ve been enjoying your concert tonight. It’s like living next door to a live music venue. Only… worse.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned by his dry humor. “Oh. Uh, sorry about that. We didn’t realize how loud we were being.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I figured. Thought I’d come over before I lost the ability to hear entirely.”

From behind her, Lila’s voice chimed in drunkenly. “Is it a noise complaint? Tell him to sing with us!”

Y/N turned and shot Lila a glare. Harper muffled a laugh.

Y/N sighed and looked back at Harry. “We’ll keep it down. Promise.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk, though his tone remained gruff. “Appreciated. Just… try not to turn it into a full-on festival.”

With that, he turned to leave, but Y/N couldn’t help herself. “You know, you could’ve just sent a passive-aggressive text or something.”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder, one brow arched. “I thought this had more impact.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N closed the door, leaning her forehead against it for a moment. When she turned around, Lila and Harper were staring at her like she’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

“Um, who was that?” Lila asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Harry. My new neighbor,” Y/N replied, walking back to the couch.

“And Mr. Grumpy Pants is cute,” Harper added, grinning.

Y/N rolled her eyes, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah, yeah. He’s cute and cranky. Now can we please move on before you two start planning a love story?”

But the mischievous glint in her friends’ eyes told her they weren’t letting this go anytime soon.

The karaoke mic had been put away, and the girls now lounged in the cozy living room, passing a bottle of wine between them. The earlier buzz of excitement had mellowed, but the energy was still warm and lively. Lila was sprawled on the couch with her legs dangling over Harper’s lap, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping from her glass.

“I mean, let’s just talk about him for a second,” Lila began, her voice dramatic. “The mopey neighbor with the accent? And did you see those tattoos? They were peeking out, Y/N. He’s giving mysterious bad boy energy.”

Y/N groaned, her cheeks warming instantly. “Oh my God, Lila. He was literally just here to tell us to shut up.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not hot,” Harper chimed in, grinning. “He has that whole ‘I’m grumpy but secretly charming’ vibe. Like, did you see the way he smirked when he made that little joke?”

Y/N tried to hide her flustered reaction by taking another sip of wine, but she couldn’t stop the blush creeping up her neck. She’d noticed too—his smirk, his sharp jawline, the tattoos curling up his forearm, just barely visible under his hoodie sleeves. She’d noticed everything.

“I mean, he’s okay, I guess,” Y/N mumbled, keeping her tone nonchalant.

“Okay?” Lila shot up, nearly spilling her wine. “You’re lying. You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Shut up,” Y/N said, laughing as she buried her face in her hands. “Fine, he’s cute. So what? He’s also my neighbor, and he’s probably annoyed with me forever now.”

“He’s not annoyed,” Harper said, nudging her with her foot. “If he were, he wouldn’t have made the effort to come over himself. He would’ve sent an email to management or something. He wanted an excuse to see you.”

“Right,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “Because nothing’s more attractive than a drunk girl singing Backstreet Boys at full volume.”

“Exactly!” Lila exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. “You’re memorable. He’ll never forget you now.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Harper said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But I bet he thinks you’re cute too.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she quickly changed the subject. But as the night went on, she couldn’t shake the image of Harry standing in her doorway, his messy hair, his smirk, and those tattoos. Maybe her friends weren’t entirely wrong.

The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Y/N’s apartment, illuminating the chaos left behind from the night before. Wine glasses, half-eaten snacks, and the abandoned karaoke mic were scattered around the living room. The girls were tangled up in blankets, sprawled across the couch and the floor like a scene from a sitcom.

Y/N was the first to stir, groaning as she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Harper was curled up on the couch with a throw pillow over her head, while Lila lay on the floor in a makeshift nest of cushions, one arm dramatically draped over her face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Y/N teased, nudging Lila with her foot.

Lila groaned. “Why are you awake? It’s illegal to be this alive right now.”

Harper peeked out from under her pillow, her voice muffled. “What time is it? Do we even have the energy to exist today?”

“Barely,” Y/N replied, standing and stretching. “But I’m starving, so I’m making breakfast. Come help me.”

Harper and Lila grumbled but eventually dragged themselves up and into the kitchen, where Y/N was already cracking eggs into a bowl. Together, they whipped up a chaotic but delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and a mountain of coffee.

The girls sat around the small dining table, eating in comfortable silence at first. Then Lila broke the quiet with a wicked grin.

“So… Harry.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, covering her face. “Not again.”

“Listen, I was just thinking,” Lila said, smirking. “Next time we do this, we should make it even louder. Really make him come back over.”

Harper snorted into her coffee. “Yes! Like, full-blown karaoke night but with amps and disco lights.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You two are the worst.”

“But you love us,” Harper said, nudging her with an elbow.

After breakfast, the girls cleaned up and packed their things before heading out. Harper hugged Y/N tightly. “We definitely need to do this again.”

Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Louder next time. You know, for research purposes.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she walked them to the door. “You’re both insane, but I love you. Drive safe.”

Once they were gone, Y/N flopped onto the couch and opened their group chat. Almost immediately, messages started flooding in.

Lila: Next sleepover, let’s bring a fog machine. If Harry shows up, we’ll just act like it’s a concert.

Harper: Or we could rent a spotlight. Make it an event

Y/N: You guys are unbelievable. No more wine for you next time.

Lila: Admit it, you want him to show up again.

Y/N: …maybe.

Harper: KNEW IT.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her phone, her cheeks warming yet again. As ridiculous as her friends were, they weren’t entirely wrong.

The day passed in a blur of cleaning and tidying as Y/N tried to get her apartment back to its usual organized state. By the time the sun started to dip low in the sky, the chaos from the night before had been erased, leaving her apartment looking like a picture of calm domesticity. Feeling accomplished, Y/N decided to check her mailbox before settling in for a quiet evening.

She padded down to the mailroom in her building, dressed in a casual but presentable outfit—high-waisted jeans and a simple white top. As she rifled through the usual junk mail and a couple of bills, the sound of someone entering the room caught her attention.

Glancing to the side, she saw Harry walking in, his hoodie replaced by a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. His tattoos were on full display now—intricate designs that wound up his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. He barely glanced at her as he moved to his mailbox, unlocking it with practiced ease.

Y/N swallowed her nerves and decided to seize the moment. It was better to make a proper introduction now than to let the awkwardness from last night linger. Turning slightly toward him, she cleared her throat.

“Hey, neighbor,” she began, keeping her tone light. “Figured I should introduce myself officially now that I’m not, you know, half-drunk and screaming karaoke at midnight. I’m Y/N.”

Harry turned his head, his green eyes locking onto hers. His expression was neutral, almost unreadable, as he gave her a quick once-over. “Harry,” he said simply, his voice low and clipped.

Y/N bit back a grin, determined not to let his gruff demeanor throw her off. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry again about last night. I promise we don’t usually host impromptu concerts. Unless, of course, you’re a fan of boy band throwbacks.”

Harry let out a soft exhale that could’ve been a laugh—or just a sigh. “I’ll survive.”

Encouraged by the hint of amusement, Y/N decided to keep the conversation going. “You know, if you’re ever feeling nostalgic, you’re welcome to join us. We could use a fourth member for our extremely off-key girl group.”

Harry’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained mostly stoic. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving him a mock-serious look. “You’re really hard to read, you know that? Most people at least chuckle at my jokes.”

Harry glanced at her, his gaze steady and calm. “Maybe I’m just not most people.”

For a moment, Y/N didn’t know how to respond. There was something almost challenging in his tone, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it piqued her curiosity even more.

“Well, Harry,” she said finally, flashing him a bright smile. “Challenge accepted. I’ll make you laugh one of these days.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead closing his mailbox and tucking the letters under his arm. As he moved to leave, he paused, looking over his shoulder.

“We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing there with her stack of mail and a strange mix of frustration and intrigue swirling in her chest. One thing was for sure—Harry might be grumpy, but he was far from boring.

As soon as Y/N got back to her apartment, she tossed her mail onto the counter and grabbed her phone, already smirking to herself. She opened the group chat with Harper and Lila, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Y/N:

Guess who I just ran into in the mailroom?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with replies.

Lila:

Was it… oh, I don’t know… Mr. Grumpy Hot Neighbor?

Harper:

Harry! Tell us everything right now.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, typing out her reply.

Y/N:

Yes, it was Harry. I introduced myself properly. You know, as a fully functional adult and not a drunken mess.

Lila:

And? Did he swoon? Did he drop all his mail and propose on the spot?

Harper:

Or at least crack a smile?

Y/N sighed and leaned back against the counter, smirking to herself as she typed.

Y/N:

Absolutely not. He was… well, Harry. Polite but distant. He might’ve almost smiled, but I can’t be sure.

Lila:

Ugh, he’s really sticking to the mysterious moody thing. It’s so hot. What did you say to him?

Y/N:

I told him he was hard to read and said I’d make him laugh one day.

Harper:

Bold move, I love it. What did he say?

Y/N:

He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’

Lila:

STOP. That’s basically flirting.

Harper:

Right? That’s flirty! Subtle, broody flirting.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. It wasn’t flirting. He’s just… like that.

Lila:

Y/N, this is your rom-com moment, and you’re living in denial. Grumpy guy + sunshine girl is literally a trope for a reason.

Harper:

Exactly. Next step: get him to join us for karaoke.

Y/N:

Oh, sure, because he definitely seems like the kind of guy who wants to sing ‘Toxic’ with us.

Lila:

You never know. Maybe he has a secret karaoke voice that’ll blow us all away.

Y/N laughed to herself, shaking her head. Her friends were relentless, but she couldn’t deny that their enthusiasm made her smile. As much as she tried to brush off the encounter, she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head—the way Harry’s green eyes lingered just a second too long, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.

It had been a couple of weeks since Y/N’s encounter with Harry in the mailroom, and she’d managed to push him to the back of her mind. Between work, friends, and her usual routine, she hadn’t bumped into him in the halls or around the building. Life went on, and the memory of his grumpy smirk became just another amusing anecdote to share with Harper and Lila.

Until one night.

Y/N was jolted awake by the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Disoriented and groggy, she stumbled out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over her pajama tank top. She shoved her feet into sneakers, grabbed her phone, and headed for the door. The hallway was chaotic, filled with neighbors in various states of sleepiness and confusion, all heading for the exits.

Once outside, Y/N joined the crowd of residents gathering on the sidewalk. The chilly night air bit at her skin, and she crossed her arms to keep warm. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd to see if there was anyone she knew—until her eyes landed on a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost.

It was Harry. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and he wore a hoodie over loose sweatpants. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which, to be fair, he probably had. His expression was pure exhaustion, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he yawned.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She made her way over, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. “Hey, neighbor,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.

Harry turned his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he registered her. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “This is… unexpected.” He waved his hand around.

She grinned, shifting her weight to one foot. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But hey, at least it’s the fire alarms being obnoxiously loud this time and not me.”

Harry’s lips twitched, and for a second, she thought she’d finally gotten him to crack a smile. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he asked dryly.

“Never,” Y/N replied, a teasing lilt in her voice. “It’s too good of a story.”

Harry exhaled softly, almost like a laugh, and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as a fire truck pulled up and a couple of firefighters headed inside to investigate. The air was crisp and carried a faint chill, but Y/N barely noticed. She glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you think it’s an actual fire?” she asked.

“Doubt it,” he said, crossing his arms. “Probably just someone burning their midnight snack.”

“Sounds like a riveting Saturday night,” Y/N joked, earning another small exhale from him.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, glancing down at her. His gaze lingered for a moment, and Y/N could feel her cheeks warm, though she tried to play it cool.

“Well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “If it turns out to be a drill, I’m demanding a formal apology from management for ruining my beauty sleep.”

Harry’s lips quirked, just enough for her to notice. “I’m sure they’ll get right on that.”

For the first time, standing outside in the middle of the night with Harry didn’t feel awkward or forced. It was easy, natural even, despite his perpetually tired and broody demeanor. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe her persistence was finally wearing him down.

Before either of them could say more, a firefighter emerged from the building, shouting to the crowd that it was a false alarm. People groaned, some laughing as they shuffled back toward the entrance.

Harry pushed off the lamppost and looked at Y/N. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Looks like it,” she said. “Catch you later, Harry.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Night, Y/N.”

As she headed back to her apartment, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a small spark of satisfaction. Sure, he was still grumpy, but she was getting closer to breaking through. And honestly, she didn’t mind the challenge.

By the time Y/N woke up the next morning, she had already drafted the text she knew Harper and Lila would demand. Still half-asleep, she grabbed her phone and opened their group chat, typing out the full story in detail.

Y/N:

So… guess who I bumped into at 3 a.m. when the fire alarm went off?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with rapid-fire responses.

Harper:

Oh my God. HARRY?

Lila:

Please tell me you were both standing there in your PJs like the meet-cute of the century.

Y/N:

No, it wasn’t a meet-cute. We just talked. Very normal. Nothing groundbreaking.

Harper:

What did you talk about?

Y/N:

I made a joke about how this time it wasn’t me being loud, it was the fire alarm.

Lila:

YES. Classic Y/N. What did he say?

Y/N:

He just… smirked. Or sighed. I’m honestly not sure anymore. He’s so hard to read.

Harper:

Smirking counts as flirting. I’m logging it.

Lila:

Definitely flirting. He wouldn’t have smirked if he wasn’t secretly interested. Men don’t waste smirks on people they don’t like.

Y/N:

Or he was just tired and didn’t care enough to argue.

Harper:

Nope. Not buying it. He’s interested. He’s just grumpy interested.

Lila:

Exactly! Brooding types like him don’t wear their feelings on their sleeves, but trust me, he’s intrigued. You just need to keep working on him.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile.

Y/N:

You two are absolutely ridiculous. We talked for five minutes, tops. Nothing more, nothing less.

Harper:

Sure, keep telling yourself that.

Lila:

Face it, Y/N. This is your slow-burn romance, and we are here for it. We’re already planning the playlist for your wedding.

Y/N:

Oh my God. I can’t with you two.

Despite her protests, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying the interaction in her mind—the way his eyes lingered on her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Harper and Lila were reading too much into it… weren’t they?

Shaking her head, Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She had no intention of indulging their wild theories. But deep down, a small, stubborn part of her couldn’t help but wonder.

Y/N lay in bed, staring at the faint shadows cast by her bedside lamp on the ceiling. The city sounds outside her window were faint but constant—cars in the distance, the occasional murmur of voices. She’d been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, her brain refusing to shut off.

It didn’t help that every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was Harry.

It wasn’t intentional, or at least that’s what she told herself. She’d been trying to push him out of her mind all day, but now, in the stillness of the night, his image seemed to surface unbidden. The way his messy hair stuck out when she’d seen him by the mailboxes. The tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, the intricate designs winding across his arms like a story she desperately wanted to read.

And then there was his face—sharp jawline, green eyes that seemed to pierce through her defenses, and that faint smirk he’d given her last night when she’d cracked her fire alarm joke. It wasn’t a full smile, but it had been enough to spark something in her. Something she couldn’t quite shake.

She groaned, rolling onto her side and burying her face in her pillow. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

But it was no use. She kept thinking about the way his voice sounded—low, calm, almost soothing in its quiet confidence. The way he seemed perpetually unimpressed but not unkind, like he was holding back a part of himself from the world. And the way, despite all that grumpiness, she felt drawn to him.

The worst part was that she barely even knew him. A few brief encounters, a handful of words exchanged—it wasn’t enough to warrant this level of overthinking. And yet, here she was, wide awake at 2 a.m., her thoughts spinning in circles around a guy who probably wasn’t thinking about her at all.

She sighed, flipping onto her back again and staring at the ceiling. “You’re losing it, Y/N,” she whispered into the dark.

But no matter how hard she tried to distract herself—counting sheep, replaying her favorite movie in her head, anything—her mind kept drifting back to Harry. How frustratingly attractive he was. How much she wanted to figure him out. And how, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she kind of liked the challenge.

The next afternoon, Y/N tied her apron around her waist and stepped onto the floor of the bustling Italian restaurant where she worked. The warm scent of garlic, fresh basil, and baking bread filled the air as the sounds of clinking silverware and cheerful conversations hummed around her. It was her favorite kind of shift—steady but not overwhelming, just busy enough to keep her energized.

She loved being a server. There was something satisfying about knowing the menu by heart, from the way the chef perfectly folded the handmade ravioli to the rich, velvety tiramisu that always left customers raving. She enjoyed the rhythm of it all: taking orders, making guests laugh, weaving between tables like she was part of a well-rehearsed dance.

By the time her shift ended, the sun was low in the sky, casting a soft golden glow over the city streets. Y/N slipped her bag over her shoulder, said goodbye to her coworkers, and began her short walk home.

The evening was warm, the kind of weather that made her glad she’d chosen this neighborhood to live in. She liked the convenience of being close to work, the charm of the old brick buildings, and the occasional vendor selling flowers or roasted nuts on the sidewalk.

But as she rounded the last corner toward her apartment building, the sky darkened suddenly. Heavy clouds rolled in overhead, and before she could process what was happening, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

“Seriously?” Y/N muttered, looking up at the sky as if it might offer her an explanation. Within seconds, the light drizzle turned into a full-on downpour. She didn’t have an umbrella, of course—it had been sunny when she left for work—and now she was too far from the restaurant to go back.

She quickened her pace, pulling her bag closer to her body to shield it from the rain. Her hair was already plastered to her forehead, and her clothes clung to her as the rain soaked through. She groaned in frustration but couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By the time her apartment building came into view, she was drenched. She jogged the last stretch, her sneakers splashing in puddles, and darted toward the lobby entrance. As she reached for the door, it opened from the inside—and there, standing in the doorway, was Harry.

Of course, it was Harry.

He was holding a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His green eyes widened slightly when he saw her, taking in her rain-soaked appearance.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice dry but laced with faint amusement.

Y/N brushed a wet strand of hair out of her face, shaking water from her arms. “You could say that. Apparently, the weather decided I needed a shower.”

Harry stepped back, holding the door open for her. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Thanks for the observation,” Y/N said with a wry smile as she stepped inside, water pooling around her feet. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded toward the elevators. “You should probably get upstairs before you flood the lobby.”

“Wow, you’re so thoughtful,” she teased, her sarcasm barely masking the warmth in her voice.

Harry didn’t reply, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a comment. He stepped aside, letting her pass, and as Y/N headed toward the elevator, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. He was still standing by the door, his attention now on the rain outside, but she could’ve sworn she caught him sneaking a glance at her as she walked away.

Y/N stepped into her apartment, water dripping onto the floor as she kicked off her soaked sneakers. She stripped off her rain-soaked clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket before heading straight to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower was bliss, washing away the chill of the rain and the lingering frustration of getting caught in it. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, her skin was warm and her mind was clearer.

Slipping into her favorite pair of soft pajamas—shorts and an oversized t-shirt—she towel-dried her hair and grabbed her phone from the counter. She hadn’t checked it since leaving work, and the screen lit up with a few notifications. Most were unimportant, but one text made her freeze.

Unknown Number:

Hey, it’s Harry. Got your number from the resident book. Hope that’s okay. I, uh, ordered way too much food. If you’re not busy and don’t mind eating with someone who’s terrible at small talk, you’re welcome to join me.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry had texted her? She stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times, unsure what to make of it. The grumpy, brooding neighbor had gone out of his way to invite her over for dinner?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she thought about what to say. She could easily come up with an excuse, blame the rain, or even politely decline. But something about his message—how he’d gone through the trouble of looking up her number and even made a self-deprecating joke—made her hesitate.

Finally, she started typing.

Y/N:

Hey! I’m surprised you didn’t mention how loud I was running through the lobby earlier. I’d love to join, but fair warning: I’m in my pajamas. I’ll bring wine to make up for it.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself and immediately got up to rummage through her small wine rack. She picked out a bottle of red, grabbed her favorite corkscrew, and texted him again.

Y/N:

Give me five minutes to make myself look less like a wet dog.

His response came almost instantly.

Harry:

I wouldn’t have said anything about the lobby, but now that you’ve brought it up… five minutes works. Apartment 4D.

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. She quickly towel-dried her hair a little more, tossed it into a loose bun, and grabbed the wine. As she stood by her door, nerves fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed them aside.

Whatever this was—neighborly dinner, an olive branch, or something else—she was curious enough to find out.

Y/N stepped out of her apartment, the bottle of wine in hand, and made her way to the elevator. As she descended a floor, her nerves started to tingle, though she shook them off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just dinner with her neighbor. Her very attractive, grumpy neighbor with tattoos and a British accent. Nothing to overthink at all.

When she reached Harry’s door, she raised her hand to knock—but before she could, the door swung open. Harry stood there, leaning casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised.

“I could hear you coming down the hall,” he said, his tone dry but his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

Y/N let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll take that as your way of saying you’re happy to see me.”

“Something like that,” he replied, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N walked in, glancing around as she entered. Harry’s apartment was similar in layout to hers but had an entirely different vibe. The walls were painted a deep, moody gray, with shelves lined with books, records, and a few small plants that looked suspiciously well cared for. A guitar rested in the corner by the window, and the faint smell of takeout wafted from the small kitchen.

“Nice place,” she said, setting the wine on the counter. “Very… broody chic. Fits you.”

Harry arched a brow as he closed the door. “Broody chic? Is that a compliment?”

“Depends how you take it,” Y/N shot back with a grin.

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have overestimated how much I can eat on my own.”

She followed him, glancing at the spread on the counter. There were containers of what looked like Thai food—pad thai, green curry, fried rice, and spring rolls. Definitely enough for two, if not three.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “Planning on feeding the whole building?”

“Only the loudest resident,” he said, smirking again.

She gave him a playful glare before grabbing plates from the counter and handing him one. “Lucky for you, I came prepared,” she said, holding up the wine. “This should balance things out.”

As they settled at the small table, Y/N couldn’t help but notice how relaxed Harry seemed. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something softer about him tonight. Less guarded. And as they started eating, trading sarcastic comments and occasional small talk, she realized she didn’t mind the challenge of cracking through his tough exterior one bit.

Harry handed Y/N two wine glasses, their fingers brushing briefly as she took them. He didn’t say anything, but his lips moved slightly as if he was trying not to smirk. Y/N poured the wine, filling each glass just enough before sliding one over to him.

Meanwhile, he plated the food, carefully dividing the dishes between two plates. His movements were deliberate, almost methodical, and Y/N found herself watching him for a moment before realizing what she was doing. Shaking herself out of it, she grabbed her glass and followed him to the bar counter.

They sat side by side, the warm glow of the pendant light above them casting a cozy atmosphere. Y/N took a sip of her wine, her gaze flicking to Harry as he started eating in silence.

For a while, she stayed quiet, enjoying the food and the unspoken rhythm of their shared meal. But her curiosity got the better of her. Setting her glass down, she turned toward him slightly, resting her elbow on the counter.

“So,” she began, her tone light but probing, “why are you always so grumpy?”

Harry paused mid-bite, his fork hovering over his plate as he looked at her. His green eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but as if he were trying to decide how serious she was.

“Grumpy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, grumpy,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You know, the whole emo, barely-smiling, ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense’ vibe you’ve got going on. Is it like… your thing?”

Harry leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his wine as he considered her question. “Maybe I’m not grumpy,” he said finally, his voice calm. “Maybe you’re just too… cheerful.”

“Cheerful?” she echoed, laughing softly. “That’s your explanation? I’m cheerful, so that automatically makes you grumpy?”

“Something like that,” he said, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re deflecting.”

He raised his glass, meeting her gaze over the rim as he took another sip. “Maybe.”

“Come on,” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “There’s got to be a reason. I mean, you’re not actuallymiserable all the time, are you?”

Harry sighed, setting his glass down and leaning his forearms on the counter. For a moment, he seemed to be debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he shrugged.

“I’m not grumpy,” he said, his voice quieter. “I just… don’t see the point in pretending all the time. People put on this front like everything’s great, but most of the time, it’s not. I’m just… honest about it.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his tone—something unspoken but heavy, like he was revealing more than he intended.

“Well,” she said softly, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think being happy is the same as pretending. And I’m not pretending.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “I noticed,” he said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Then Y/N picked up her glass and raised it toward him.

“To being honest,” she said with a small smile.

Harry’s eyes flicked to her glass before he picked up his own, clinking it against hers. “To being honest,” he echoed.

And for the first time that evening, his smirk softened into something closer to a smile.

Harry swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the deep red liquid for a moment before setting it down and looking at Y/N. His expression was more open now, his usual guarded demeanor softened.

“You seem nice enough,” he said, his tone casual but sincere. “I could use a friend around here.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the admission. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. Then a warm smile spread across her face.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” she said, her voice light with humor. “I thought for sure you hated me after the whole karaoke fiasco.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching in amusement. “Hated you? No. Annoyed, maybe. But hate’s a strong word.”

“Good to know,” Y/N said, laughing softly. “Because I was convinced you’d written me off as the world’s loudest neighbor.”

“I’ll admit,” Harry said, smirking now, “the karaoke was… a lot. But it’s hard to hate someone who sings ‘I Want It That Way’ with that much enthusiasm.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing harder. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember the song. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s unforgettable,” he said with mock seriousness, taking another sip of wine.

When her laughter died down, Y/N looked at him, her expression softening. “For what it’s worth, I’d be happy to be your friend. You don’t seem as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Scary?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” she teased. “You’ve got the whole ‘grumpy lone wolf’ thing going on. It’s a little intimidating.”

Harry shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his face. “I’m not scary.”

“No,” Y/N said, grinning. “You’re not. You’re just… Harry.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Finally, he nodded, his tone soft but certain. “Yeah. Just Harry.”

As they continued eating, the conversation grew lighter, the initial tension between them fading into something comfortable. By the time they finished their meal, Y/N realized that beneath Harry’s gruff exterior was someone she genuinely wanted to know better. And judging by the way his smirk had softened into something warmer, she suspected he felt the same.

After finishing their plates, Harry leaned back in his chair, resting his forearm on the bar counter as he glanced at Y/N. There was a comfortable silence between them, one she hadn’t expected when she first showed up at his door.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said finally, his tone quieter but sincere. “I don’t usually… do this.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine in her glass. “What? Order too much food or invite people over?”

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “The second one. I’m not exactly the ‘neighborly dinner’ type.”

“Well, I feel special then,” she teased, tilting her head at him. “Although, if you’re not usually this social, why’d you invite me? I mean, not that I’m complaining.”

Harry shrugged, glancing down at his glass. “You seemed… different. I don’t know. Most people I meet just seem fake, like they’re putting on a show. But you’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Real.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty of his words. “Oh,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, thanks. I think.”

“I mean it,” Harry added, looking at her directly now. “You’re… not what I expected when I moved here. In a good way.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she tried to play it off with humor. “Careful, Harry. You’re starting to sound like you actually like me.”

“Don’t push it,” he said with a smirk, though his eyes were softer than usual.

They fell into another comfortable silence, sipping their wine and letting the moment stretch out. Y/N felt herself relax more with each passing second, realizing how easy it was to be around him now that some of his walls had come down.

After a moment, she broke the quiet. “You know, for someone who claims not to be social, you’re pretty good company.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” she said, her grin widening. “You should let yourself be social more often. You might surprise yourself.”

He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “One step at a time.”

They shared a small laugh, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel like this was a turning point. Whatever Harry had been holding back before, he was letting her in now, even if only a little. It felt… nice.

Eventually, she glanced at her phone and realized how late it had gotten. “I should probably head back,” she said, setting her empty wine glass down. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

Harry stood as she got up, shaking his head. “You haven’t. But… thanks for coming. I mean it.”

She smiled, grabbing the bottle of wine. “Anytime, Harry.”

As she walked to the door, he followed her, leaning casually against the frame as she turned back to face him. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at her, a softness she wasn’t used to seeing from him.

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice lighter now.

“Night, Y/N,” he replied, his smirk returning.

She headed back to her apartment, her heart unexpectedly lighter. Maybe Harry wasn’t as grumpy as he seemed—or maybe she was just getting used to it. Either way, she found herself smiling as she closed her door behind her. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t overthinking anything.

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sunlight filtering through her blinds and a faint smile lingering on her lips. The night before with Harry had been… unexpected, but not in a bad way. She stretched, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and immediately opened her group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

So, guess what? Harry invited me over for dinner last night.

It didn’t take long for her phone to explode with notifications.

Lila:

WHAT. DETAILS NOW.

Harper:

DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!

Y/N rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming despite being alone.

Y/N:

No, I didn’t sleep with him. Calm down.

Lila:

Boring. But continue.

Harper:

Okay, but like, did it feel like it was going there?

Y/N:

No! It wasn’t like that. He said he had too much food and could use a friend, so I brought wine, and we had dinner. That’s it.

Lila:

You brought wine. That’s a date move.

Harper:

Right? Totally a date.

Y/N:

It wasn’t a date. We ate at his bar counter, talked a little, and that’s all. But…

Lila:

BUT WHAT?!

Harper:

Spill, Y/N. Don’t make us beg.

Y/N sighed, biting her lip as she typed out her next message.

Y/N:

Okay, fine. I wouldn’t mind if something happened, but it’s not like I know much about him. I don’t even know what he does for work.

Lila:

Oh my God. You want to bang the mysterious, tattooed neighbor. I KNEW IT.

Harper:

This is your grumpy/sunshine romance, and we are living for it.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. I’m just saying he’s attractive, okay? That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.

Lila:

It’ll happen. The sexual tension alone is probably unbearable.

Harper:

Agreed. You just need to ask him questions about himself. What he does for work, what his favorite food is, if he’s single—

Lila:

Definitely ask the last one. For research purposes.

Y/N groaned, shaking her head but smiling despite herself.

Y/N:

You two are impossible. But fine, if the opportunity comes up, I’ll try to find out more about him. Happy?

Harper:

Ecstatic.

Lila:

Can’t wait to hear how this unfolds. We’re already planning the wedding playlist.

Y/N laughed, tossing her phone onto the bed. Her friends were relentless, but they weren’t wrong about one thing—she was curious about Harry. And as much as she tried to deny it, she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better… or seeing where this strange connection between them might lead.

Later that month Y/N walked into her apartment after a long day, expecting the usual cozy warmth to greet her. Instead, an icy chill hit her the moment she stepped inside. She frowned, rubbing her arms and heading straight for the thermostat. She fiddled with it for a minute, but no matter what she did, the heater refused to turn on.

“Great,” she muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. It wasn’t unbearably cold outside, but inside her apartment, it felt like a freezer.

With no other options, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She didn’t know many people in the building—just Harry, really. And as much as she hesitated, her fingers hovered over his name before she finally sent a text.

Y/N:

Hey, random question. Do you happen to have a small heater or something I can borrow? My heater’s broken, and it’s freezing in here.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Harry:

Why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ve got heat, and I don’t own a portable heater.

Y/N stared at the message, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t expected that. Borrowing something was one thing, but staying at his place? She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the screen. Before she could overthink it, she typed out a response.

Y/N:

Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

His reply was quick.

Harry:

You’re not intruding. Besides, it’s better than you freezing to death in your apartment. Bring whatever you need.

She bit her lip, a mix of nerves and curiosity swirling in her chest. Finally, she grabbed a bag and threw in some essentials—pajamas, a toothbrush, and a few other things—before bundling up and heading out.

When she reached his door, she knocked softly. It opened almost immediately, and there was Harry, leaning against the frame with his usual calm demeanor.

“Figured you’d take me up on the offer,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Yeah, well, hypothermia didn’t sound appealing,” Y/N replied with a small smile, brushing past him into the warmth of his apartment.

As she set her bag down by the couch, she glanced at him. “Thanks for this, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged, closing the door. “No problem. It’s just one night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, Harry. That almost sounded like you’re happy to have me here.”

He gave her a dry look but didn’t respond, instead gesturing toward the couch. “You can take the couch if you want, or I can grab some extra blankets for the guest room.”

She looked at the couch, then back at him. “Guest room? You have a guest room?”

“Barely,” he said with a shrug. “It’s more of a storage room, but there’s a bed in there.”

“Well, as long as it’s warmer than my apartment, I’ll take it.”

Harry nodded, heading toward the hallway. “I’ll grab some blankets.”

As Harry disappeared down the hallway to grab blankets, Y/N called after him, her voice light and teasing. “By the way, I brought some wine as a thank-you! You know, for saving me from my frozen wasteland of an apartment.”

She heard him chuckle faintly, his voice drifting back from the other room. “Thoughtful of you. What kind?”

“Red. A classic, nothing too fancy,” she replied, smirking as she started to take the bottle out of her bag. “Figured you’d prefer something a little understated, given your whole ‘mysterious and broody’ vibe.”

Harry reappeared in the doorway, carrying a thick blanket over one shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think you enjoy calling me broody a little too much.”

“Well, it fits,” she shot back, grinning. “Speaking of which, I realized something earlier—I don’t even know what you do for work. So, enlighten me, oh mysterious one. What is it that you do?”

Harry paused for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I own an art gallery,” he said simply, setting the blanket on the couch.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “You own an art gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “Small place over in Silver Lake. Nothing flashy, just local artists and smaller exhibitions.”

She stared at him, her curiosity piqued. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“What did you see coming?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, laughing softly. “Something more… I don’t know, corporate? Like sitting at a desk all day and brooding at spreadsheets.”

Harry actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that surprised her. “Sorry to disappoint. No spreadsheets involved.”

“No, it’s not disappointing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just… unexpected. I mean, you own an art gallery. That’s cool. Artistic and grumpy? You’re full of surprises, Harry.”

He shook his head, but there was a faint warmth in his expression, like her enthusiasm had caught him off guard. “It’s just a business.”

“Just a business?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Don’t undersell yourself. That’s impressive.”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze steady. “Thanks.”

They fell into a brief silence, and Y/N felt the air shift slightly. It wasn’t awkward—if anything, it felt… comfortable. She gestured to the wine. “So, should we open this or what?”

Harry nodded, stepping into the kitchen to grab two glasses. “Why not? You’re my guest, after all.”

As he poured the wine, Y/N couldn’t help but think that for someone who seemed so guarded at first, Harry was slowly becoming an open book—one she was eager to keep reading.

Y/N leaned against the counter, swirling her glass of wine as she watched Harry pour his own. “So, how did you end up owning an art gallery?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean, that’s not exactly the most common career path.”

Harry took a sip of his wine, his gaze thoughtful as he set the glass down. “I’ve always loved art. Painting, sketching… that sort of thing. But it’s not exactly the easiest way to make a living.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the struggle. “So, the gallery was a way to stay involved in the art world?”

“Something like that,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. “I came into some money after my mom passed a few years ago. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make me think about what I really wanted to do. I didn’t want to sit in an office or work for someone else. I wanted something that felt… personal. The gallery felt like the right choice.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, her voice soft. “I mean, turning something you love into a business? Not many people can say they’ve done that.”

Harry shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “It has its challenges, but I don’t regret it.”

Y/N smiled at him, feeling a new layer of respect for her neighbor. After a moment, he tilted his head, his eyes flicking to her. “What about you? What do you do?”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh, nothing nearly as impressive as you,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a server. I work at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, frowning.

“Like it’s nothing. You said you’re ‘just’ a server,” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re in food service, right? That’s an art in itself. Just… a different kind.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his perspective. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

He nodded, gesturing with his glass. “Think about it. You’re part of creating an experience for people. The way the food’s presented, the way you interact with customers—it’s all part of the artistry. Doesn’t matter if it’s a painting on a wall or a plate of pasta. It’s still something people connect with.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over her. “That’s… actually really nice of you to say.”

“It’s true,” Harry said simply, his green eyes meeting hers. “Stop selling yourself short.”

She smiled, feeling unexpectedly lighter. “Thanks, Harry. I guess I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time someone complains about their breadsticks not being warm enough.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Breadsticks or not, it sounds like you’re good at what you do.”

Y/N sipped her wine, the corners of her lips curving up.

Y/N swirled the wine in her glass, glancing at Harry over the rim. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to push the conversation a little further. “You know,” she began, her voice softer now, “you have a really nice way of thinking about things. The way you look at art, even food… it’s kind of impressive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with an amused expression. “Is that your way of saying I’m not just a grumpy neighbor?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small grin, her tone almost teasing. “But seriously, you’ve got a smart mind, Harry. You see things in a way most people don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes studying her as if trying to figure out her angle. “Are you flirting with me, Y/N?”

She laughed, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. “And if I was?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving hers. “Then I’d say it’s about time you stopped pretending you find me intimidating.”

“I never said you intimidate me,” she shot back, her grin widening. “I said you have a grumpy vibe. Totally different.”

“Right,” he said, his tone dry but his smirk giving him away. “Good to know I’m not scaring you off.”

“Not even close,” Y/N replied, her voice confident now. She leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “You’re not as scary as you think, Harry. In fact, I think you’re kind of… interesting.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“Right back at you,” she said, her gaze warm.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful banter was still there, but beneath it was something quieter, something unspoken. Y/N didn’t know what exactly was happening, but she wasn’t in a hurry to break the moment.

Harry finally set his glass down, his expression softening just slightly. “Careful, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement. “You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”

“Maybe I do,” she said simply, holding his gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and for the first time, he didn’t deflect her comment. Instead, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. Y/N felt her heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t look away.

The mood in the room shifted as Harry leaned forward, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine.

He tilted his head slightly, his voice low and teasing as he said, "You wouldn't be able to handle me."

Her breath caught, but she wasn't about to let him have the last word.

"Try me," she challenged, her voice steady but laced with anticipation.

Harry's eyes darkened, the playful smirk on his lips giving way to something deeper, something more raw. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and placed his hand lightly on her throat-not gripping, just resting, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. The warmth of his touch made her heart race, and she felt her breath hitch as he leaned in closer.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to disappear, the only sound her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, without another word, Harry closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a deep, searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rushed either-it was deliberate, like he'd been holding himself back and was finally letting go. His lips moved against hers with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, and Y/N melted into the kiss, her hand instinctively reaching out to grip the edge of the counter for balance.

She kissed him back just as fervently, tilting her head to deepen the connection. His fingers slid from her throat to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as though he couldn't get enough of her. The heat between them was undeniable, and in that moment, nothing else mattered-not the chill of her broken heater, not the wine, not the playful banter that had led them here.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads nearly touching. Harry's green eyes searched hers, and for once, his usual guarded expression was nowhere to be found.

"Still think I can't handle you?" Y/N whispered, her voice a little breathless but tinged with humor.

Harry smirked, his hand still lingering at the nape of her neck.

"Guess I underestimated you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But l'm not done yet.”

Harry's hand slid down from Y/N's neck to her wrist, his grip firm but careful as he led her through his apartment toward his bedroom.

Her heart pounded in anticipation, her breath catching when he opened the door and gently but deliberately pushed her onto the bed.

Y/N gasped softly, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked up at him. The intensity in his green eyes made her pulse race, and the energy between them was electric, the room feeling heavier with every passing second.

Harry stepped closer, his movements slow and controlled, like he was savoring the moment.

He placed a hand on her throat again, this time with a gentle but deliberate squeeze that sent a shiver down her spine. His thumb brushed along her jawline as he leaned in, his voice low and commanding.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he asked, his tone dripping with authority and heat.

Y/N's breath hitched as she nodded slowly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.

Her voice was caught somewhere in her throat, so she let her actions speak for her, tilting her head slightly into his touch.

Harry smirked, leaning down until his lips were just a breath away from her ear. His voice dropped even lower, a whisper that made her skin prickle with anticipation.

"I knew you would be," he murmured, his tone both teasing and possessive.

The words sent a jolt through her, and she felt her body react instinctively, her cheeks flushing as she surrendered to the moment.

Harry's lips brushed against the corner of her jaw, trailing down her neck as his hand stayed firmly but gently in place. Every movement felt deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every second of his attention.

Whatever control Y/N thought she had going into this was slipping fast, and the way Harry's touch consumed her made it clear—he knew it, too.

Harry paused, his intense green eyes meeting Y/N’s as he leaned over her. His hand lingered on her throat, his grip light but enough to hold her attention completely. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t move any closer. He just looked at her, his gaze softening slightly, as if he were silently asking her a question.

It wasn’t just a look—it was a pause, a chance for her to stop him if she wanted to. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and searching, silently asking for her consent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she looked back at him, feeling the weight of his unspoken question. She swallowed, her breath shallow as she gave him the answer he was waiting for. Slowly, purposely, she nodded.

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, a mixture of relief and satisfaction crossing his face. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an edge of tenderness.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing hers as his hand on her throat tightened just slightly, enough to make her feel both safe and completely at his mercy. And as the space between them disappeared, Y/N felt herself giving in fully, her trust in him unwavering.

Harry's piercing gaze never left Y/N's face, his touch as light as a butterfly's wings. He slowly pulled her to the edge, his hands on her hips. The soft rustle of sheets filled the room as she sank into the bedding, eyes darting up to meet his.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him undoing his pants, revealing his hardness beneath. She gulped audibly as he climbed onto the bed with her, their bodies pressed together from chest to knees. His hand trailed down her side, stopping just above her thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. His touch sent shivers of anticipation up and down her spine.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against her earlobe, his hot breath causing goosebumps to form on her skin.

She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before whispering back, "I want you to take control."

Harry's smirk was both predatory and reassuring as he nodded once in understanding. His hand slid underneath her shirt, tracing patterns across her stomach before moving higher till it reached its destination: her lacy black bra. He palmed one of her breasts through the fabric, eliciting a moan from deep within her throat that echoed around them. His thumb circled her nipple roughly, making it harden into a tight bud underneath his touch.

His lips followed suit, kissing along her jawline and trailing down towards that erect nipple. He flicked it with his tongue teasingly while simultaneously tug

His smile was wicked as he leaned back, a glint in his eye. "Is that so?" He trailed kisses down her neck, his stubble grazing against her sensitive skin, making her shudder with pleasure. His hand slid between their bodies and brushed against her center, indulging in the wetness there. She gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pushed her shorts aside and slid one finger inside her slowly, feeling the tightness surrounding him. Y/N moaned softly, her hips grinding against his hand in encouragement.

Harry removed his finger, teasing her as he lowered his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He growled softly against her skin, sucking gently as he began to thrust two fingers inside her in short, quick motions that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She cried out softly, gripping the sheets beneath her as he continued his ministrations. He quickly undressed her and stared at her body. Y/N felt hot under his eyes.

They quickly lost themselves in each other's touches. The squeak of the bedframe echoed in the room as Harry positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside her slowly. She gasped at the fullness but welcomed it, urging him on with a nod of encouragement.

He slowed down, taking deep breaths to regain control as he braced himself above her. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked hoarsely, gaze locked onto hers.

Y/N nodded fiercely, signaling him to continue. With a low growl of approval, he began moving inside her slowly but steadily, their

bodies meeting in a dance of desire. Every thrust sent ripples of pleasure through them both, their skin slick with sweat under the dim light of the bedside lamp. The air was thick with an almost palpable tension as they moved together, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.

Harry's grip on her hips tightened, his rhythm becoming faster and harder, mirroring the desire that flared in his eyes. Y/N met him stroke for stroke, their eyes locked on each other as if they were the only two people in the room. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the silence beneath the duvet, broken only by their heavy breathing and soft moans.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she neared her climax, his name falling from her lips in a whispered plea. Without missing a beat, he quickened his pace, his cock driving into her with urgency. Their connection was intense, overwhelming, everything she could have asked for and more.

As she cried out in ecstasy beneath him, feeling her orgasm wash over her like a wave, Harry followed close behind. His body tensed as he groaned loudly, filling her with his warmth and love. Their hearts raced in unison as they finally collapsed onto each other, panting heavily but content.

He rolled off her slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before rolling onto his back beside her.

Harry lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he looked down at Y/N. His green eyes were softer now, a flicker of mischief dancing in them as he smirked.

"So," he said, his voice low and teasing, "are you going to text your little girl chat and tell them we fucked?" Y/N let out a surprised laugh, turning her head to look at him.

"What? No! They'd never let me live it down."

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

"You should. Tell them the hot, mysterious guy was really grumpy the whole time."Y/N laughed even harder, covering her face with her hand.

"Oh, right. That'll really sell it. 'Hey, girls, just an FYl, my grumpy neighbor is not only hot but also excellent in bed. Highly recommend.'"

Harry chuckled, his grin widening. "Not bad. Make sure you add in the part about how I stayed in character the whole time-grumpy and all."

She rolled her eyes, still smiling as she nudged him playfully. "Fine. I'll throw in that your scowl is even sexier up close. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he said dryly, though the amused glint in his eyes gave him away. YN shook her head, the laughter subsiding into a warm smile.

"You know," she said, her tone softening, "you might be mysterious and grumpy, but you're also a little cocky. Just saying."

Harry leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "But I think you like it."

Her cheeks flushed as she looked up at him, biting back a grin. "Maybe I do."

"Good," he said simply, before capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss that made her forget about everything else-including her friends waiting for updates in the group chat.

The week passed in a blur of near-misses and brief encounters between Y/N and Harry. She saw him in the mailroom once, where he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a smirk before disappearing upstairs. Another time, they crossed paths in the hallway, exchanging quick hellos but nothing more.

Neither of them brought up the night they spent together, and while Y/N tried to brush it off as a casual hookup, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he was deliberately avoiding the topic. She didn’t want to push, figuring Harry would open up if and when he was ready.

Then, one evening, as she was curled up on her couch with a glass of wine and her laptop, her phone buzzed with a text.

Harry:

Hey. Sorry I’ve been so distant this week. The gallery is getting ready for a new showing, and it’s been… a lot.

Y/N stared at the message for a moment, her stomach fluttering. She hadn’t expected him to reach out, let alone apologize.

Y/N:

Hey, no worries. I figured you were busy. New showing sounds exciting though!

A moment later, her phone buzzed again.

Harry:

It is. Stressful, but worth it. You should come by. It’s this Saturday night. Bring your friends if you want.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry inviting her to his gallery? That felt… significant.

Y/N:

I’d love to. Are you sure you want me to bring my friends? They’re a little… loud.

Harry:

If they’re anything like you, I’m already prepared for chaos.

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

Y/N:

Fair warning: chaos is guaranteed. But I’ll be there.

Harry:

Good. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Y/N set her phone down, a small smile tugging at her lips. For all of Harry’s grumpiness and guarded demeanor, this felt like his way of extending an olive branch—a step toward something more. And she couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing him in his element, at the gallery, intrigued her.

She grabbed her phone again and opened the group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

Ladies, clear your schedules for Saturday night. We’re going to an art gallery.

Predictably, her phone exploded with responses almost immediately.

Lila:

Wait, is this Harry’s gallery?

Harper:

The grumpy tattooed neighbor has an art gallery?

Y/N:

Yes. He invited me. And before you ask—no, we’re not talking about the other night.

Lila:

Boring. But fine, we’re in. Is there wine?

Harper:

And snacks?

Y/N:

I’ll ask. But behave yourselves. He already thinks I’m loud.

Lila:

Oh, honey, we’re just getting started.

Y/N laughed, already imagining the chaos her friends would inevitably bring. But deep down, she was looking forward to Saturday more than she cared to admit.

The week crawled by as Saturday approached, each day slower than the last. Y/N found herself obsessing over small details—whether Harry would be too busy to notice her, what kind of people attended art gallery showings, and most importantly, what to wear. She wanted to look effortlessly put-together, like someone who appreciated art but wasn’t trying too hard.

By Saturday afternoon, her room was a battlefield of discarded outfits. Finally, she settled on a sleek black jumpsuit paired with a cropped denim jacket and ankle boots—stylish but not over the top. She added a few gold accessories and a swipe of lipstick before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

On the way to Silver Lake, she picked up Harper and Lila, who were already buzzing with excitement when they climbed into the car.

“You look hot,” Lila said, eyeing her outfit. “Very ‘I like art but I’m too cool to talk about it.’”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, laughing as she started the car. “I’m going for low-key, not intimidating.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Harper chimed in, adjusting her blazer.

Y/N glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning. Harper wore a bold red jumpsuit, while Lila had opted for a metallic skirt and leather jacket.

By the time they pulled into Silver Lake, the sun had set, and the neighborhood was alive with energy. The gallery came into view, its windows glowing warmly against the evening sky. People were milling about on the sidewalk, chatting in small groups with glasses of wine in hand, while others filtered in and out of the bustling space.

“This is it,” Y/N said, parking the car and taking a deep breath.

“It’s so fancy,” Lila said, practically bouncing in her seat. “Look at all these people!”

Harper leaned forward, peering out the window. “I’m already picturing Harry brooding in a corner, glaring at anyone who talks too loud.”

“Probably,” Y/N muttered, her heart fluttering as she got out of the car. She grabbed her bag and adjusted her jacket before turning to her friends. “Okay, let’s not embarrass me too much, yeah?”

“No promises,” Harper said with a grin, looping her arm through Y/N’s as they headed toward the gallery entrance.

Inside, the space was even more vibrant. The walls were adorned with bold, eclectic pieces of art—paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that immediately drew attention. Soft music played in the background, and servers wove through the crowd with trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation filled the air, blending with the occasional burst of laughter.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Harry. She didn’t spot him right away, but she noticed how carefully curated the space felt—each piece arranged with intention. It was a reflection of him, she realized, meticulous and thoughtful.

“This is amazing,” Harper said, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing server. “He really knows what he’s doing.”

Lila nudged Y/N. “Speaking of, where is Mr. Grumpy Art Dealer? I want to see him in his element.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, glancing around again. “He’s probably—”

Before she could finish, her gaze landed on him. Harry stood near the back of the room, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his tattoos. He was talking to a small group of people, but his eyes flicked toward her as if he could feel her presence.

Their gazes locked for a moment, and he gave her a subtle nod before turning back to his conversation. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt Lila squeeze her arm.

“Oh, he definitely saw you,” Lila said, grinning. “And I’m not imagining the way he looked at you.”

“Stop,” Y/N hissed, her cheeks flushing. But she couldn’t deny it—there was something in his gaze that felt personal, even in the middle of the crowd.

“Go say hi,” Harper urged, giving her a nudge.

“Not yet,” Y/N said, grabbing a glass of wine for herself. “I’ll wait until he’s free. Let’s just look around first.”

As they wandered through the gallery, admiring the artwork, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry’s eyes were on her—even when she wasn’t looking his way.

Y/N wandered through the gallery, sipping her wine as she admired the artwork. Each piece was so different—some abstract, others intricate and detailed—but all of them carried a sense of purpose. It was easy to see that Harry had a good eye for curating.

She glanced across the room and saw Harper and Lila chatting animatedly with a group of women, likely bonding over their outfits or the wine. Typical, she thought with a smile, shaking her head.

As she moved to the next painting—a striking piece of layered colors and textures—she felt someone step up beside her. There was a shift in the air, a quiet presence that made her turn her head.

It was Harry.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the painting. His black shirt, with the sleeves still rolled up, contrasted sharply against the warm tones of the art, and his tattoos seemed to blend seamlessly into the aesthetic of the space.

“It’s acrylic and resin,” he said, his voice low but steady. “The artist used palette knives for the texture and then poured resin over it to give it that shine. Took weeks to cure properly.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard for a moment before she found her words. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, turning her attention back to the piece. “I love the depth in it. It feels like you could reach in and get lost.”

Harry glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the idea. The artist wanted it to feel immersive, like stepping into an emotional landscape.”

She looked at him, her curiosity piqued. “Do you know all the details of every piece in here?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, his smirk growing. “Part of the job. I like to understand the process—it helps me connect with the artists and explain it to people who come through.”

Y/N smiled, sipping her wine. “It’s impressive. You’ve created something really special here.”

Harry looked at her again, his green eyes studying her for a moment. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It means a lot, coming from you.”

She tilted her head, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Why me?”

He shrugged slightly, his gaze flicking back to the painting. “Because you actually look at the art. Most people just see it, but you’re trying to understand it.”

Her cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, and she turned back to the painting to hide her flustered expression. “Well, you make it hard not to appreciate it. The way you talk about it… it’s obvious how much you care.”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between them felt comfortable, almost intimate. Finally, he leaned in just slightly, his voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Y/N turned to look at him again, her heart skipping a beat at the closeness between them. “Me too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the bustling crowd around them faded into the background, leaving just the two of them standing there, the art surrounding them as if it were part of their story.

Harry slipped his hand into Y/N’s, his fingers warm and steady as he gently tugged her through the gallery. She followed without question, her curiosity mounting as they weaved between groups of people. He didn’t say a word, just led her down a quieter section of the space where fewer people were lingering.

When they stopped, Y/N noticed the piece in front of them was a painting—bold yet delicate, with strokes that somehow conveyed both strength and softness. She tilted her head, studying it, drawn to the way the light and shadows played across the figure in the painting. There was something familiar about it, something that tugged at her memory.

She took a step closer, her heart beating faster as the realization slowly dawned on her. The painting wasn’t just beautiful—it was her.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to Harry, her eyes wide. “Is this…?”

He nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “It’s you.”

Y/N stared at the painting again, her mind racing. The details were unmistakable—the way her hair fell, the soft curve of her face, the hint of a thoughtful expression she’d never realized she wore. But it wasn’t just her likeness; it was the way the he had captured something deeper, something vulnerable and raw.

“How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “I started it a few weeks after I moved in. I didn’t even know your name then. I just… saw you.”

Her chest tightened as she turned to him again. “You saw me?”

He nodded, his green eyes softer now. “In the mailroom. In the hallway. On your balcony once, drinking coffee. I didn’t know why, but there was something about you that I couldn’t get out of my head. So, I painted.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of emotions swirling inside her—flattery, disbelief, and something she couldn’t quite name. “Harry, this is… incredible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I just thought you should see it. This is the first time I’ve shown it to anyone.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she took a step closer to him, her voice soft. “Why me?”

Harry’s gaze locked on hers, his expression open and sincere. “Because it’s you, Y/N. I couldn’t have painted this if it wasn’t.”

The noise of the gallery faded around them as she stood there, her hand still in his, staring up at the painting of herself. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes—not as the loud, chaotic neighbor, but as something worthy of being captured in art.

And Harry, the grumpy, mysterious neighbor, was the one who had done it.

2K notes · View notes

kissesz · 3 months ago

Text

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

caitlyn kiramman x f!reader

warnings: see above, mdni. this is nothing but pwp. f!sub!reader. dom!caitlyn. mean!caitlyn. but it's soft. she's only a little mean. also a little flawed but like, who isn't? semi-toxic it is then. she's very sorry you guys are making up later. vaginal fingering. cunnilingus. orgasm denial (1x). biting. p.s. english is not my first language, please bear with my struggling.

read part 2 here

notes: first post, hi! if you love women as much as i do, consider sticking around! this was requested (and encouraged to post) by one of my dearest friends, em. i'll love you always. and to my sweetest readers who managed to make it this far, i cherish each and every one of you, stay wonderful. feel free to comment your thoughts, shoot me a message, i'm all ears.

(repost because i fucked up the formatting, whoops.)

Two rapid knocks on your door after the clock has struck two only meant a single thing as of late.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

A woman you grew to hold close and dear in the depths of your heart. She’s shining prestige wrapped in affluence and grace with sugared kindness that blooms a warmth in your chest. The concept of the unattainable envisioned by the masses. She’s soft with affection where she ought to be, sharp and cold where it benefits her.

And yet, here she was. At your doorstep, at this ungodly hour, like clockwork.

You didn’t know when, exactly, this became routine. Perhaps it began with stolen glances across crowded rooms, or fleeting conversations that swirled around in your mind far longer than they should have. Caitlyn had always been a topic of interest to you, carefully composed, her smiles perfectly rehearsed, her every move designed to captivate. And yet, somewhere along the way, she let you see behind the curtain. Not all at once, but inch by inch, until you could no longer remember how you managed to hold her at arm’s length to begin with.

Maybe it was the night she showed up on your doorstep for the first time, instead of you on hers, drenched from the rain, the mask of elegance she wore so well slightly cracked. You’d never seen her like that before: vulnerable, desperate for a moment of reprieve. She didn’t say why she came to you, but she didn’t have to. The answer was in the way her voice trembled when she finally spoke, in the way she clung to you like you were the only stable thing in a world determined to break her.

You should’ve questioned it. Should’ve hesitated before letting her in, before letting her slip past your defenses so easily. But you didn’t. Instead, you simply held her, murmured quiet reassurances against her temple as she exhaled shakily into your collarbone. As if you were someone she could turn to. As if you were hers to seek comfort in.

Or maybe it wasn’t one defining moment at all. Maybe it was the accumulation of a thousand small gestures: the way she reached for your hand without thinking, or how she never left your side without making sure you felt safe. The way her laughter softened in your presence, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear. The way her fingertips brushed against yours in passing, always lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. The way her eyes sought you out first in every room, as if to silently ask, Are you alright? before anyone else even considered it.

You didn’t ask for her affection, and yet, here she was—woven into your life so tightly that you couldn’t imagine untangling her, even if you wanted to.

Now, she stood patient. Draped in a tailored fur-lined coat that framed her figure like it belonged in a gallery. Gold glinted in the low light—her jewelry, her dress, the faint shimmer of her makeup, all intentionally resembling starlit skies. Even in the dead of night, where most fall victim to obscurity, she was truly flawless.

You had tried, once, to ignore it—to turn away from the soft tap of her knuckles against your door, to pretend you didn’t care whether she came or not. That resolve had crumbled the moment she spoke your name through the threshold, hushed and laced with something dangerously close to yearning.

And so, like always, you found yourself standing before her, breath uneven, pulse traitorous.

Pushing down the handle, you stepped back to let the door fall ajar.

“You’re awake,” Caitlyn noted, her tone soft and conversational, though her sharp eyes certainly betrayed her. She offered a smile, which you returned in kind. It was familiar, comforting. You let your eyes take her in, committing every detail of her to memory as if she’d forever be gone by the next sunrise.

Leaning against the doorframe, you let your head rest against the pale ivory of the wall. It was late. “Barely.”

Her smile widened slightly, but she said nothing, merely stepping forward as though your presence in the doorway was an invitation. Her arms enveloped you, as did the scent of her perfume: something vanilla with an edge of spice, curling around the slightest of florals. You nuzzled into the crook of her neck, closing your eyes to savour the sensation of being in her proximity. Her hands came to rest on your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

There was something unbearably vicious about the way she held you. Like she knew you needed it more than she did. Like she could sense the weight of her absence pressing into your ribs, suffocating, unbearable. She never said it aloud, never boasted of it, but you felt it in the way her fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, just barely tightening. The smallest tell.

A soft sigh squeezed itself from your lungs as you parted, and she tilted up your chin to hold your gaze for a second seemingly never ending. When Caitlyn decided she had admired you enough, (but only for the time being) she clashed your lips together in a kiss so deep you feared you’d drown.

That happened a lot with her. The incessant fear you could easily lose yourself.

She kissed like she had no intention of stopping—like she wanted to steal every thought, every protest, every inch of hesitation until all that remained was her. Until she was carved into your bones.

Gentle teeth then nipped at you, snapping you out of whatever reverie you were beginning to spiral into as your breaths grew heavier.

“I missed you,” was whispered into the oxygen-depleted air between you by Caitlyn, as she ever so slowly started inching towards your couch. Those three words floated, so quiet, yet so heavy. The depth of them crashed over you like a wave, making your thoughts hazy as you struggled to breathe.

The worst part? You believed her.

You always believed her.

It was a dangerous thing, the way she could make you forget the ache of waiting. How she could saunter into your life after days—weeks—without word, and with one look, one touch, have you willing to unravel at her feet.

Pulling you along with her, seeing as you didn’t protest, she moved with an ease that suggested she’s done this countless times. Familiarized herself with your space enough to know you’ll trust her to guide. You didn’t want to admit you’d do so regardless.

But she knew.

Gods, she always knew.

There was no hiding from her. No veiling the way your body responded to her, no pretending she didn't have this hold over you. She saw every flicker of reluctance, every frantic breath, and she made it her mission to unravel you. To pull apart the pieces of you that were too stubborn to fall in line.

As the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch, she pushed you downwards, your back now against plush velvet. Caitlyn pulled back, her lips puffy and swollen as if mirroring yours, pupils dilated as if high out of her mind on the taste of you. Her fingers skimmed your skin like fire, searing a path from your collarbones, down between your chest, before finally finding purchase on the sash of your robe, pulling and watching as it fell open, mesmerized. You wanted to say something. To stop her before you lost yourself entirely in her. But the words never came. How could they when she was looking at you like that? Feral, tinged with something much deeper than desire. Her hands found your waist next, fingers pressing in just enough to make you gasp, to make you arch instinctively into her touch. She knew you so well. Knew exactly how to make you bend to her, how to make you fall apart at her will.

And then, she kissed you again.

This time, it was different. Less tender than before, more demanding—insistent. Her lips crashed against yours with the intensity of a storm, and you couldn’t help but meet her with equal fervor. She tasted like whiskey and something richer, something intoxicating, and you drank it in as if it were the last thing you'd ever have.

Your pulse raced as she pulled back, but only enough to leave a teasing space between you, enough to make you ache. She took a staggering, deliberate breath as she admired the mess she'd made of you.

Her voice, low and perilous, cut through the quiet. "I want you," she whispered, her lips barely brushing against yours, three words that made your heart race with an intensity you weren’t sure you were prepared for.

Messy, so messy as sly fingers snaked themselves around your breast, painstakingly slowly closing, increasing the pressure of which they’ve captured it. Your pulse fluttered, and Caitlyn swallowed the deliciously high-pitched moan threatening to spill from your velvety lips. Once only a string of saliva connected the memories of your kiss, she dove headfirst into the fragile skin of your neck, sucking and biting on it like a predator starved. The gloss of her lips smeared against you colorless, only blooming hues from beneath by her ministrations contrasted against your skin tone. A myriad of carmine and crimson, dancing in spots and dots of darker and lighter.

Flexing one knee upward you pressed it against her side, asking, the burn in your abdomen pooling deeper—dripping molten in carnal need. A pathetic keen was what you could offer as a cry for salvation, the state of your desperation swirling into and sweetening your blood. Caitlyn huffed a sound akin to a giggle, reveling in your sounds reverberating around her heart, savouring every inch of you as her hands stilled, and moved to trace down your sides. Deliciously tingling shivers were her reward, only, the true euphoria of eye-rolling breathlessness rested lower, between your thighs.

Though not before she spellboundly locked your eyes together, to witness your fall from grace, had her hand made the descent against your glistening folds.

Caitlyn Kiramman was clever with her fingers. She was an excellent shot, after all. Manicured, slender, long and expressive—from the very start she delighted in curling and waving them around unnecessarily seductively every chance she got. Intertwining and lacing them around the neck of a wine glass, door handles, your shoulders, all while you fell enchanted, and far down a wicked fantasy of her digits buried inside of you.

Accompanying a sharp, satisfied intake of breath from her, they sunk impossibly deep with no warning. A sight to behold and cherish for her you were, as an obscene whine loud enough to wake the city, followed by a filthy whimper that made her want to tear you apart, tumbled from your parted, lovebitten lips. Her fingers picked up a pace from which they never slowed, hooking up to caress your saccharine inner walls as they tightened around her in order to suffocate.

And oh it was pristine unadulterated ecstasy when her thumb found its leverage on your clit, drawing tight circles around it as if chasing and ruthlessly shoving you towards your orgasm.

“Ngh- Cait- ah-”

Pitiful little thing you were, spine contorted unnaturally, breath heaving, hair sprawled beneath you as you gazed up through glossy eyes at the harbinger of your exhilaration, only to find soulful azures staring lovingly back at you.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Her ambery tones of cashmere and cardamom suffocated you, dripping your senses in a glowing warmth, nuanced by a dusky tint in the way she formed her syllables. An unspoken truth between you was interrupted by yet another mewl, alongside a fumbling hand clutching at her wrist in silent command to keep going.

No perplexion in the fact she obliged, even going as far to lean further down in order to languidly lick a stroke up the expanse of your breast, encircling a nipple between greedy lips. Your toes curled as the sudden absence of air in your lungs hit you like the first note of a symphony, the kind that built steadily but constantly, keeping you blind with pleasure as it swept you into its crescendo. Sweet release was within reach, your restless heartbeat a telltale sign and the unabashed squelching sounds of your core a reassurance nonpareil. Frenzied, as you are done apart, hands now pawing at the sheets—it took only a particularly sharp thrust of her finger upward to have you almost toppling and falling over the edge.

But as soon as you felt it, it was gone. Hollow was the space inside of you, squeezing and tightening against grueling, agonizing nothing, as all stimuli were robbed of you.

Whipping your head upwards with a cry akin to that of wounded prey, you sank your nails into Caitlyn's wrist. Something livid and bewildered flickered in your eyes, alongside the undeniable flow of salty tears that threatened to spill lest you blinked them back.

“Why? Why did you-”

Cruel, devilishly cruel and vile was the laugh that tore its way through her throat, smoky vetiver strangling bygone syrupy spice and comfort. It was utterly amusing to her how melodramatic you could act, like this was disturbingly traumatic to that poor tiny heart of yours. Shiny, pearly white teeth glinted beneath the dull lighting as she yanked you closer by your calves.

Her mouth made direct contact with your slit in a split second—an experimental lick descending onto your swollen clit had you sobbing out her name like a mantra meant for worship.

You didn’t just say it—you felt it, like you were kneeling at the altar of her touch, drowning in the devotion she’d drawn from you, effortlessly.

“Mhm, good girl.” Her humming vibrated against you, the praise spilling from her lips resembling cloyingly sugar-saturated ambrosia. Doubling down on her efforts her grip was bordering on hurtful, tongue curling just at the right angle to have you lightheaded, lost, wailing and whining as the knot in your stomach threatened to unfurl. Though, there now lacked a sense of serene to wash over you as her threat of denial wasn’t foreign to you anymore.

And what does one do when they find themselves needing more—when they’re lost in uncertainty, fear gnawing at the edges of their thoughts? Pray, of course.

Opening your mouth for stray honeyed pleas of "Please," easily softened her to devoted compliance. It was music to her ears, absolutely addicting. There was a certain cadence to your voice, trembling with need, with the kind of vulnerability that made her all the more ravenous, swirling her tongue around a spot that made you see stars.

It didn’t take long for you to come undone with a pornographic moan—blinding white bliss abruptly veiling you, your thighs quivering and breath held, every drop of your juices diligently lapped up by the woman still nestled in the midst of your legs.

Closing your eyes, the rise and fall of your chest was the sole thing keeping you grounded. And when it fell silent, no more Caitlyn caressing you merciful and gentle: porcelain cracked and glass shattered as in response to your comedown. Your stares locked, now wide open, both of you suspended in the stillness.

Caitlyn didn’t rush to move, her presence still coiling around you like a weight. Her fingertips brushed against your skin one last time, slow and deliberate, before she shifted, finally distancing herself. The warmth of her body, the comfort of her touch, seemed to vanish all at once, leaving a cold void in its wake. She sat up, taking her precious time, as though her every movement was meant to torment you. You couldn’t help but watch, unable to break the trance she’d mercilessly dragged you into. She didn’t look back at you immediately, but when she did, her eyes held something—a tenderness, yes, but also something unreadable. You couldn’t tell if she pitied you or if she simply treasured the downright control she had over you.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” she said, a casual observation that somehow felt like a statement heavier than whatever was anchoring your states of mind. She tilted her head, her gaze now piercing, but there was no harshness there, just that sharp, calculating precision you had come to recognize. “You should sleep. You really should.”

But you couldn’t just let her leave like that, couldn’t let her slip away when the air between you still crackled with the remnants of everything that had just passed. You opened your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to pull her back. Maybe beg her to stay a little longer, maybe ask her why she was so calm, so composed when every part of you felt exposed and desperate.

But before you could speak, she was there, leaning over you once more, her presence surrounding you like a blizzard unforgiving, frigid and bitter. Tilting your face up to meet hers, her eyes locked onto yours with a force magnetic that made it impossible to look elsewhere.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hushed, silencing. Sour and acrid was the tone that reprimanded—shut you up like one would a child. There was no room for argument, no room for anything but what she allowed.

Her lips pressed against yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your airways, quieting the words that had formed on your tongue, now buried and dead. It was a kiss that took, that owned, that coerced you to forget everything else. You melted into it, no resistance left, just the feeling of her mouth against yours, a reminder of the untainted power she held over you. Her lips were plush, but the kiss was anything but. It was an imprint, a claim, and before you could even process the heat of it, she was pulling away, leaving you gasping with a faint, satisfied smile dancing at the corner of her lips.

“You know where I am if you need me,” she said, her voice drifting like a whisper through corners secluded, a promise without a guarantee.

And just like that, she stood. The couch shifted slightly as she moved, her body vanishing from your sight as she made her way to the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. All you could do was watch her, feeling the sorrow of her absence the moment she stepped away.

With one last lingering glance, Caitlyn reached for the door, grazing the handle. She paused, as though considering something, and then her voice broke the quiescence once more.

“Rest,” she said softly, her words like velour—slipping through the air discreetly. “You’ve earned it.”

She was gone.

©️ kissesz

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chaoticwriting · 4 months ago

Text

Fenton Crime Family

-Wayne Manor, Gotham-

Stephanie: So no one is gonna ask why Cass has been out so much lately? Alone too.

Duke: Didn't she say she is going out to meet a friend?

Stephanie: Yeah, but no one knows where she goes. We don't know who she goes out with nor do we know where she goes.

Tim: Just say that you are jealous that Cass is going out without you. No will make fun of you.

Jason & Duke: That's a lie.

Tim: Yeah, that's a lie. I would totally make fun of you.

Stephanie: Shut up nerd. Don't pretend you are not jealous when Bernard or Conner says that they are hanging out with someone else.

Tim: Woah there. Jason is the nerd one. If you want to insult me, at least use the correct one.

Jason: I want to be mad but you're not wrong.

Damian: Tt, why should we bother who Cain goes out with? It is her choice who she wishes to be her companion.

Stephanie: But aren't you curious even a little bit? Who is the person? Where do they go? Are they friends or something more? There are so many questions and yet so little answer.

Bruce: We should give Cass some room for herself. Letting her form a relationship outside of this household is also good.

Everyone: *Stares at Bruce*

Jason: I think the old man is being mind controlled. Let me punch him to wake him up.

Dick: Are you sick, B? Do you want to go to Dr. Leslie? I can take over your patrol tonight if you are not feeling well.

Damian: I also agree with Todd. Father might be compromised right now. Let's take him down.

Tim: Wait wait. Do you have anything to say before we jump you Bruce?

Bruce: *Grunts* I went to meet the therapist that Jason recommended to me. Dr. Fenton says that I should give my children room to grow independently so that I can take the first step in treating my paranoia.

Jason: *Gasp* You actually went to meet the therapist. Fuck.

Stephanie: He he he, where is my 50 bucks? I told you he would go if you recommend it.

Jason: *Grumble while handing out 50 bucks*

Duke: So that's where you are going. I thought you were going on a date.

Bruce: I am too old for dating anymore.

Dick: Yeah, right. Tell that to me when you go meet Selina later tonight.

Bruce: *Grunts*

Alfred: *Walks in* I am here to inform that Miss Cassandra has returned.

Dick: She's not gonna eat lunch?

Alfred: Miss Cassandra has informed me that she has eaten outside with her friend.

Jason: Did you see who her friend is? Is it a boy or a girl? Please tell me it's a boy.

Alfred: I'm afraid I cannot tell you anything as per my agreement with Miss Cassandra. What I can tell you though is that she is very happy to meet her friend. I suggest all of you don't disturb her happiness.

Stephanie: What? Boooo. I want answers. Timothy I choose you. Go find the answer using your stalker skills.

Tim: I would rather not anger her after what she did last time. All of my coffee mugs are still stuck on the table.

Duke: *Scoffs* You would probably go behind her back to find this friend anyway. You're just saying it in case Cass heard us.

Tim: I shall not confirm nor deny the accusation.

-Upstairs-

Cass lays on her bed after changing her clothes. It's been so long since she saw Danny. If not for the coincidental encounter at the stores, she wouldn't have known that Danny is in Gotham. After the first encounter, they exchanged phone numbers and talks and even met up often. Today is their first official date as a girlfriend/boyfriend.

Cass takes her phone to text Danny that she has reached home safely when she suddenly remembers something. She opens her gallery and puts the photos of her and Danny in a secure secret folder so that no one can find it.

While doing that, a text comes through.

Danny 💕💓💕

Danny: Hey Cass, are you home yet?

Cass: Yes. I just got home.

Danny: Thanks for the date today

Cass: 💖💖

Cass: Are you home yet?

Danny: Almost

Danny: Sorry gotta go. My sister is calling.

Cass: Get home fast. Love you 😘

Danny: I love you too 💖

Cass puts the phone on the bed and closes her eyes. Soon, she falls asleep and dreams of living in a large house with a lot of children running around.

-The Bowery, Gotham-

A young skinny man with black hair and blue eyes is walking down the quite alley slowly. He looks around him as the people of the Bowery look almost respectful but certainly fearful to him.

He sighs and leaves the sprawled bodies on the ground. They wouldn't die. He makes sure of that. A huge man comes within his proximity when suddenly the man bows down to him.

????: We are sorry, sir. These people are a new gang in the rise from the east. We get the news too late to send people to dispose of them.

Danny: Chill out, Jeff. Just take them to Dani and let her handle it. Also, tell her to return before dinner or else Jazz will come for her.

Jeff: Yes, sir.

The man along with a few of his henchmen pick the bodies and move them to somewhere else. To be honest, Jazz and Danny still don't know how to feel that their little sister is officially a crime lord.

All of them moved last month since Jazz gets her job at Arkham Asylum and Danny gets his internship at Wayne Enterprise. Dani tags along since she has explored all the places she wants to visit and she doesn't know what else to do.

Well that also didn't last long, as the first day they arrived at Gotham, Dani goes to beat up all the gang and goons in The Bowery and round them up into one single group. It's certainly easier that all the rouges are in Arkham right now.

One time the Falcon crime family tried to threaten Dani by taking Danny and Jazz hostage. In the end, Falcon and other crime families agree to stay out of The Bowery after Danny freezes all of their building and Dani strikes them with lightning multiple times.

Danny arrives home and sits on the couch. He scrolls Twitter while waiting for his sisters to return when the news catches his eyes.

Breakout at Arkham Asylum

All the people of Gotham are suggested to stay inside tonight.

Danny looks at the news with concern. Usually a breakout at Arkham happens a lot later in the day. He stands up, picks a leather jacket and a mask and then transforms into Phantom. He wears the mask and the jacket and flies towards Arkham Asylum to check out what happened. Today is Saturday so Jazz isn't working so he doesn't worry that much about Jazz.

On his way to Arkham, he encounters some rouge like The Riddler and Scarecrow. He knocks them out and hangs them on a poll and continues flying towards it. He's not a hero anymore but if the rogues are to enter and cause havoc in The Bowery, neither him, Jazz nor Ellie will be happy.

Suddenly, he sees a clown car speeding through the road at a very fast speed. Danny looks at it and sees the Joker along with his few goons are making a getaway while being chased down by a few cop cars. Danny flies down towards the clown car, and slowly unscrews the tyres of the car.

Danny flies back a little bit to the back and the clown car starts to wiggle and waggle and suddenly all of the tyres come off the car. Danny can hear the clown cursing heavily until finally they crash into a poll.He flies back down and just to make sure he is permanently down or at least down for some time, snap his back bone to incapacitate him.

Danny, still invisible, flies back up and continues on his way to Arkham. He meets a few more escapees like Mr. Freeze, Firefly and Killer Croc. Except for Killer Croc, all the other rouges are beaten up and sent back to Arkham. Killer Croc or Waylon is not thinking of causing trouble. He just wants to return to the sewer cause it is his home. Danny plans to maybe offer Waylon employment in their gang if he feels like Waylon is stable enough to work. Meanwhile, he will go around the city and beat up rogues that he is pretty sure is not going out to have a tea party.

When Danny lands on the roof, he opens his phone to see Cass is warning him to stay at home and not go outside. He smiles wryly since he is already outside and is beating up the rouges. Danny replies with a thumbs up and is about to continue flying when a shadow jumps out from behind him.

Danny: Uh, hello? How are you?

???: *Stares*

Danny: I'm no trouble. Just on the lookout just in case there is a rouge nearby. I see some guy beat up Scarecrow and The Riddler on my way here. They are not so scary when they don't have anything to use you know.

???: Where?

Danny: Errr, I think it is right over there. I was coming from that direction so you would probably see them if you go this way.

???: Thank you.

The shadow then vanishes and Danny is left standing there. The shadow really reminded him of Cass for some reason. Looking up online, apparently that one is called Black Bat.

Danny: Huh, they are out early today then. I guess they can work during the day.

Danny then turns invisible and returns back to the Bowery because most of the notorious rogues have been captured and Danny isn't worried about the rest.

Part 2

#danny phantom #danny x cass #dead silent #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #batfam #cassandra cain #dc x dp #cass x danny

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snappingthewalls · 2 years ago

Text

#art #soft sculpture #lets pretend gallery #prahran #unwell bunny

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yandere-daydreams · 23 days ago

Text

exhibit #5 - omorashi

an installment of the freak shit march gallery showcase.

pairing: yandere!geto x reader (jjk).

length: 3.0k.

warnings: non/con, fem!reader, watersports, infantalization, mentions of physical abuse, physiological abuse, implied kidnapping, and humiliation. dead dove: do not eat.

Geto Suguru was going to kill you.

Slowly, tortuously, and with pleasure. The same way he slaughtered curses too weak to be worth choking down, the same way he allowed his non-sorcerer acolytes to be torn apart after they’d expended their usefulness. Maybe he’d make you drink boiling water, or battery acid, something hot and corrosive that would destroy you from the inside out. Maybe he would drive some curve-bladed, ritualistic dagger through your heart and leave you on his altar to bleed out. Maybe he would have you drawn and quartered, even if you weren’t completely sure where he’d find the horses. You wouldn’t put it past him, though.

You guessed the method didn’t actually matter. Whatever he chose, whatever grisly end you imagined for yourself, the fact of the matter stood true.

He was going to fucking kill you.

You crumpled into yourself, pushing your body further into the back of the closet. Hiding would’ve been pointless, but you weren’t really trying to. Suguru had locked the bedroom door after shoving you inside, and you were beyond the point of trying to escape on impulse. It was all you could do to curl into yourself and try to forget where you were, what was coming, whose blood was drying under your nails. Even that was a futile effort – successful only in dragging your last minutes alive to a standstill and giving you that much more time to contemplate your utter hopelessness. You would’ve been better off banging on the walls and begging him to kill you now. At least, then, he might’ve gotten it over with quickly.

You buried your face in your knees, groaning aloud, but your spiral into complete despair was cut short. Distantly, you heard a lock click out of place, a door swing open, a set of padded footsteps growing ever-closer. You were tempted to stay where you were, to pretend he wasn’t there, but that would’ve only delayed the inevitable. Instead, you swallowed your fear, pushed yourself to your feet, and went to meet your hangman.

Of course, Suguru was waiting for you when you finally opened the closet door, and of course, he was the pinnacle of composure. Calm and collected, leaning on the foot of his bed, his hair pulled back and his traditional attire traded out for a plain black long-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. The three jagged lines carved into his cheek had been cleaned, but not bandaged over. Either they hadn’t been deep enough to be worth his time, or he wanted you to see them. Hopefully the former, but most likely the latter.

He smiled when he saw you – the expression softened, gentle. “There’s my pretty girl.”

You weren’t so serene.

Throwing yourself into his arms was more of a survival instinct than any real bid for comfort. He caught you easily, laughing as you barreled into his chest and buried your face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you managed, voice muffled by fabric and proximity. “It was an accident, I—I didn’t mean to, please don’t hurt—”

“Slow down. I don’t even know what you’re saying.” He rested a hand on the top of your head, combing his fingers through your hair. “Why would I hurt you?”

Why wouldn’t he? He’d threatened to break your legs for so much as verbally wishing him dead, before. This was worse. This was a death sentence.

“Because…” It was hard to find an answer that wouldn’t incriminate you further. You pulled back, gesturing to your cheek. “Because of the accident.”

He hummed. “Remind me which accident, honey?”

Something curdled in the pit of your stomach. You let your eyes fall to your feet. “This afternoon, during your sermon.” And then, when Suguru continued to wait for a proper answer, “When you tried to pull me into your lap. You caught me off-guard, and I—” Fought back. Pushed him away. Acted like a fucking idiot. “—hurt you. It wasn’t on purpose.”

There was more to it than that. His followers had been watching, and the beat of silence that’d followed your little outburst had rung louder than anything he’d preached. You embarrassed him. It was only a miracle that he hadn’t gutted you on the spot.

“Of course.” His hand slipped down to your neck, his thumb rubbing circles in the apex of your spine. “And how could I punish you for something you didn’t mean to do?”

Easily. He’d done it before – more times than you could count. Your wrist still hurt from the day he’d dislocated it after finding a few loose coins underneath your mattress. You still weren’t sure they’d gotten there, let alone where you would’ve picked them up, but it’d been enough to make Suguru think you were planning to run away. Justification beyond that was superfluous.

But this wasn’t the time to point that out. You only nodded irrationally into his chest, and Suguru chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “I think someone’s had a long day,” he murmured, squeezing you against him before pulling away. “Let’s get you fed n’ cleaned up, alright? We’ll talk about your bedtime after that.”

You didn’t trust his sugary tone or saccharine expression, but obediently, you muttered a small ‘okay’. Suguru pulled back, taking you by the hand and leading you away.

His apartment was a small, depressing thing. He had a larger home further from the city, one with spare bedrooms for both of his girls and a private chamber where he could speak with his strange, eccentric guests privately. His live-in captive couldn’t exist under the same roof as his beloved daughters, though, and you weren’t the type of possession he liked to show off, so you were relegated to a well-maintained, but painfully unloved apartment not far from his temple. There wasn’t much decoration beyond the steel bolts on every door and window, nor did what few personal effects he kept scattered around bring you much joy – a cat o’ nine tails draped over the back of the sofa, a vacant dog crate set up in the corner of the living room. There was nothing of yours, of course. Suguru didn’t really let you have interests beyond him. Anything that demanded more of your attention than needlepoint or absentmindedly nodding along to his megalomaniacal rants was deemed unsuitable and quickly done away with.

The kitchen was a little homier, but not by much. Suguru sat you down at the kitchen table before moving to the nearest counter. There was nothing on the stove, no ingredients laid out to prep, but an electric kettle simmered quietly next to a small glass container. He hummed as he worked, filling the container with scalding hot water, measuring out a cup or so of some colorless powder and mixing it in. It wasn’t until he produced a lid – thick at the base with a pink-tinted nipple spouting out of it like some unfortunate tumor – that you realized it wasn’t a container, but a bottle. For a second, it was all you could do to sit there, motionless and bewildered, and wonder where he’d managed to find a baby.

The lid was worked onto the bottle, the temperature checked against his wrist. He placed it onto the table in front of you delicately, as not to damage the glass, and your confusion immediately turned to dread.

“I… I don’t think I have much of an appetite.”

“You’ll have to try. Growing girls need their calories.” He fell into the seat next to you, tapping his knee. “Right here, honey.”

You looked toward the bottle, then to Suguru – still smiling, still unwavering. You took a deep breath, reminded yourself that there were worse things in the world than ego-death, and pushed yourself to your feet.

Dinner was a slow, effortful, and humiliating task. Suguru held you snugly, cooing out praise as he held the bottle against your lips. You tried not to think about the lack of flavor, or the way the milk clung to the back of your throat in clumps, or why he’d apparently had baby formula and a nursing bottle on-hand. The bottle was refilled once at its half-way point, then again as you neared the last few drops. By the time you finished, your stomach ached and fatigue had knit itself into the very fabric of your being, encouraging you to shut your eyes, to rest your head against Suguru’s shoulder, to fall into the repetitive sucking motion despite the knots of soreness forming in your jaw. Still, you knew better than to complain. As far as punishments went, this was relatively tame. You’d embarrassed him in front of his congregation, and he’d embarrassed you in front of the only person allowed to see you - him. Fair enough, good game, etc.

There was no pretense of autonomy by way of reward. Suguru kept you gathered in his arms – tucked against his chest as he carried you through the empty halls and balanced on his lap while drew a bath, the water hot enough to steam. You half-expected him to leave you to your own devices or, more predictably, to strip down and join you, but he just perched himself on the edge of the basin, only breaching the distance to wash your hair or lather your skin. It might’ve been nice, in another context, with a more loving partner. Under Suguru’s watchful gaze, it was hard to feel like anything more precious than a pet being groomed.

As Suguru drained the water, you realized you had to pee. Badly.

Which wasn’t surprising, on its own. You’d practically drunken half your body weight, and it wasn’t like there’d been many chances for a bathroom break pre-punishment, either. You did your best not to squirm as Suguru patted you down with towel, not to complain when he carefully removed the toothbrush from your hand in favor of shoving it past your lips himself. “You’ve already gotten in enough trouble, today,” he explained as he took your jaw in his free hand, holding you still when you reflexively recoiled. “We’d better make sure you don’t have the opportunity to do anything else you might regret.”

After what felt like much, much longer than two minutes, he let you rinse your mouth out without further intervention. When you were done, you lingered in front of the vanity, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you mind if I…” You swallowed. “…if I get a few minutes alone?”

He hummed. “And why would you want to be alone, love?”

Your face burned. Suguru was always terrible, but he wasn’t normally this dense. “I, uh—Nevermind, I guess. It’s nothing.”

If Suguru noticed your discomfort, he was more than happy to gloss over it. Your usual sleepwear consisted of, on good nights, one of Suguru’s oversized shirts or, on most nights, nothing at all. Tonight, though, Suguru seemed to be in the mood to play dress-up – forcing an ivory nightgown over your head, combing the hair away from your face, tying a delicate, pale pink ribbon around your neck. It was only after he’d taken the better part of five minutes to slide a pair of perfectly white, perfectly frilly knee-sigh socks up your legs that he seemed satisfied, taking a step back to admire his work.

This must’ve been the second part of your punishment. It wasn’t as bad at the bottle, sure, but there was something about the way Suguru’s gaze burnt into you, the vague amusement playing underneath his lovestruck grin, the pressing awareness that he was enjoying this. You let your eyes fall into your lap, but Suguru was quick to correct you – cupping your cheek and tilting your head back, coaxing you to meet his gaze. “Feeling shy?” He squeezed, the gesture playful, yet forceful enough to bruise. “You certainly weren’t during my sermon.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist that it’d been an accident, but Suguru’s patience must’ve been growing thin. His mouth was on yours before you could get a word out, teeth biting into your lips, tongue raking over yours. You felt his hands, next – eager and groping, slipping under the skirt of your dress, kneading at your ass and thighs. You squeaked, jerking away, and surprisingly, Suguru let you, his hands settling on your waist.

“I’m sorry, but I—” For the millionth time that night, your voice seemed to catch in your throat. This time, you forced yourself to choke it up. “I really have to use to the bathroom.”

You heard him laugh, felt his mouth against the crook of your neck. “I know, honey.”

One of his hands drifted to your stomach, pressing down lightly. You tried to scramble back, but Suguru held you in-place – bringing a knee onto the mattress for better leverage. “I’m serious, it’s really—”

“I never said you weren’t.” His touch drifted to your cunt, two fingers dragging circles over your clit. For all the time he’d spent picking out your clothes, panties had been strategically forgotten. “It’s alright. I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

Your breaking point was staggeringly abrupt and humiliatingly minor. Suguru’s arm wrapping around your waist, his body turning over yours as he fell onto the mattress and dragged you on top of him. The bulk of his thigh pressed into your cunt, and something inside you split, cracked, spilled. It was too fast, too hot, too wet, and you couldn’t seem to make it stop. You clenched your eyes shut, anything not to have to see the growing yellow stain spreading across the white of your nightgown, but that didn’t save you from the warmth trickling down your legs, the puddle quickly forming on Suguru’s lap.

It was a dizzying juxtaposition; the tightness in your lower stomach as more pressure was put on your bladder, the heat pooling in your core as Suguru continued to trace aimless patterns into your clit. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking hickeys into tender skin before dropping lower, following the curve of your breast. His lips sealed around your nipple just as his fingers fell from your clit to your pussy, thrusting into you with only the slightest hint of warning.

Suguru was never careful during sex, not beyond what it took to keep from breaking your neck when he wrapped his hands around your throat, but he was normally deliberate, normally intentional in the ways he used and contorted your body. Now, he seemed determined to curl and spread his digits with little to no regard for your pleasure, to batter his fingers into your cunt like he was trying to split you apart from the inside out. It hurt, but even worse, it was working – slick staining the inside of your thighs as you struggled to close your legs around his hand. You tried to get him away from you, to dig your nails into his shoulder and scratch at his chest, but Suguru only groaned into your chest, sucking that much more harshly.

It didn’t save you from his laugh – barking and cruel – or his hand on your stomach, palm pushing into your bladder, milking your embarrassment. “This,” he hissed, venom sharpening the edges of his infantilizing coo. “is a fucking accident. The shit you pulled during my sermon – that was a brat begging to be put in her place. Don’t try to pass off one for the other again.”

You tried to open your mouth, to spit that you should’ve clawed out his eyes when you’d had the chance, but the only noise you seemed able to make was an unsteady, trembling whine. A flood of humiliated tears escaped despite your best efforts, forming searing tracks down the length of your face, and Suguru leaned towards you, pressing a light kiss into your temple before running the flat of his tongue over your left cheek. There was no attempt at comfort as he dragged your hips against his, as freed his cock and aligned his tip with your entrance. He thrust into you as the last deposits of piss were forced out of your bladder, your mess leaking down his shaft. Suguru only moaned, twitching inside of you.

You didn’t want to cry. Really, you didn’t want to, but apparently, you’d managed to lose control of more than one of your bodily functions. Suguru crooned as the first sob broke past your lips, then another, until you were all-but wailing as he bounced you on his cock. With an artificial sort of exasperation, he lowered you gently onto the mattress, rolling his hips against yours. “Aw, baby, did I hurt your feelings?” The question was sardonic, teasing. As if both of you weren’t covered in your piss. “Here – I’ve got just the thing for delicate little princesses like you.”

Through tear-blurred vision, you watched him pull his shirt over his head and throw it thoughtlessly over his shoulder. A hand was brought to the back of your head and your mouth forced against his chest – lips smashed against his nipple. “Go ahead.” His nails scraped against your scalp. “All little girls love their pacifiers, don’t they?”

It was a wonder, how you’d ever thought you would get away with damaging his pride so easily.

It was a wonder, why you’d ever thought death was the worst thing he could force onto you.

He thrust into you, and you went limp underneath him. A whimper dying in the back of your throat, you let your mouth fall open, latched onto his chest, and started to nurse.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere jjk #yandere geto suguru #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader

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luvvixu · 15 days ago

Text

wallpaper / k. bakugo

his phone wallpaper was exposed!

it was a rare quiet afternoon in the common room. most of the class had gone out, but you and katsuki bakugo had decided to stay behind.

well, he claimed he had things to “work on,” but you knew he just didn’t want to deal with people today. not that you were complaining. you liked his quiet company, even if he liked to pretend he was annoyed by yours.

you were lounging on the couch with your phone, scrolling through your gallery, occasionally giggling at the silly pictures from the other day. the memory of him accidentally putting salt in his coffee instead of sugar still made you chuckle.

katsuki walked towards your seat with a cup of water on his hand and his phone on the other hand. your eyes immediately traveled to the grenade phone charm you gave him weeks ago.

from the corner of your eye, you saw your boyfriend heavily and locked his phone as he sat beside you and placed the mug on the table. but in that split second before the screen went dark, you caught a glimpse of something familiar.

was that…you?

you turned to him slowly, a mischievous grin creeping up your face. “wait…was that me on your lock screen?”

he froze like a statue. “no.”

you blinked, then laughed. “katsuki, i know what i saw.”

“you’re seein’ things and you're blind as hell.” he grumbled, shifting slightly away from you on the couch.

“oh really? because i distinctly remember that photo. that was from last week during our date at the cafe! you know, when you—pffft!” you snorted, “when you put salt in your coffee by mistake and tried to act like it didn’t taste like sadness.”

“that never happened,” he growled, his ears turning red.

“so you didn’t delete that photo?” you teased, leaning over a bit to try and peek at his phone again.

“tch. mind your own damn business,” he muttered, angling his phone so you couldn’t see a thing.

you leaned in closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, voice soft and teasing. “you must really like looking at me, huh?”

a groan escaped him, low and embarrassed. “why’d i fall for such a dumbass smug like you?”

your breath caught a little at that, the teasing moment melting into something warm and fluttery. “simple, you love me,” you whispered, smiling.

he didn’t deny it.

instead, he grumbled, “hell yeah, i do. so shut up about it before i change my lock screen to a picture of a damn explosion.”

you giggled and snuggled into his side. “okay fine. but only if you send me that photo. i look really cute in it, aren't i?”

“you’re the worst,” he muttered—then pulled you closer anyway.

the next day in class, everything seemed normal—or as normal as it could be when you were dating the great explosion murder god dynamight, the human equivalent of a hand grenade with resting angry face.

he was acting completely unbothered, like nothing had happened between you two yesterday. like he definitely hadn’t admitted to having your photo as his lock screen. like he definitely hadn’t held you on the couch and let you fall asleep on his shoulder while muttering that you “smelled like peace and bad decisions.”

you smirked to yourself at the memory as you slid into your seat.

bakugo was sitting two seats over, looking like he might bite anyone who breathed near him.

all was peaceful…until kaminari, fucking kaminari again, decided to be kaminari.

“yo, bakubro,” he said, leaning over during break. “lemme borrow your phone real quick. i remember y/n using your phone to take the photo of a literature lecture from the last meeting.”

“no,” bakugo replied instantly.

but kaminari was already halfway reaching it.

“i just need to check the time, man! chill yo ass down and whoa, nice lock scre—” he paused. “...is that...is that y/n?”

bakugo’s entire soul left his body.

you watched it happen in real-time: the secondhand embarrassment, the denial, the “i’m going to murder him” expression blooming beautifully across his face.

kaminari turned the phone toward Kirishima, whose eyes lit up. “dude, that’s the pic from the cafe, right? y/n told me it was the time where the she was laughing her ass off because bakugo put—”

bakugo snatched the phone back so fast it nearly burst into flames.

“mind your damn fucking business!” he barked, face scarlet.

the entire row of desks went quiet. even aizawa opened one eye from his nap in the corner.

you, meanwhile, were wheezing into your hands.

kirishima, bless this guy, tried to help. “aw, c’mon man, i think it's sweet and manly! you are finally soft for someone. it’s like watching an angry cat adopt a human.”

“i will happily kill all of you,” bakugo growled, shoving his phone in his pocket like it had betrayed him.

you leaned over and whispered, “you could’ve just used a picture of an explosion.”

he glared at you, cheeks still red. “you’re really lucky you're my girl, dumbass.”

you smiled wide, warm and smug all over again. “damn right, i know.”

masterlist

©luvvixu2025

a/n: im starting to run out of ideas about writing this dude. pls help asap cuz i really need to keep up with my hyperfixation in writing lmfao.

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rosemaryhoney27 · 12 days ago

Text

Catnip, Kleptos, and Chaos Nephews

aka: Danny and Selina Go ‘Shopping,’ Vlad Contemplates Early Retirement

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Bruce had just finished cleaning up after Killer Croc tried to take a swim in the Batcave’s underground river. Jason was pretending not to be feeding said crocodile marshmallows. Damian was finally asleep. Vlad had finally stopped twitching.

And then the manor security pinged. Selina Kyle had entered the building.

“She let herself in?” Vlad asked, panic creeping up his spine.

“She has a key,” Bruce said, like that was normal.

In the Foyer

Selina swept in like a thunderstorm wearing a designer coat and nine lives of attitude. Danny peeked around the corner with a cookie in hand, blinked, and whispered, “Whoa, you’re pretty.”

Selina paused, blinked, and slowly turned her full attention to the glowing teenager in pajama pants and an oversized “I ♥️ Goth Dad” hoodie.

“…Bruce,” she called out. “When were you going to tell me you adopted the cutest haunted Muppet in the multiverse?”

Danny smiled, then phased through the banister to greet her properly.

Selina raised a brow. “Oh. You’re that kind of weird. I like it.”

Fifteen Minutes Later

Bruce came downstairs to find Danny and Selina curled up on the couch, looking through jewel heist magazines.

“You know,” Selina said, sipping tea, “if you’re going to ghost into vaults, you need a better eye for sparkle. See this? That’s a decoy ruby. Always check for weight.”

Danny nodded like he was in school. “Ohhh. So you taste test them?”

Selina: “Only if they’re cursed. Or chocolate.”

Bruce: “What is happening.”

Danny: “Auntie Selina’s teaching me jewel ethics.”

Selina: “You don’t steal from orphans, old ladies, or drag queens. Everyone else is fair game.”

Bruce: “Selina.”

Danny: “She said I have ‘klepto potential with a conscience.’ Is that good?”

Vlad—who had just entered—froze mid-step like he’d walked into a live wire.

“You—NO. You do not get to take the ghost child on a crime internship!”

Selina: “I’m just saying if he happens to pass through a high-security vault and happens to see an unguarded emerald—”

“SE-LI-NA!”

She winked. Danny grinned. Bruce gave up and left the room.

The Shopping Trip (aka “Field Study”)

Selina took Danny out in the evening with Bruce’s very reluctant permission and a tracker.

They visited:

A high-end gallery (“Just browsing,” she said. Danny later ‘accidentally’ phased the security guard into a closet so Selina could critique the fake Fabergé eggs.)

A black market fence with a secret greenhouse out back (“For the vibes,” Danny claimed. He gifted the fence a ghost orchid. The man cried.)

A hidden thrift shop with literal cursed rings (Danny picked one up, sneezed, and the ring de-cursed itself. Selina clapped.)

They returned three hours later, with:

One vintage cat brooch that now purrs

A cursed diamond that is now a mildly annoyed diamond

Danny wearing eyeliner and a leather jacket

Back at the Manor

Jason: “You gave the haunted child a fashion upgrade. I respect it.”

Damian: “That’s my eyeliner.”

Cass: thumbs up

Vlad: “You. Let. Selina. Kyle. Take. Him. Shopping.”

Bruce: “He came back with everything accounted for and an enchanted purse that bites pickpockets. That’s more than most of us can say.”

Selina ruffled Danny’s hair. “He’s got potential. Chaos with a heart of gold. Reminds me of me at that age. But cuter.”

Danny: “She said if I ever want to become a cat burglar, I already have the purr-sonality.”

Bruce sighed so hard it activated the Batcomputer’s wind sensor.

Vlad, deadpan: “I’m going to scream.”

Danny patted his arm gently. “Auntie Selina says I’m the ghost that haunts the wealthy. Isn’t that nice?”

Vlad screamed.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #vlad plasmius #batman #vlad is tired #selina kyle #catwoman #danny fenton is a little shit

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makeitmakesomesense · 3 months ago

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Starry Night

Natasha Romanoff x Jealous!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Day 10: I've merged a very fun request from a lovely anon with the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt for the 10th of January, which is 'religion'.

Your linked hands swung absentmindedly in the space between you.

Natasha’s head tilted as she observed the painting.

After a moment, you felt her attention inevitably turn back to you. You tried to focus on the brushstrokes, the colours, something. At least this one wasn’t about religion.

‘What do you think?’ She prompted.

‘I like the stars.’ You said carefully.

Natasha’s lip twitched.

‘That’s good. Given it’s A Starry Night.’ She rasped dryly.

You nodded, pretending to keep staring at the painting. Natasha brought your hand to her lips and held it there for a moment.

Your focus turned readily to her. It was much more enjoyable anyway, watching her look at the paintings.

‘What do you think?’

Natasha glanced back at you. Her eyes crinkled with a more hesitant smile.

‘I love it.’ She admitted.

You leaned forward and kissed her cheek, ignoring the bustling crowds of tourists around you.

You stayed together, lost in the tiny moment, until a short woman elbowed her way in front of you to take a photo of the painting.

Natasha’s eyes were full of mirth as she pulled you back to the centre of the room. Her arms snaked around your waist as she stood behind you.

‘What do you want to look at next?’ She asked softly, her head resting on your shoulder.

You chewed your lip and tried to decide. The paintings all looked the same to you.

This trip was already perfect without the art. It had been Natasha’s idea. A tentative gift for your one year anniversary. A long weekend spent in Paris.

It was strange to live, for even the briefest of moments, as if you weren’t part of the Avengers team. Your life had become something unrecognisable in the time that you’d been part of it.

Now, here in Paris, you’d never seen Natasha so relaxed, so completely herself.

The very first evening, she’d disappeared out of the apartment almost as soon as you’d set your luggage down. She’d returned within minutes, holding all the components for a charcuterie board and a bottle of ridiculously expensive wine.

You’d wanted to unpack and get organised after the long flight but Natasha had insisted that you join her on the balcony. You’d sat together for hours, sharing food and drink and staring out at a nighttime view that didn’t seem real.

You’d understood the magic then. Slow kisses that heated the chilled night air. The sparkling lights of the city reflected back in Natasha’s eyes.

Nothing in any gallery could beat that.

‘You choose.’ You told Natasha, leaning back in her arms as you surveyed the gallery room. ‘I always like your choices best anyway.’

Natasha hummed to herself, trying to decide. You let yourself focus only on her. The constant thrum of people wandering around the room created an almost overwhelming level of background noise.

At last, Natasha nodded over to another painting, one with two women watching each other in bed.

You smiled before you could help it, remembering that morning.

‘Okay.’ You agreed.

Suddenly, you felt Natasha stiffen behind you. Then, after a moment, you felt her purposefully relax. You were immediately on high alert. You scanned the room with a new intention, trying your best to identify any threat.

Your attention caught immediately on a woman across the room. Her stare was entirely focused on your girlfriend.

‘Is everything okay?’ You asked tensely, staring at the woman whose focus refused to flicker from Natasha’s face.

Natasha moved easily from behind you to by your side. She looked distracted but her smile was reassuring.

‘Yes.’ She promised. ‘I know her. Let me go say hello.’

You watched her walk away from you over to the strange woman. The beautiful Parisian woman. The upsettingly beautiful Parisian woman.

You watched Natasha kiss her cheeks and hug her. You watched their obvious delight at reconnecting. You watched the disgustingly beautiful Parisian woman reach up to touch a piece of Natasha’s hair, you watched her mouth form a comment about its new length and colour. You watched Natasha smile shyly.

You felt small and then you felt angry. You felt an instinct lock your body in place.

It took a minute for Natasha to look over to you. She took a few steps back in your direction, not quite closing the distance.

‘There’s this wine.’ She started, clearly excited. ‘I’ve been looking for it all weekend. Elodie knows this place that sells it. It’s right around the corner’

You kept your expression neutral. You hated that Elodie was obviously looking over at you.

‘Do you mind if we-?’ Natasha trailed off, gesturing between herself and the woman who you were going to make a voodoo doll of later.

You nodded, throat tight.

Natasha kissed your cheek.

‘Stay, enjoy the art. I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.’ She promised, an excited glint in her eye.

You watched Natasha’s hand brush Elodie’s back as they walked out together.

When you were finally alone in a sea of strangers, you let the feelings wash over you in quick succession.

Jealousy. Hurt. Anger.

Your fingernails dug into your palm as the feelings simmered.

Who the fuck was Elodie?

You walked blindly past the remaining masterpieces and headed for the exit.

Natasha caught a hold of you in the foyer. She looked startled to see you there.

She nodded back to the endless gallery rooms and gave you a curious smile.

‘Have you seen it all already?’ She teased lightly.

‘Mmhm’ You hummed tightly. ‘Let’s go back to the apartment.’

Your sharp tone set off the first alarm bells. You watched the realisation dawn on Natasha’s face, the slight widening of her eyes.

You didn’t give her a chance to speak. You walked out the building and headed towards your apartment.

Natasha kept pace at your side. You could feel her nervous glances towards you. Her hesitating indecision to say something.

Something about your stony expression kept her quiet.

By the time you’d reached the apartment, after climbing the endless winding staircase inside the building’s courtyard, the unspoken tension was almost at a boiling point.

Natasha’s tote bag clinked occasionally as her new purchase bumped against her keys. Your jaw tightened every time you heard it.

You opened the door and walked straight to the kitchenette. Natasha followed cautiously behind you.

It occurred to you then that you’d never had a proper fight before. Never had a reason to be really angry. More than a year had gone by in relative peace.

Until Elodie.

You opened the fridge door violently and pulled out the ingredients for lunch automatically.

You could feel Natasha hovering in your blind spot.

You hooked a dining chair with your foot and pulled it out from the table.

‘Sit.’ You directed tightly. ‘I’ll make us some lunch.’

Natasha sat with the obedience of a hostage victim.

You arranged the jars of beurre de cacahuètes and confiture next to the wooden chopping board and placed the bread that Natasha had bought fresh that morning on top of it. You yanked open the cutlery drawer and retrieved the large bread knife.

You felt Natasha wince behind you. You ignored her as you started sawing at the bread.

‘So.’ You said loudly. ‘How do you know Elodie?’

Natasha’s hesitation this time was blatant.

‘Uh.’ You heard her stall for time. You sawed quickly through your first slice and tossed it onto the waiting plate. ‘From a long time ago.’

‘Mmhm.’ You hummed again, eyes trained on the moving knife. ‘And you knew each other well.’

You didn’t frame it as a question but Natasha answered anyway.

‘...Yes.’

‘Very well.’ You said under your breath, tossing another brutalised slice of bread onto the plate.

‘...Yes.’ Natasha said with obvious alarm as you began to hack at the loaf again.

‘Lucky Elodie.’ You muttered bitterly. ‘I bet you’ve got wonderful memories of Paris together. Did you drink that wine on a balcony with her? What sort of name is Elodie anyway? I mean that’s practically too French. I mean come on. It’s like a Russian girl being called-’

‘Natasha.’ Natasha supplied.

You kept moving your knife thoughtlessly.

‘Exactly. Whatever.’ You cut yourself off into abrupt silence as you stewed internally on things you really shouldn’t say aloud.

‘Y/N.’ Natasha called out carefully.

‘What?’ You snapped.

‘Love. You’re sawing the chopping board in half.’ You froze and stared down at the small pile of sawdust mixing with the breadcrumbs. You yanked the knife abruptly out of the wooden board and placed it down on top of it. You stared for a long moment at the counter. You couldn’t escape the truth of it. The fear that ached behind everything.

‘Did you take her to see those paintings before?’ You asked at last in a small voice. ‘Before me?’

‘Love.’ Natasha said quietly again in a low voice that always made your insides go warm. You heard her move closer and felt her arms wrap around you, tentatively. You let your back press against her.

‘Before you.’ She murmured slowly, and you felt each word vibrate through you. ‘I know it’s not that simple. But before you nothing really mattered.’

Her lips touched your neck and you let your eyes close. You thought about her and you. About the 400 nights you’d spent together. About the sleepy mornings and the date nights and the future plans.

You thought about the painting you’d seen of the two women watching each other in bed.

‘Before you.’ Natasha whispered again. ‘There was art and good food and fancy wine.’ Natasha’s hand trailed lightly down your front and the back up. Your head tilted back and Natasha dragged her finger along your exposed neck.

You thought about the starry night reflected back to you in Natasha’s eyes.

Your body shuddered as Natasha’s fingernails tapped gently over your trachea.

All you could hear were her soft breaths and your shallow ones. ‘Before you. I wasn’t me.’

. .

Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you

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muniimyg · 4 months ago

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*ੈ✩‧₊˚ SUPERNOVA // JJK ੈ✩‧₊˚

01 | 02 | ♡ 03

— stuck in an unspoken love triangle, oc and jungkook face the end of it all

au/genre:

mean girl au

love triangle

childhood friends to lovers

note: omg ! the end <3

jungkook had a plan.

he was going to show you around the new exhibit, confess, and ask to be your boyfriend. his entire life, he waited for signs and for the perfect time—only for him to realize that there will never be a moment where bells ring and tell him; now.

no.

you see, after all this time—for his entire life—you have been the quiet.

his quiet.

all his life, it’s like his eyes only focused on you. everything and everyone around him was blurry and the only real clarity he had in his life was art and you… and as corny as it is; that’s what you are to him entirely.

art.

from your pottery, to the way you look, and to the way you simple are—you are his favourite masterpiece.

the canvas gallery is where you two ran around as kids, amazed at all the pieces other artists made. so, it only made sense that this would be the place where he kicks his anxiety in the ass and finally fucking goes for it.

so, he waited.

and waited.

…. and waited.

and right when he was about to call you—

hana showed up.

she grabbed his arm and yapped all about how excited she is to be here with him. to that, jungkook shook off her grip and stepped away.

...

“what are you doing here?”

“___ gave me her ticket—”

“fuck that. hana, why do you always do this? why do you always take things from ___?”

with distant yet jealous eyes, hana replied; “because she has better things than me. i like her things. is it so wrong to like her things?”

“are you insane?”

“maybe.” hana scoffed. “i don’t get it. what does she have that i don’t? we grew up together and did everything together—yet, it’s like… i’m not even half of her.”

“because you aren’t.” he growled. “you hate ___, right?”

silence.

“that’s okay,” jungkook exhaled. “cos i fucking hate you. with all my being. ever since you blew out ___’s 14th birthday candles. ever since you always kissed the guys she was into. ever since her pottery business bloomed and you accidently knocked over a piece she was working on for two months. god, hana. i have and will always hate you.”

“shit, jungkook. is that it? are you done—”

“no,” he sighed. “i will never be done hating you for taking every opportunity to turn anything good for ___ into something bad. you want to play mean girl? fine by me. let’s fucking play. get this through your fucking head; i will never be yours but i will forever be ___'s."

...

jungkook gave you time.

partly because he was mad—mad that you gave hana your ticket so easily, mad at how quickly you folded like you always do. but mostly, because he knows how you are in moments like this. you don’t talk. you retreat, giving yourself space to breathe, to think. he hopes you’re using the time to clear your head, making space for him.

by the third week of awkward text exchanges—his dry "good night" met with your overly polite “you too"—and no more nightly facetime calls where he fell asleep to your voice, jungkook snaps.

he gets into his car and drives to your studio.

the late afternoon light spills through the frosted windows as he parks outside. his stomach twists at the sight of the closed sign hanging on the door, but the faint hum of a song playing inside tells him you’re there. jungkook knocks, loud and insistent.

for a moment, he worries you won’t answer.

that you’ll pretend not to hear him or let the music drown him out. but then, he hears the soft shuffle of slippers and the click of the lock.

when the door creaks open, you’re there.

cheeks flushed from the warmth of the studio, hair tied back messily, and streaks of dried clay smudged across your forearms. your apron is dusted in powdery beige, a damp hand towel clutched in your fingers.

“jungkook—”

he doesn’t let you finish.

his name on your lips is enough to tip him over the edge. stepping forward, he pushes the door shut behind him and closes the space between you in one fluid motion.

your back hits the sink behind you with a soft thud, the cool porcelain biting through the thin fabric of your apron. his hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, as though he’s anchoring himself to you.

“w-what are you—”

“i can’t do this anymore,” he mutters, his voice low and trembling, the words spilling out as though they’ve been trapped inside for years.

he shifts closer, one hand leaving your waist to cradle your jaw. his thumb grazes your cheek, where a smear of dried clay clings to your skin. you’re so warm, and so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. his other hand brushes against the edge of your apron, his knuckles bumping against the damp streaks of clay still drying on your fingers.

“jungkook—” you try again, but your voice falters when he leans in. his forehead brushes yours, and he’s so close you can see the strain in his jaw, the tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“i’ve had enough, ___,” he breathes, his voice trembling with something between desperation and exhaustion. “i’m tired of bending backwards to see you. i'm tired of people standing in front of you and i'm sick of you letting them. most of all, i’m tired of waiting for the right time. i—i’ve been in love with you since we were seven, and you know that.”

his hand leaves your cheek to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. “i haven’t done much to hide it, have i? i'm sorry. i've been a coward but... maybe i never did anything because i always knew how you felt about me too.”

your hands tighten on the towel, the wet clay squelching under your fingers. you glance down, unable to meet his gaze, but he doesn’t let you escape.

“look at me,” he pleads softly, tilting your chin upward until your eyes lock with his. the raw intensity in his stare steals the air from your lungs.

“please, ___... i'm fucking begging to you see me through this,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he leans his forehead against yours again. “i'm begging you to take my heart and mold it yours.”

and that’s exactly what you do.

your hands tremble, damp with clay and nerves, as you reach for him. you cradle his jaw gently, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his cheeks.

then you kiss him.

jungkook freezes at first, his breath hitching in surprise, but it takes only a heartbeat before he softens. his lips move against yours, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every second of this moment.

he’s hesitant—his hands stay planted on your waist, his grip cautious, almost shy. but when you sigh against him, his restraint snaps. his fingers curl into the fabric of your apron as he steps closer, pressing his body firmly against yours.

he bends his knees slightly, his arms sliding down to wrap around your thighs. with a quiet grunt, he lifts you effortlessly, settling you on the edge of the sink. your legs part instinctively, making room for him to step closer, his body slotting perfectly between yours.

you gasp softly as his hands find the back of your thighs, pulling you flush against him. your fingers slip into his hair, still streaked with clay, and he laughs quietly against your lips at the mess you're making.

his laugh fades quickly, replaced by a deep hum as he kisses you harder, with more certainty. the kiss grows messy, your breaths mingling and the faint taste of salt lingering between you.

when he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, and his eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. he doesn’t move far—his forehead rests against yours, his nose brushing yours as his fingers trace small circles on your thighs.

“so…” he whispers, his lips curling into a boyish grin as his gaze flicks to your apron, your hands still smeared with clay. “about that mug?”

#bts mini fic complete #jk scenario #jungkook confession #jungkook f2l #jungkook childhood friends to lovers #jungkook fic #jungkook scenario

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aetherraeys · 9 days ago

Text

rebel

sirius black x slytherin!reader ⊹ 7.1k

for this request x

cw ⟢ swearing, slightly suggestive, COCKY!sirius, pining, tension, kind of enemies to lovers, angst if you squint, internal conflict, slytherin!reader

summary: sirius black is shameless, even is his conflicted pining and endless watching, of you. but after years of successful rebellion, one thing could make it all come crashing down, prove his parents right--make them proud. and sirius is struggling to stomach the idea.

a/n: again idk how this became so long im just a girl. not proofread x

Sirius Black.

The disgraced heir, blood traitor, the run-away who burned too brightly for the cold halls he was raised in.

He was wildfire in human form—untamed, untethered, always on the verge of consuming everything around him. Fire is never safe. And Sirius Black had never once tried to be.

He was shameless in the way only someone truly unrepentant could be.

Defiance lived in his bones. In every choice he made, every rule he broke with that easy grin. In the way he carved out freedom with bare hands and bleeding knuckles, daring the world to punish him for it. He would not kneel. Not for his mother. Not for their pureblood rot. Not for anyone.

He wore rebellion like a second skin.

There was no hesitation in the way he looked at people—like he had the right to. Like he wanted you to know you were being watched. Desired. Picked apart by eyes that never pretended to be subtle. Sirius never mastered the art of pretending, not when it came to impulse, not when it came to you.

Regal, in the way a blade is regal—sleek and polished, but built to cut. You were every inch the legacy they praised in whispers and expected in silence: one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, born with history in your bones and expectations curled like silk around your throat. You wore your pedigree like a cloak, but never let it chain you.

Poised, deliberate and sharp, like you’d studied how to command a room before you ever learned to walk.

Sharp eyes that missed nothing, mouth even sharper, and a presence that made people step aside without quite knowing why. Slytherin suited you like a whispered secret.

You knew the weight of your name, but you wore it on your own terms. And that, perhaps, made you more dangerous than any of them. Because you saw the system for what it was—and still moved through it boundlessly.

A truly captivating sight to behold. Never in the way that begged for attention, but in the way that demanded it. Like art in a gallery too expensive to touch. People looked, they always did, and then they looked away—because looking too long felt like trespassing.

Except Sirius never looked away.

Eyes endless in their following, stalking—almost hungry in the way they lingered.

When he looked at you, which was almost always, it felt like being scorched—burning holes into your from ever angle, as if he could set your soul alight with nothing but his gaze.

Truthfully, it used to anger you—made your lips purse into a tightline, grip onto your fork a bit harder, when you felt his eyes on you from across the Great Hall. The infamy that surrounded him was nothing positive, and each time his sights helplessly drifted to you, you couldn’t help but feel like a target had been placed on you back.

So unbareably brazen in the way he scanned over your figure, that same smirk smeared across his face, when you’d enter Charms—settling into your seat with a roll of your eyes as he quickly abandoned his one beside James, in exchange for the one beside you.

You hide to fight the urge to openly scrowl, calming yourself with a deep breath—you didn’t even spare him a glance as you flicked through the textbook and began delicately scratching into parchment with you quill. Though, unfortunately for you, Sirius didn’t miss the small reaction his meer presence had earned him, scooting slightly closer with an eagerness that almost had your eyes flickering over to him.

Perching his elbow on his empty desk, chin on his hand, he watched you for a few moments—very obviously—before he leaned in, too close for you liking. So close infact that you could smell him, leather and warm sandalwood and cinnamon, maybe. His head was ducked, trying to catch your gaze—*and failing—*then his voice, low dripping with a uncalled for casual tone.

“I’m Sirius, by the way,”

Gods, was he distracting—it had you pressing your quill unforgivingly harder into the blameless parchment. Pausing, before you accidently broke your quill, slow and reluctantly your gaze shifted over to him.

Wide smirk and wild eyes.

You blinked at him, eyes doing a once over his slouched form—unimpressed before turning back to your work, and to your shock and horror. Sirius all but melted into his seat beside you—grinning like the cat that got the cream.

What a peculiar reaction.

You didn’t know what you expected after that, you were hoping for silence. Maybe for him to get bored and slink back to Potter, tail between his legs.

But Sirius Black didn’t take silence as rejection. He took it as encouragement.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” he asked, voice warm with amusement as if this were all a game and you were the shiny new toy he’d decided to break. “That’s alright. I like a bit of mystery.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, moving your quill purposefully, though the words you were writing made less and less sense as his presence curled around you like smoke—thick and cloying and difficult to ignore.

Most would be completely deterred by your lack of acknowledgement, but it was becoming more and more apparent that Sirius wasn’t like most. Unbeknownest to you, you were quickly becoming the object of his affection.

Sirius felt like he was drowning in something he didn’t understand.

He shouldn’t have been looking at you like that—should’ve shrugged it off, moved on, found someone else to bat their lashes and giggle at him. He could’ve. Merlin knew he had options. There was always someone willing to chase the fire.

But you didn’t chase. You endured.

And gods, he couldn’t look away.

There was something in the way you held yourself—shoulders straight, chin lifted, gaze sharp enough to draw blood—that made his pulse trip. You weren’t just beautiful. You were untouchable. Unbothered. And it drove him mad.

You were infuriating. And he was fascinated. Completely, utterly wrecked by the quiet fury behind your eyes, the way you made him feel loud and messy just by being near you. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even like Slytherins. But he watched you, like you might disappear if he blinked. Like you were something from a half-forgotten dream he’d been trying to recall his whole life.

The push and pull went on for ages.

Sirius never stopped. Not really. He pestered, prodded, flirted, lingered—always with that maddening gleam in his eye, always circling like a star caught in your orbit. He made it a point to sit near you in every class he could. Made himself a nuisance in libraries and corridors, at assignment meetings and Quidditch stands.

But you remained ever the picture of composed indifference, met him with narrowed eyes and razor-edged retorts. You had mastered the art of dismissing him without ever quite telling him to leave. And perhaps that’s what kept him hooked.

Because despite everything—your scorn, your status, your silence—Sirius liked the chase. He shouldn’t have. Especially not after he finally put the pieces together.

One of the Twenty-Eight Sacred. One of them.

The very type of pureblood he was raised to despise. To dismantle. To escape from.

But you were different. You always had been. Not cruel, not bigoted. Not brainwashed. Just…sharp. Steely. Independent in a way that made his chest ache. You hadn’t chosen your name—but you had chosen what to do with it. And Sirius had never seen anything braver than that.

And he was infatuated. Still. Helplessly.

He couldn’t say when it started. And you couldn’t say when it changed.

Somewhere between the sarcastic quips and biting glances, something shifted. It was subtle at first. A twitch at the corner of your mouth, a less scornful scrowl, a slightly delayed response. The way you didn’t move away quite as fast when he leaned too close. A pause where there had once only been dismissal.

And then, one day, it happened.

Charms class again. Seventh year. The classroom warm with late autumn sun, shadows stretching across parchment and desks. You had arrived early, as usual, and settled into your usual seat without fanfare. Sirius slid in beside you, as he always did, far too casual, far too smug.

“Good morning, your majesty,” he said with a grin, dragging the words like silk between his teeth. “Gracing us with your presence again, I see.”

Normally, you’d roll your eyes. You’d sigh or pointedly ignore him. But that morning…something in his tone was especially absurd, and something in you—maybe the soft air, maybe the way he looked at you like you hung the bloody moon—broke the routine.

Your lips twitched.

It shocked you even, you didn’t mean to. Not really. But they did. Just enough.

A small, restrained thing. Barely there. Gone in an instant.

But he saw it.

And Sirius Black lit up like the bloody sun.

His mouth parted slightly, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed. Then—slowly, irrepressibly—a grin spread across his face, wide and utterly boyish, delight pouring from him in a way you hadn’t expected. Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Rather radiant, actually.

Proud.

“Was that—?” he whispered, hand pressed to his chest in mock-shock. “Was that a smile, princess?”

As always, you rolled your eyes, but not with the same exasperation as before. It didn’t have the same venom. In fact, there was something dangerously close to amusement in the way you turned back to your notes. Sirius leaned back in his chair, the beam on his face entirely uncontainable.

He didn’t even care that Professor Flitwick had started lecturing. Didn’t care that James shot him a confused glance from the row behind.

He’d seen it. He’d earned it. After years.

And if there was one thing Sirius Black had learned about you, it was that you didn’t give your softness freely.

From that moment—that damned smile—something shifted between you.

The icey exterior had began to melt, and you dont know when it had started, only that it did. Slowly. Reluctantly.

Sirius, for all his insufferable grins and arrogant charm, somehow started to feel less like a thorn in your side and more like a…habit. One you hadn’t meant to form. One you couldn't shake.

Letting him sit closer without side-eyes and sighs. Sometimes even answering his questions when he poked at your homework or made some snide remark about Slughorn’s newest “favourites.” You’d begun meeting his teasing with deadpan sarcasm instead of silence. And occasionally—very occasionally—you didn’t hide the way your lips curled at something he said.

You weren’t sure why it happened. Maybe it was the persistence. Maybe the way he never pretended to be anything but infatuated, even when it was inconvenient, even when it would’ve been easier for him to stop. Maybe it was because you saw something in him—beneath the bravado and leather and grins—that reminded you of yourself. A recklessness born from rebellion—hunger to be known.

And Sirius? He was too far gone to pull back.

He’d always watched you, but now he read into everything. The way you no longer flinched when he leaned in, how you didn’t swat his hand away when he nudged your quill out of your grip. How, sometimes, your eyes lingered on his profile when you thought he wasn’t looking.

So when Saturday rolled around and he hadn’t seen you all day—not at breakfast, not in the common areas, not even passing through the library—a strange itch clawed at him. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t help it, he felt deprived of nutrience, of your presence. Maybe you were just sleeping in or studying or avoiding the Gryffindor rabble.

But by evening, he cracked.

Against every instinct, against everything in his brain that told him this was probably a very bad idea, Sirius reached for the Marauder’s Map.

And there you were.

A tiny dot, alone in an empty classroom on the fourth floor. Probably studying. Probably buried in books and ink and the smell of parchment.

He couldn’t help it, he went.

…

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and you startled, head snapping up from your book.

You hadn’t expected anyone. Least of all him.

And there he stood—framed in the doorway with a grin too wide, too smug, like he'd just stumbled across treasure.

“Well, funny seeing you here,” Sirius said, like this was all pure coincidence and not the result of him committing several minor breaches of privacy.

You blinked at him. “Did you follow me?”

He placed a hand to his chest, faux-offended. “Follow you? Please. I’m just a curious soul drawn to light. And look—here you are, all lit up and studious.”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice held less bite than usual. “I think you just came to distract me.”

“Distract you?” He was already halfway across the room, dropping into the chair beside you with the sort of lazy ease only he could pull off. His knee bumped yours, and you didn’t move. “You think I’m distracting?”

He leaned in close, far too close. You barely had time to process the proximity—the warm scent of him, like spice and mischief, the way his voice dropped just low enough to slip down your spine—before you tilted your head toward him.

Eyes locked with his, sharp and steady, with a confidence that made his grin stretch visibly.

“That is your one goal in life?” you asked, tone silken and mocking. “Or am I mistaken?”

Sirius froze—not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice—his pulse sounding loudly in his ears. But you were so observant, even if you hadn’t been looking at him, you would have felt it. The flicker of breath caught—the way his grin twitched, lips parting just slightly as his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth.

And lingered.

The tension that knotted between you was painfully palpable, the air gone suddenly too thick. He leaned in—just a fraction—and you swore the space between you crackled. His hand flexed on the table beside yours, struggling to stay in place—twitching as though if it had it’s own mind, it would already be on you. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you thought—

In that split second, something like hesitation crossed his face. Regret, maybe—or fear. His smirk faltered.

He pulled back.

Barely. But enough.

And he looked at you like maybe he’d ruined something by not doing it.

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you were disappointed—though maybe you were, a little—but because you didn’t trust yourself to ask. To question if this was real or just a long game he’d been playing, entertained by the chase, by the idea of an untouchable prize. Like you were just something to be worn down, after all.

Your gaze stayed on him, unreadable. And he almost shrunk under it, second passing like hours as your eyes practically punctured his skull. Stare too cool. Too neutral.

Wordlessly, you turned back to your book, fingers brushing over the forgotten text, you couldn’t remember a single word you'd just read—mind feeling scattered—disrupted. He always had that affect on you, more than you cared to admit, inwardly scolding yourself for being so soft, so naive.

Sirius watched you for another long second—jaw tense, eyes searching—like he’d just watched all his efforts spoil right before his eyes, watched the wall go back up in realtime.

“Right,” he said softly—more to himself than anything—before leaning back in his seat with a forced exhale.

The silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. Colder, almost dismissive, begging to be unravelled—understood.

Sirius stormed into the Gryffindor common room with the energy of a brewing storm—quick, loud steps echoing in the corridors, hair wild from his fingers raking through it too many times. By the time he slammed the dormitory door behind him, he was already pacing like a madman.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He didn’t notice the quiet creak of the door opening again behind him.

Didn’t see James and Remus freeze on the threshold, their eyes wide as they watched him stalk across the room like he might combust.

James gave a silent what the fuck look to Remus, who just raised a brow, waiting for an opening.

It didn’t come.

“Sirius,” Remus said, voice slow and cautious. “Did something happen?”

No answer. Just a ragged sigh as Sirius ran a shaking hand through his already-wrecked hair. His face was taut, jaw clenched.

He looked up like the words physically hurt. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

James, ever calm when Sirius wasn’t, moved to the windowsill and perched there. “Alright, mate. Pause. Just breathe.”

Sirius obeyed, if only because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Try again,” James said.

Sirius exhaled, long and sharp. “I ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Remus asked.

“Everything,” Sirius said, dropping onto his bed like gravity had finally caught up to him. “I could’ve kissed her. She was right there and I could’ve. And I didn’t.”

James blinked. “Why the hell not?”

Sirius scrubbed a hand down his face and then—quietly, bitterly—voice just above whisper, stained with shame, “Because she’s exactly the kind of girl my parents would want me with.”

A short silence shrouded the room, thick and overbearing before Remus stepped forward, slowly. “Wait…what?”

“She’s regal. Poised. Slytherin. Perfect! One of them—” Sirius bit out, like the words tasted like ash. “And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything less than to make my parents proud. But she—” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. “She’s not like them. She’s not like them at all. But they’d love her. And what does that say about me?”

James stared. “You didn’t kiss the girl you’ve been obsessed with for years because your mum might approve? Because she’s a pureblood? That’s—actually insane.”

“You don’t get it,” Sirius snapped. “I’ve spent years trying to tear their world apart. Burn every expectation. Every rule. And then she walks in, and I can’t stop looking, and it makes me sick because it feels like they’d win.”

He didn’t need to look at him to know there was a frown etched on to Remus’ face. “Sirius—”

“It’s not her fault,” Sirius said quickly, defensively. “She’s not them. She’s sharp, and brilliant, and she knows what she is, and she still doesn’t play their game. But that’s what makes it worse. Because I look at her and I want her. Not out of spite. Not to rebel. Not to destroy anything. Just—because I do. And that makes me feel like I’ve already lost.”

James sat back, arms crossed. “So you let her think you’re toying with her. Because that’s better?”

Sirius looked up sharply. “Of course not—”

“But that’s what it looks like,” James said, gentler now. “You think she doesn’t know exactly what she is? Exactly how she’s seen? She probably assumed you were interested just long enough to mock her, to make a statement. And when you didn’t kiss her—after all this time—you proved her right.”

Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat, and the guilt settling in the form of an unforgiving weight, like a stone heavy in his stomach. Remus moved closer, voice low. “Is this really about her? Or are you scared that if you like her for the right reasons, it means maybe they got something right?”

Sirius didn’t answer, eyes wide and hollow

Because fuck.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he was a coward.

…

For two whole days, Sirius acted like nothing had happened.

He still greeted you with that infuriatingly easy grin, still dropped into the seat beside you in class like it was habit, like it hadn’t once meant something more. He cracked jokes at the same tempo, still leaned too close when he spoke—but something was off.

Forced. Brittle.

And you? You didn’t even look at him. Not once. Not when he spoke, not when he laughed a little too loudly trying to get your attention, not when he lingered beside your chair a bit longer than necessary.

You sat there, eyes focused and face composed, ice sliding beneath your skin. Where once your silence had been cutting, now it was impenetrable.

He was unraveling, and he knew it. He’d been so close—so painfully close—to something real. The memory of you in that quiet classroom haunted him: your voice smooth and laced with quiet confidence, the heat of your gaze holding his without flinching, the way your words had wrapped around his chest like a fist and squeezed.

You would have kissed him—let him in, he’d felt it.

But he’d foolishly let it slip right through his fingers—just as it entered his grasp. And now you were gone. Not physically—you still walked the same halls, shared the same spaces—but the shift was irreversible. Whatever thread had tied you to him had snapped.

So when he spotted you in the side corridor, alone and unreadable, he didn’t think. His body moved faster than his doubt. He caught up in seconds, slipping a hand gently around your sleeve, tugging you into the empty class room nearby. “Stop,” he said, breath already short. “Please. Just give me a second—”

You ripped your arm back like he’d burned you, and for a second, the flash in your eyes looked lethal.

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud, but it cracked between you like that of a lightning strike, harsh and cold and burning. Sirius was frozen, fingers still half-curled in the empty air. His stomach churned when it caught your gaze, full of ice and fury and a rare kind of heartbreak that didn’t scream—it seethed.

“I just—please,” dripping in his voice as he spoke again, hands open, pleading. “Let me say this. Just let me explain. I know what you’re thinking—”

“You don’t know anything,” you snapped, tone suddenly louder. Fiercer. “You don’t know what I’m thinking, Sirius. You never did. You just assumed, and I let you.” cutting him off so sharply it knocked the air out of him.

He almost flinched away from the biting cadance of your words, and yet his eyes still remained soft, swimming with a quiet desperation that made your stomach turn, that made you want to run away—hide from the weight of his affections.

“Did you even for a second think about how it feels?” you continued, voice tight and trembling with anger. “To feel like some…experiment in your rebellion. One of the sacred twenty-eight, right? How thrilling for you. How poetic.” The venom in it had him fightly every urge in his body that screamed retract.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I wasn’t using you—”

“No?” you cut in, a hollow laugh slipping from your lips. “Because that’s exactly what it felt like. Just another way for you to stick it to your family. Another line crossed.”

He stepped forward, almost desperate now. “I promise—I wasn’t meant to be like that, just—”

But with each step closer he took, in return, you backed away, putting more distance between you; shielding yourself, as if even the idea of his explanation made your skin crawl. “I don’t care anymore, Sirius.”

That hit harder than any spell.

“I don’t need to tolerate this,” you said, quieter now—vulnerable. “Not when I already have parents breathing down my neck, pushing names and suitors and with titles lined up—expectations. They want someone who’d take me seriously.”

His expression cracked. It happened all at once—something behind his eyes just broke.

He looked lost, like he was being peeled open slowly and painfully. Hands dropping to his sides, one twitching like he still wanted to reach for you. Even though he shouldn’t—couldn’t—because you had already slipped passed him. And the last look on your face made him shiver, the controlled, polished fury—that had flashed like a flame frozen mid-burn, had vanished.

Instead your eyes swam with a dejected, gloom that he knew all too well, your usually untouchable exterior cracked under the pressure of empty promises, under the weight of hope you didn’t know you were holding.

Hope that had already gone.

The silence that stretched in your absence was brittle and cold, and Sirius just stood there—silent, stunned, and aching wishing he’d done more as the door clicked shut behind you with finality that burned.

Sirius wasn’t going to hesitate—not anymore.

He stormed through the castle like a man possessed, fury and desperation curling hot beneath his skin. His chest was tight, thoughts snarled and tangled, and before he even fully registered it, he was standing in front of Regulus’ dorm.

Twisting the handle with a vigour that made the hinges whine.

“Regulus!” he barked, pounding on the door with a flat palm. “Oi, Regulus!”

A beat. Then another. Then the wall began to shift with a groan, and there, in all his , unimpressed glory, stood his younger brother. Cloaked in his usual composed disdain, book in hand, and a brow already lifted.

“What in Merlin’s name—how the hell did you even get in here?” Regulus asked, eyeing his brother like he’d dragged in mud behind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius snapped. “I waited.” He pushed past him into his room without permission, pacing immediately, eyes wild. Regulus blinked, still holding his book open, voice dripping with disinterest.

“Charming as ever.”

“I need to know something,” Sirius said, turning back to him sharply. “Now. What’s going on with the—you know, the pureblood lot. Events. Ceremonies. Matches. L/N’s.”

Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but he slowly closed his book with a soft thud. “L/N’s?” he repeated, flatly.

“Yes,” Sirius snapped again, running a hand though his hair, with such tightness his brows raised involuntarily. “She said her parents already have suitors lined up. Lined up, Reg. What the fuck is going on?”

Regulus tilted his head. “You really don’t read the letters they send you, do you?”

Sirius scowled, rolling his eyes as if even that was even a possiblity, “Of course not,” he muttered. “I’d set them on fire to see what the delightful expectations they’ve dreamed up this week smell like.”

“Well,” Regulus said, crossing the room to set his book on his desk, “then it’s no surprise you’re completely out of the loop.”

“Loop?” Sirius echoed, exasperated. “I didn’t even know there was a loop.”

“There’s an event,” Regulus said, tone clipped. “Soon. A ceremony, more or less—each of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hosting, rotating through their estates like some grotesque little social carousel. A chance to flaunt heritage, to parade eligible heirs and daughters like prized livestock, and, of course, to sniff out the most suitable matches. To keep the lines pure.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re joking.”

“Am I ever?” Regulus replied dryly, arms crossed now, gaze neutral.

“And she has to be there?” Sirius asked, voice low now, more to himself than anything. “They’re forcing her to—”

“They aren’t forcing anyone,” Regulus said. “They’re expecting it. Same thing, really.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then—“Are you going?” he asked.

Regulus tilted his head again, slightly.

“I was requested, Sirius. Not all of us can run away from our obligations and burn bridges on a whim.”

That earned a deep, heaving sigh. Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Reg. Just—just tell me when it is.”

Regulus blinked slowly, a curious note in his eyes. “Why?”

Sirius turned toward the door, not looking at him.

“Next time you write home,” he said over his shoulder, “tell them to send an extra suit.”

And with that, he was gone—black robes flaring, boots echoing down the stone corridor, fury and purpose trailing behind him like a storm.

Regulus remained in place, staring at the empty doorway for a long beat. Then, slowly, he walked back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a fresh piece of parchment. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped the quill with a practiced hand, and began to write.

Once finished, he folded the parchment neatly, sealed it with deep green wax embossed with the Black family crest—and held it in the candlelight just long enough to watch the wax catch fire at the edge and curl to a close.

…

The estate was bathed in gold and candlelight—opulence hanging in the air like perfume, rich and cloying, too heavy to breathe in properly. Everything gleamed. The walls, the glasses, the laughter. It was a curated thing—pure, controlled, a dance of lineage and power dressed in silk and arrogance.

The guests were already gathering in clusters—family names floating in the air like ghosts, ancestral ties whispered behind fans, strategic glances exchanged beneath low chandeliers.

And then the room shifted. Subtly.

It wasn’t his name that announced him. It was his presence. A current, a tension, like something electric slipping beneath polished marble.

Sirius stepped through the entrance—alone.

Manovering through the room like he belonged there, which only added to the stir. No parents in sight, just him in a sharply cut black suit with silver-threaded detailing that caught the light when he moved. His hair, often untamed and wild, was tied back at the nape of his neck, loose strands framing his features. There was something about him that looked sculpted and regal—yet defiantly unbothered. Untouchable.

Undeniably Black.

And people noticed.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like wind brushing over a pond—soft and hushed, as if the very idea of Sirius showing up was somehow offensive, even as it made them all crane their necks to get a better look. Some turned their heads quickly, unwilling to acknowledge him at all. Others simply watched—too curious, too scandalized.

He didn’t glance at a single one of them.

Eyes set like steel, Sirius beelined across the room, moving between clusters of witches and wizards dressed in robes worth more than cottages, heading straight for the two familiar figures near the drinks.

Regulus stood poised as ever in black and green dress robes, brows lifting slightly at his brother’s approach.

Narcissa stood beside him in a floor-length silver gown that shimmered with every subtle turn, hair twisted into a perfect knot of braids and twist, chin tilted at just the right angle. She saw Sirius first, and while her expression didn’t falter, her fingers stilled around her glass.

Well,” she said, voice low and dry as Sirius came to a stop before them. “I see the rumors of your arrival were not exaggerated.”

“Hello to you too, Cissy,” Sirius said, voice smooth as sin, eyes scanning the room with bored calculation. “You look like you're about to gut someone with a compliment.”

She hummed. “And you look like you’ve come to start a war.”

He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Regulus, beside her, sipped his drink. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence. I trust you remembered the name of the family hosting?”

“Of course,” Sirius replied airily. “I even wore their colors—look.” He gestured lazily to the subtle detailing in his suit. “Silver for virtue. Or was it for vanity? I forget.”

“You’re impossible,” Regulus muttered, though his eyes flicked down the hall—searching. Sirius followed the glance instinctively. He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, he knew the room would fall away.

Because despite the suit, despite the defiant way he held his head high like this was all some elaborate game he didn’t care to be apart of—he wasn’t here for theatrics.

He was here for you.

But yyou didn’t notice him, not at first.

Not until the weight of his gaze sank into your skin, unmistakable—cutting through the sea of eyes that had lingered on you all night. People always stared, their glances clung to you, your family, the expectations woven into the hem of your gown. But his gaze was different.

It sought you, nothing more.

So when you finally looked up and caught it—caught him—your breath faltered. Lips parted in shock, only to snap shut again as your eyes narrowed. He looked good. Too good—untouchable in the dim glow of the chandeliers, all shadows and silk and the sharp cut of that smirk he wore so well.

The tilt of his brow was smug, a silent challenge. But you held his gaze a moment too long, just long enough for the swell of something warm to flutter between you.

But then, just like that, someone called your name.

An you turned away quickly, heart knocking against your ribs, and let the swell of polite conversation sweep you off before your reaction could be noted. But the look…it stayed with you. Beneath your ribs. In the corner of your mind.

You didn't expect to seek him out. Not really. But at some point in the evening, after doing your dutiful rounds—smiling, nodding, tolerating—you found yourself wandering towards the drinks table with the precise kind of detachment that made you feel normal again.

Like you hadn’t grown up learning how to smile through marriage negotiations. Like you didn’t know exactly which families your parents wanted you to charm.

Hands reaching for a drink when you felt it. That familiar warmth. The subtle hum of chaos wrapped in silk.

He was beside you before you could stop it. And even though you didn’t look at him, your lips twitched upward the moment he said, smooth as ever, “Funny seeing you here.”

Reaching past a crystal decanter, voice casual as you picked up a flute of something pale and effervescent. “Black.”

He grinned—not his usual roguish grin, but something smaller, almost boyish—relieved. “You’re not fleeing in the opposite direction. That’s progress.”

Taking a small sip, you tried to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt, heat curling beneath your cheeks in a way you couldn’t escape. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

His eyes didn’t leave you. You could feel it. That slow, indulgent drag of his gaze from the curve of your neck to the subtle shimmer in your gown. Like he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he tried, gaze overflowing with want—something craven even he couldn’t name.

“If you stare any harder,” you murmured, setting your drink down with a soft clink, “I might disintegrate.”

He laughed low, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pull of him. “Just the clothes though, right?”

A startled gasp left you as you choked on your drink, coughing delicately behind your hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” He picked up a glass, holding it between his fingers with idle grace. “You look bewitching, by the way.”

You always found your eyes rolling in his presence, but it was the smirk—that tugged at the corners of your lips no matter how hard you tried to push it down that betrayed you. “Thank you for the assessment, Black.”

“I can assess more if you want.”

“Sirius.” You hissed his name like a reprimand, but it lacked real venom. He heard that softness, low and creeping as it slipped through, and he wore it like a badge, hand rising in mock surrender.

Conversation blurred around you, background noise as the two of you drifted towards the edge of the room. A whisper of unspoken understanding passed between you—no need to say anything. The glittering, gold-drenched facade of the ballroom fell away with each step, until you were sliding through tall glass doors onto a balcony bathed in night.

The air was cooler out here. Cleaner. A balm against the perfume and pressure, the prying eyes and scrutiny.

Sirius leaned against the stone railing, gazing out at the dark gardens below, moonlight catching the silver thread in his suit. You didn’t mean to stare—but your eyes lingered, studying the shape of his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, displayed without the usual cloak of his dark curls—the wild softness of the strands that had escaped the hair tied at the nape of his neck.

He turned slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that you said about staring earlier?”

You shrugged, scanning him more brazenly, unapologetic as you sipped your drink, “You scrub up nicely,” words so matter of fact, light.

He looked at you then, eyes that usually swam with unadultered mischief, lips that held a smirk so well—free from it all. And for a long while he didn’t say anything, just held your gaze hostage under its unfair tenderness.

No mischief, no smirk—just him, with that maddeningly fond expression that made your stomach twist. You looked away first for once, cracking under the pressure, looking down to your half-empty glass.

Voice soft. Quiet.

“I appreciate that you came—despite everything.”

When he spoke, his voice was low, just above a whisper—and it didn’t need to be any louder, because he was already so close. Word earnest, confessional—sincere in a way that made your breath catch. “I’d do it again for you.”

It made you gulp, throat dry despite the lingering chill of your drink. He was close—too close now—and yet not nearly close enough, heat radiating off of him like it was set on defending you from the harsh bite of the night’s air. Eyes were fixed on yours, unreadable but intense, like he was waiting for something, for permission or a sign or maybe just a heartbeat where you didn’t pull away.

“I really do like you,” he murmured, voice quieter now, all velvet and gravity. There was a kind of raw sincerity bleeding through his words—none of the cocky theatrics, no grin or drawl.

Just Sirius.

“I mean it.”

Your chest rose and fell, slow and unsure. The teasing edge in your voice was brittle when you managed to speak, trembling at the edges. “Really?” Your gaze flicked between his eyes, searching. “How much do you ‘like’ me?”

The question lingered in the air like a challenge—half jest, half dare.

But he didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. He only exhaled, like the weight of every unsaid word had been pressing on his ribs, and leaned in slowly. Palm coming up to brace against the cold stone wall beside your head, the other brushing feather-light against your waist as he tilted toward you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

“This much,” he whispered.

And then there was no space between you—his lips soft and warm against yours—holding you in an embrace so delicate that you could mistake his touch for the wind.

It was gentle at first—like he was still afraid you might change your mind. Like the moment itself might collapse beneath the weight of history, your families, the thousand things neither of you had dared say. His lips still hesitant, just ghosting over yours, testing, asking.

But you didn’t pull away.

You leaned into it.

And Sirius needed no more invitation, his palms slid from the wall to cradle your jaw, tilting your face to his with such reverent care he could surely feel your heart hammering beneath your ribcage. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but aching.

Starved.

Months of lingering glances, of holding back, of almosts and maybes spilled out all at once in that kiss. Clutching the fabric of his jacket, gripping him like a lifeline, and he groaned softly into your mouth, like he’d been holding this in too long and it was finally—finally—unraveling.

Kissing like you were trying to memorise each other with your lips alone. Like it was the first time, and the last, and everything in between.

When he finally broke away, barely pulling back—lips still tempted over yours—both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear as if to capture you both there, in the small moment, just a fraction of solace, of something warm and real.

“I would’ve gone mad if I hadn’t kissed you tonight,” he whispered, his breath shaky, brushing across your lips.

Your grip loosened slightly in his lapel, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already have.”

Sirius huffed a chuckle—soft, hoarse, breathless—but he didn’t move away, smile fading slight as he stared at you, gaze dark and so full of feeling it nearly shattered you.

“I’m not playing games,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not with you. I never was.”

Just him showing up was enough, going against everything he stood for—you already believed him.

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