Val◞♡°

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[stxrsval]

🩺 𖥻 val 🪄𓍼 nursing student | writer | dreamer | multi luvr 🎭𓂅

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[stxrsval]

I COULD NEVER GIVE YOU PEACE - DRACO X READER

♡ SUMMARY . . Draco Malfoy has always carried himself with poise—until you walk into the room. Suddenly he’s tripping over words, steps, and the sharp edge of his own heart. You know the effect you have on him, and you’re not afraid to use it—teasing, smiling, pushing him to the edge of his patience. But underneath the clumsy stares and stolen glances, there’s something real waiting to slip out. And when he finally asks, will you say yes?

♡ WORD COUNT . . 5.8k words (I swear, one day I’ll learn how to write short stories… but today is not that day 🤷🏽‍♀️✨)

♡ WARNINGS . . Pure fluff, a very soft Draco, teasing banter, mutual pining, and one ridiculously sweet ending.

♡ A/N . . It’s been almost a month since my last upload, and I want to start off by apologizing for the wait 🥺. Between starting college again and trying to balance studying, I haven’t been able to sit down and write like I used to. But I’ve missed this so much, and the fact that people are still reading, loving, and commenting on my older fics makes me so, so happy. I can’t thank you enough for the support, it honestly means the world to me.

This fic was a request by @zirouisbusy (my first full fluff one actually). I’m usually more of an angst/smut writer, so writing this softer side of Draco was definitely new for me, but I had a lot of fun with it! Will I write fluff again? Maybe.. we’ll see. For now, I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you again for sticking around—I love you guys endlessly 💕

❤️ Divider Creds - @enchanthings-a

It always started the same way.

You’d glance up from your desk, sometimes bored, sometimes just stretching your neck and there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Looking like the picture of composure until the very second your eyes landed on him. Then, like clockwork, his quill slipped out of his hand. Or his elbow knocked into a stack of parchment. Or, once; your favorite, he tripped over absolutely nothing in the middle of the corridor.

And he always looked at you. Like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could pretend it never happened. Unfortunately for him, you noticed every single time.

So you started keeping score.

By the end of the week, he was at seven incidents. By the end of the month, you’d lost count.

“Do you ever,” you asked one afternoon, catching him in the library as he bent to pick up yet another dropped quill, “consider attaching that thing to your wrist? You know, like how parents do for toddlers who wander off?”

His head snapped up. His ears pinked, though he tried to cover it with his trademark glare. “Very funny.”

You smirked, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him sit back down across from you. “I mean, I just think it’s fascinating. You’ve got perfect grades in Potions, top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and yet… gravity seems to hate you specifically.”

He ignored you.

This was the game. You teased, he bristled, and both of you knew he’d be back the next day anyway. Always finding an excuse to sit near you. Always fumbling when you looked at him for longer than two seconds.

And maybe you liked it. Maybe you liked it a little too much.

The next day, you were at the library studying for the upcoming exam.

“Do you know where the 1893 Borage amendments are housed?” Snapping you out of your thoughts as if you weren’t already aware he’d been circling your section like a very handsome, very anxious moon.

You pointed to a high shelf. He grabbed the closest ladder. You looked up as he begins to climb, “Be careful.” You said, closing your notebook.

He looked down at you and rolled his eyes, “I’m not afraid of heights,” and then he nearly falls off when you got up to balance the ladder, under the rug.

You don’t do this to be cruel. You do it because his ears go pink and his eyes go soft and because the world is heavy and he looks lighter when you tease him. And because, though you’re not admitting it out loud yet, your heart runs toward him like it’s late for a train.

Lunch came pretty fast, and you decided to go to the little Muggle café with these cute heart-shaped biscuits. The bell jingles when you push the door, and there he is—already at the counter ordering his coffee like always.

“Trying to seduce the host?” you ask, picking up some biscuits that fell on the floor when he got “startled” by you. “It’s working.”

The host had a huge crush on Draco everyone knew that.

He makes a helpless sound, somewhere between offense and adoration. “I—no—I came because they— they have decent tea.” (They do not. You both know this.)

“Sit with me,” you say.

He looked at you and sighs, but later nods.

You sit in the window. He sits across, then moves next to you when the sun’s on your face. He claims it’s for shade, but you feel the warmth of his sleeve careful against yours.

“You’ve got frosting on your… everything,” you murmur, brushing a crumb from his cheekbone with your thumb.

He stops breathing.

“Better,” you say. He looks at the table like it’s become a holy text.

When the tea arrives, he takes a sip and grimaces. “Appalling.”

You hide a smile. “And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am,” he echoes softly, and your chest does something dangerous.

Wednesday evening, the Department hosts a charity Quidditch scrimmage on the old pitch behind the Ministry. You wore one of the sweater he gifted you when you came to his house.

You spotted him and walked towards him, he was unfortunately in a conversation with one of the professors.

You wait at the sideline with a water bottle.

As soon as the conversation was over, he spotted you and smiled walking over to you.

“Rough air?” you ask lightly.

“Crosswinds,” he lies, breathless. “Very treacherous.”

“Mm.” You hold out the bottle. Your fingers brush. He drops his broom.

You don’t pick it up for him.

“You know,” you say, pretending to study the scoreboard as he crouches, “you do this every time.”

He freezes. “Do what?”

“Trip. Stumble. Forget how verbs work.”

He huffs, then laughs—quiet and hoarse and conceding. “I don’t do such things.”

Your smile turns real. “Yes, yes you do.”

He stands too fast and has to pretend he didn’t do that, either. “Right. Well. I’ll, ah. Win this one.”

He doesn’t, technically. But afterward, when your hand slides into the crook of his elbow and stays there all the way to the Apparition point, he feels like he did.

You just shook your head.

Thursday you find him in the archive room again, staring up at that cursed high shelf.

“Malfoy,” you murmur at his shoulder.

“Are you following me?”.

Draco froze halfway down your aisle, a book in hand, eyes darting. “…No.”

You raised a brow. “Funny. You always seem to show up when I’m here.”

“It’s the library,” he retorted, though his voice cracked a little at the end. “Other people exist, you know.”

“Do they trip as much as you do when I walk by?”

He glared, ears turning red. “You’re insufferable.”

You leaned back in your chair, smirking. “And yet you’re here.”

His lips parted, as if to argue, but no words came out. Instead, he quickly shoved the book back into the shelf and stormed off, his ears blazing.

It started with a note.

You found it tucked into your Potions book one afternoon:

Meet me by the lake tomorrow. Don’t ask questions. – D

Your brows shot up. Well, well.

The next day, you showed up, curious, but not expecting much. What you didn’t expect was the sight waiting for you.

A blanket spread neatly on the grass. A small basket set beside it. And Draco Malfoy, pacing like his life depended on it.

“Malfoy,” you called, approaching. “Is this a date or an assassination attempt?”

He nearly tripped over his own feet just turning toward you. “It’s—no—it’s not—well—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Just sit, will you?”

You smiled but obliged, dropping onto the blanket. “Picnic by the lake. How romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He sat stiffly across from you, clearly regretting every choice that led him here. “I don’t—this isn’t something I do,” he muttered. “I don’t invite people. I don’t… picnic.”

“Yet here we are.” You plucked a strawberry from the basket, biting into it slowly just to watch him squirm. “So, what’s the occasion?”

Draco stared at you for a long moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For once, he didn’t look away.

“I like you.”

The words were blunt, but his voice cracked at the edges, raw and unpolished. You blinked, caught off guard.

“You… like me?” you asked, leaning in.

His face went pink. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

You smiled. “What happened to the smooth, cocky Draco Malfoy?”

“He—” Draco groaned again, covering his face with one hand. “He disappears when you’re around, alright? You make me—you make me trip over my own feet like a fool. And I hate it. But I can’t stop. Because I… I want you.”

The silence stretched between you. Then, slowly, you reached forward, tugging his hand away from his face.

“Draco,” you said softly, “you’re not a fool.”

His gray eyes flickered to yours, wide and vulnerable.

And then, before he could overthink it, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was sweet. Soft. Gentle enough to melt every ounce of tension in his body. When you pulled back, he looked dazed, blinking at you like you’d just flipped his entire world upside down.

“So…” you smirked. “Are you going to ask me properly, or was that it?”

Draco swallowed hard. “Will you—” He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

You pretended to think for a moment, just to watch him sweat. Then you grinned. “Yes. I will.”

Relief flooded his features, followed by the tiniest smirk of his own. “Good. Because if you’d said no, I’d have had to throw myself in the lake.”

You laughed, leaning over to kiss him again. “Don’t worry. You’re stuck with me now.”

[stxrsval]

I LOVED THE DRACO FIC. But I gotta ask, did he actually love the girl he was with? That Vanessa?

Sorry if it seems a weird question, these kind of things trigger my petiness. Especially considering he "wasn't over" Pansy and Hermione (like, was he still thinking of them while in a relationship with yn?)

sooo good writing. cant wait for more draco stuff 🫶

That is such a good question!! And it was probs a mistake on my end but he’s over them, did he actually love her? Yes ofc! But unfortunately she cheated and that’s something that makes other stop loving. He was over them, but in Y/N’s pov it seems like he wasn’t, since he couldn’t love her, she thought maybe he still loved the others. I hope that makes sense.

Thank you so much!! Love the support and so excited to post as much as I can 😓🩷

[stxrsval]

I COULD NEVER GIVE YOU PEACE - DRACO X READER

♡ SUMMARY . . Draco Malfoy has always carried himself with poise—until you walk into the room. Suddenly he’s tripping over words, steps, and the sharp edge of his own heart. You know the effect you have on him, and you’re not afraid to use it—teasing, smiling, pushing him to the edge of his patience. But underneath the clumsy stares and stolen glances, there’s something real waiting to slip out. And when he finally asks, will you say yes?

♡ WORD COUNT . . 5.8k words (I swear, one day I’ll learn how to write short stories… but today is not that day 🤷🏽‍♀️✨)

♡ WARNINGS . . Pure fluff, a very soft Draco, teasing banter, mutual pining, and one ridiculously sweet ending.

♡ A/N . . It’s been almost a month since my last upload, and I want to start off by apologizing for the wait 🥺. Between starting college again and trying to balance studying, I haven’t been able to sit down and write like I used to. But I’ve missed this so much, and the fact that people are still reading, loving, and commenting on my older fics makes me so, so happy. I can’t thank you enough for the support, it honestly means the world to me.

This fic was a request by @zirouisbusy (my first full fluff one actually). I’m usually more of an angst/smut writer, so writing this softer side of Draco was definitely new for me, but I had a lot of fun with it! Will I write fluff again? Maybe.. we’ll see. For now, I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you again for sticking around—I love you guys endlessly 💕

❤️ Divider Creds - @enchanthings-a

It always started the same way.

You’d glance up from your desk, sometimes bored, sometimes just stretching your neck and there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Looking like the picture of composure until the very second your eyes landed on him. Then, like clockwork, his quill slipped out of his hand. Or his elbow knocked into a stack of parchment. Or, once; your favorite, he tripped over absolutely nothing in the middle of the corridor.

And he always looked at you. Like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could pretend it never happened. Unfortunately for him, you noticed every single time.

So you started keeping score.

By the end of the week, he was at seven incidents. By the end of the month, you’d lost count.

“Do you ever,” you asked one afternoon, catching him in the library as he bent to pick up yet another dropped quill, “consider attaching that thing to your wrist? You know, like how parents do for toddlers who wander off?”

His head snapped up. His ears pinked, though he tried to cover it with his trademark glare. “Very funny.”

You smirked, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him sit back down across from you. “I mean, I just think it’s fascinating. You’ve got perfect grades in Potions, top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and yet… gravity seems to hate you specifically.”

He ignored you.

This was the game. You teased, he bristled, and both of you knew he’d be back the next day anyway. Always finding an excuse to sit near you. Always fumbling when you looked at him for longer than two seconds.

And maybe you liked it. Maybe you liked it a little too much.

The next day, you were at the library studying for the upcoming exam.

“Do you know where the 1893 Borage amendments are housed?” Snapping you out of your thoughts as if you weren’t already aware he’d been circling your section like a very handsome, very anxious moon.

You pointed to a high shelf. He grabbed the closest ladder. You looked up as he begins to climb, “Be careful.” You said, closing your notebook.

He looked down at you and rolled his eyes, “I’m not afraid of heights,” and then he nearly falls off when you got up to balance the ladder, under the rug.

You don’t do this to be cruel. You do it because his ears go pink and his eyes go soft and because the world is heavy and he looks lighter when you tease him. And because, though you’re not admitting it out loud yet, your heart runs toward him like it’s late for a train.

Lunch came pretty fast, and you decided to go to the little Muggle café with these cute heart-shaped biscuits. The bell jingles when you push the door, and there he is—already at the counter ordering his coffee like always.

“Trying to seduce the host?” you ask, picking up some biscuits that fell on the floor when he got “startled” by you. “It’s working.”

The host had a huge crush on Draco everyone knew that.

He makes a helpless sound, somewhere between offense and adoration. “I—no—I came because they— they have decent tea.” (They do not. You both know this.)

“Sit with me,” you say.

He looked at you and sighs, but later nods.

You sit in the window. He sits across, then moves next to you when the sun’s on your face. He claims it’s for shade, but you feel the warmth of his sleeve careful against yours.

“You’ve got frosting on your… everything,” you murmur, brushing a crumb from his cheekbone with your thumb.

He stops breathing.

“Better,” you say. He looks at the table like it’s become a holy text.

When the tea arrives, he takes a sip and grimaces. “Appalling.”

You hide a smile. “And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am,” he echoes softly, and your chest does something dangerous.

Wednesday evening, the Department hosts a charity Quidditch scrimmage on the old pitch behind the Ministry. You wore one of the sweater he gifted you when you came to his house.

You spotted him and walked towards him, he was unfortunately in a conversation with one of the professors.

You wait at the sideline with a water bottle.

As soon as the conversation was over, he spotted you and smiled walking over to you.

“Rough air?” you ask lightly.

“Crosswinds,” he lies, breathless. “Very treacherous.”

“Mm.” You hold out the bottle. Your fingers brush. He drops his broom.

You don’t pick it up for him.

“You know,” you say, pretending to study the scoreboard as he crouches, “you do this every time.”

He freezes. “Do what?”

“Trip. Stumble. Forget how verbs work.”

He huffs, then laughs—quiet and hoarse and conceding. “I don’t do such things.”

Your smile turns real. “Yes, yes you do.”

He stands too fast and has to pretend he didn’t do that, either. “Right. Well. I’ll, ah. Win this one.”

He doesn’t, technically. But afterward, when your hand slides into the crook of his elbow and stays there all the way to the Apparition point, he feels like he did.

You just shook your head.

Thursday you find him in the archive room again, staring up at that cursed high shelf.

“Malfoy,” you murmur at his shoulder.

“Are you following me?”.

Draco froze halfway down your aisle, a book in hand, eyes darting. “…No.”

You raised a brow. “Funny. You always seem to show up when I’m here.”

“It’s the library,” he retorted, though his voice cracked a little at the end. “Other people exist, you know.”

“Do they trip as much as you do when I walk by?”

He glared, ears turning red. “You’re insufferable.”

You leaned back in your chair, smirking. “And yet you’re here.”

His lips parted, as if to argue, but no words came out. Instead, he quickly shoved the book back into the shelf and stormed off, his ears blazing.

It started with a note.

You found it tucked into your Potions book one afternoon:

Meet me by the lake tomorrow. Don’t ask questions. – D

Your brows shot up. Well, well.

The next day, you showed up, curious, but not expecting much. What you didn’t expect was the sight waiting for you.

A blanket spread neatly on the grass. A small basket set beside it. And Draco Malfoy, pacing like his life depended on it.

“Malfoy,” you called, approaching. “Is this a date or an assassination attempt?”

He nearly tripped over his own feet just turning toward you. “It’s—no—it’s not—well—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Just sit, will you?”

You smiled but obliged, dropping onto the blanket. “Picnic by the lake. How romantic. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He sat stiffly across from you, clearly regretting every choice that led him here. “I don’t—this isn’t something I do,” he muttered. “I don’t invite people. I don’t… picnic.”

“Yet here we are.” You plucked a strawberry from the basket, biting into it slowly just to watch him squirm. “So, what’s the occasion?”

Draco stared at you for a long moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For once, he didn’t look away.

“I like you.”

The words were blunt, but his voice cracked at the edges, raw and unpolished. You blinked, caught off guard.

“You… like me?” you asked, leaning in.

His face went pink. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

You smiled. “What happened to the smooth, cocky Draco Malfoy?”

“He—” Draco groaned again, covering his face with one hand. “He disappears when you’re around, alright? You make me—you make me trip over my own feet like a fool. And I hate it. But I can’t stop. Because I… I want you.”

The silence stretched between you. Then, slowly, you reached forward, tugging his hand away from his face.

“Draco,” you said softly, “you’re not a fool.”

His gray eyes flickered to yours, wide and vulnerable.

And then, before he could overthink it, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was sweet. Soft. Gentle enough to melt every ounce of tension in his body. When you pulled back, he looked dazed, blinking at you like you’d just flipped his entire world upside down.

“So…” you smirked. “Are you going to ask me properly, or was that it?”

Draco swallowed hard. “Will you—” He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

You pretended to think for a moment, just to watch him sweat. Then you grinned. “Yes. I will.”

Relief flooded his features, followed by the tiniest smirk of his own. “Good. Because if you’d said no, I’d have had to throw myself in the lake.”

You laughed, leaning over to kiss him again. “Don’t worry. You’re stuck with me now.”

[stxrsval]

I’m so so sorry friends!! I have been so busy recently but I promise I’ll do a double upload just to make it up to all of you amazing, sweet humans 🩷

Thank you so so much for all the love and support i have been receiving from my last three posts, I’m so thankful, I love yall!

Draco fic next 😉

[stxrsval]

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT - Nightwing (Dick) x Reader

𖦹 SUMMARY . . When he doesn't show up at work, forcing you into Nightwing’s penthouse and asking him what was wrong should’ve been the end. But between the teasing, the tension, and that damn private elevator… you’re not sure which is more dangerous—his enemies, or the way he’s looking at you.

𖦹 WORD COUNT . . 7.4k (sorry guys, atp I should write a damn book)

𖦹 WARNINGS . . Smut (18+), Enemies to Friends to lovers tension, Flirting / sexual tension, Light injury description (bandaging), Mild language, Teasing banter, elevator smut, explicit content, fingering, p-in-v, etc

𖦹 A/N . . I don’t even know where to start. I am so incredibly grateful for every single one of you who’s shown love to my last two fics — the Harry Potter and Draco one. You guys have no idea how happy that made me. Seriously, thank you for the likes, reblogs, and comments. 💕

So… naturally, I decided to throw Nightwing into the mix. Not just because I’ve been seeing way too many edits of him on my FYP (and maybe losing my mind a little 👀), but because you’ve all given me so much love and support that I wanted to make this one for you.

My usual posting schedule is Saturdays and Sundays (sometimes I’ll surprise-drop something on a random Tuesday), but for now, please enjoy this 7.4k word descent into Nightwing chaos because I simply cannot stop thinking about this man.

Love you all, and thank you again. This one’s for you. ❤️ Divider Creds - @enchanthings-a

Another peaceful night in the city.

The streets were calm, the skies were clear, and for once, the world wasn’t falling apart. Which could only mean one thing: Cupcake Wednesday. Your personal tradition, or, as Dick Grayson used to call it, your “world-famous cupcake night.”

Every Wednesday like clockwork, he’d show up at your door uninvited, somehow always smelling like danger and aftershave, stealing the batter before it hit the oven and throwing sprinkles at your head when he thought your frosting skills were “mid.”

But that was before. Before his new girlfriend. Before he got all distant and weird and stopped showing up. So now? More cupcakes for you.

You were halfway through spooning batter into the last tray when the doorbell rang.

Ding dong.

You blinked and glanced at the clock. It’s so… early. You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not on a night like this. You quickly pulled off your oven mitts and wiped your hands down the front of your apron.

“Coming!” you called, speed-walking to the door.

You peeked through the peephole—

No. Freaking. Way.

Dick Grayson. On your doorstep.

You open the door halfway, still clutching the oven mitt in one hand.

“Hey, cutie,” he says, leaning against the frame like he owns the place, voice smooth, that infuriating grin tugging at his lips.

Ah. There it is. The flirting. Which could only mean one thing.

Your eyes narrow. “You broke up with her.”

Dick just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she wasn’t his excuse for disappearing these past few weeks.

You almost slapped him.

Almost.

Instead, you drop your hand and shake your head, stepping aside. “When are you ever going to find someone to settle down with?”

“Are the cupcakes done?” he asks, already walking past you, completely ignoring your question.

You sigh. “No. I was just about to put them in the oven before you came along and ruined my night.”

He turns to face you, mock-offended. “Ruin? Please. You love me.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the tray and opening the oven. “You’re a headache.”

He leans against the counter, watching you work. There’s something familiar in the way he settles in your space, like he never left.

“So?” you say, tossing a quick glance over your shoulder. “What happened?”

“Hm?” He pretends not to hear you.

“You and Little Miss Perfect.”

“Not important.”

You raise a brow. “I liked you better when you were quiet and out fighting bad guys.”

He smirks. “And I liked you better when your mouth was busy frosting cupcakes.”

You scoff, slamming the oven shut and setting the timer. “Good thing we don’t like each other.”

You both fall quiet, the warm scent of vanilla slowly filling the kitchen.

Five minutes pass.

Then—

“Why’d you break up?” you ask again, softer this time, without the edge.

Dick stares at the wall like it has all the answers. He exhales through his nose.

“Got bored.”

You pause. “Are you sure it’s not because you weren’t good in bed?”

He finally turns his head, glaring at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

“I’m very good in bed, sweetheart.”

You bite back your grin. “Mhm. That’s not what she said.”

“Do you want a demonstration?”

You choke on your own spit, swatting his arm with the oven mitt. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he says, grin widening, “I’m very believable. Especially when you’re on top.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the kitchen. Dick is still watching you like he’s two seconds from starting trouble, which, with him, meant it was already happening.

“You’re such an ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

You huff, grabbing the dish towel and wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the way his eyes follow you around the room.

He’s quiet for a beat too long. That should’ve been your warning.

Next thing you know, he’s at your side, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“What the—Dick!”

Before you can stop him, he’s tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, then plopping you down on the couch with a bounce.

“You’re so annoying—”

“Admit it,” he grins, hovering above you, “you missed me.”

“I missed having extra cupcakes. Now get off—ah! DICK!”

He starts tickling you, hands merciless as you squirm beneath him, shrieking with laughter.

“Say you missed me!”

“NEVER—STOP—I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You’re breathless, your face hurting from smiling too hard. And then—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The cupcake timer.

You shove at his chest. “Get off! You’re going to make them burn, you psychopath.”

He rolls off you dramatically, sprawled across the couch like he just survived war. You dart toward the oven, grabbing your mitts and pulling the cupcakes out before they get too dark.

As you place the tray down and close the oven, you hear his voice again—quieter this time.

“We broke up because she found out I’m Nightwing.”

You pause.

Turn around slowly, towel still in hand.

“What does that mean?”

He leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking to yours. “It means she thought I was too dangerous. That one night I wouldn’t come home. That maybe the next mission would be my last.” He pauses. “She didn’t sign up for that kind of life.”

You stare at him for a moment, the scent of fresh cupcakes filling the silence between you.

“…So instead of trying to talk it through, you ghosted her and showed up here to steal my food?”

He shrugs. “I liked the view better here.”

You snort. “Unbelievable.”

“But I’m still very good in bed.”

“Shut up, Dick.”

You set the tray of warm cupcakes on the counter, the scent of vanilla and buttercream filling the air like a promise.

“So,” you say, grabbing two plates, “you gonna eat one like a civilized guest or just lick the frosting off and run like last time?”

“Tempting,” he says with a sly smile, already reaching for the one with the most icing. “But I’m feeling generous tonight.”

He hands you a cupcake first. You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden manners, but before you can thank him—

BZZZ.

The shrill sound of his comm slices through the air.

His jaw tightens.

You both freeze.

He taps the earpiece in his left ear, the playfulness on his face gone in an instant. “Go ahead.”

You can barely hear the voice crackling through the line, but it’s serious. You catch fragments. “Hostile… South Sector… taken… Gotham PD compromised…”

“Copy that,” he says, voice low. “On my way.”

You cross your arms, staring at him as he grabs his gear from beside the door—like he always does. Like this is routine.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving mid-cupcake again.”

He turns to face you, and for a split second, he’s not Nightwing. He’s just Dick. Tired, heavy-eyed, but still trying to act like he’s got it all handled.

“Rain check.”

“You said that last week.”

“And the week before that,” he mutters, zipping up his suit. The black and electric blue shift under the kitchen light, making him look less like a man and more like a shadow about to disappear.

You take a step forward, your voice quieter. “Is it bad?”

He hesitates. That’s how you know it is.

“They took an entire precinct hostage. Might be a trap.”

You swallow hard. “And you’re going anyway.”

“That’s kind of the gig.”

He starts toward the window—always the window—but then stops. Turns back to look at you.

“Don’t wait up.”

You roll your eyes. “I won’t.”

But the truth is, you always do.

He smirks faintly, then vanishes into the night, leaving behind the lingering scent of frosting, danger, and things unsaid.

You settle back on the couch, half-watching the movie flickering on your TV. Your cupcake-night apron still hangs limply on a kitchen chair, the oven warmth lingering in the air, the cupcakes untouched. But your head’s already somewhere else.

The city feels colder tonight.

Your phone pings — location sharing. Dick is here. Outside your house. But he’s been there for a while… and he hasn’t knocked.

Weird.

You toss off your blanket and head for the door, figuring maybe he forgot what house number you were in, though that’s impossible.

The moment you step outside, the chill nips at your skin. There he is, standing under the weak glow of the streetlight.

A wicked idea strikes — you’ll sneak up on him.

But before you can, you freeze. He’s on the phone. His tone is low, but sharp, each word clipped like it costs him to say it.

“No, we can’t get back together.” He rakes a hand through his hair, tension rolling off him. “You know why. You tried to kill someone I care about. Thank God I found out about your little plan.”

Your stomach knots. You don’t know the full story — you don’t need to. His ex wasn’t just toxic. She was dangerous. And she’d tried to hurt… someone he loves.

A pause. Then, colder: “Jail’s not that bad. You’ll like it.”

The call ends. He stays there, still as stone, eyes closed for a beat like he’s trying to reset his entire mind.

“I know you’re here,” he says suddenly.

Your heart drops straight to your ass.

You step out from behind the wall, deadpan: “Well, yeah… this is my house, of course.”

You tried to sound casual, but it came out rushed and awkward. He turned to look at you, eyes unreadable.

“Mm.”

You looked at him again, really looked. His face was tense, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. His whole body felt… guarded. And despite the cocky little smirk he kept giving you when you caught him staring, there was something different in him now. Off.

Your gaze dropped to a wound. It was bleeding.

"You're hurt" you said arms crossed.

He looked at his wound and shrugged, "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he said, voice casual.

You got a bit irritated.

“Can we please do something about that?” you asked, pointing at the wound, then stepping closer before he could brush you off again.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

You scoffed. “You’re not fine. You’re stubborn. That’s not the same thing.”

His lip twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but instead, he just looked away, nodding once before walking inside your house without another word.

You stood there, confused and a little stunned. But eventually, you followed, heart annoyingly pounding the whole way.

You opened the door, letting him in first. The second he stepped inside, he toed off his boots like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like he lived here. Which he didn’t. Obviously.

He sat on your couch, already unzipping the top of his suit like it wasn’t skin-tight. You tried not to stare. You really tried.

“Bathroom’s still in the same place, right?” he asked, looking up at you.

“You’ve been here like twice.”

“Three times,” he corrected. “Once for cupcakes, once for movie night, and that one time you said you’d help dye my hair to throw off the villains.”

“That was your dumb idea,” you muttered, heading to grab the first aid kit anyway.

You came back and knelt beside him, opening the kit and grabbing some gauze. He leaned back casually, like none of this mattered.

“Take off your shirt,” you said flatly.

His eyebrows rose. “A little forward, don’t you think?”

You didn’t even flinch. “I could just let you bleed out. Up to you.”

With a little dramatic sigh, he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside.

Your eyes scanned the wound—it was worse than you thought. Clean but deep.

“What happened?” you asked quietly.

“Sharp end of a railing.”

“Is that what you told the captain?”

He didn’t answer.

Your hands moved gently, dabbing at the blood. You felt his eyes on you the entire time, but you didn’t look up until you were mostly done.

“You didn’t tell anyone what she did, did you?” you asked finally.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to explain why I ever dated her in the first place,” he said, voice flat. “And the truth is, I saw the red flags. I just ignored them.”

You nodded slowly, applying the last bit of gauze, then taping it down.

“Well,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “Good thing you’ve got people now who’ll stab her for you if she ever comes back.”

He laughed, low and soft. “I’d pay to see that.”

You stood, gathering the used materials. “Just let me know when. I’ll bring the knives.”

As you turned to walk to the kitchen, he called out, “Can I tell you something?.”

You paused.

“Thanks.”

The next morning came fast.

You were tired, still sore from the mission, and your brain wouldn’t stop replaying everything, from the way he bled without flinching to the way he said “you tried to kill someone I care about.” You didn’t ask who. You probably should have. But instead, you let him crash on your couch, and by the time you came out of the shower, he was gone.

Typical.

Still, you had work. Superhero or not, bills existed. And lucky you, your day job happened to be at the same law firm where Dick worked, except he was a senior associate and you were… well, the not senior one. He was respected, sharp, always in a fitted suit like he walked out of a magazine. And somehow, even after long nights chasing criminals, he always made it in before everyone else.

Whispers followed you down the hall like smoke.

“—he never misses work.”

“Do you think he got fired? No way—right?”

“I heard he was in some kind of fight—”

You rolled your eyes, hugging your to-go coffee tighter. “Ugh. Gossip,” you muttered under your breath. You were too tired for the rumor mill.

As you made it to your desk, a familiar voice popped up right behind you.

“Have you heard?”

You turned and found Lyra, one of the other paralegals, leaning on the cubicle wall like a nosy sitcom neighbor. You raised an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t. What’s wrong?”

“Dick’s not here,” she said, eyes wide like it was breaking news. “Didn’t show up. No email, no heads-up, nothing.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Mmhm.” She nodded. “Grayson lives and breathes this place. He’s usually in here before the janitors.”

“Maybe he’s sick?” you offered weakly, sliding your bag off your shoulder.

Lyra scoffed like you just said the moon was made of cheese. “Sick? That man’s immune system is healthier than kale. You know it. I bet he’s somewhere doing weird ex-military brooding shit.”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped.

She grinned, dropped a green Jolly Rancher on your desk like it was currency, and turned on her heel.

You shook your head, chewing on her words as you pulled out your phone. Your stomach was already twisting with worry.

You opened a text thread and typed:

hey, you okay? you didn’t show up to work. just checking in.

You hovered for a second before pressing send. Then you stared at the screen like it might spit out answers.

Read.

No reply.

You bit the inside of your cheek, anxiety creeping in like fog. Maybe he was sick. Or tired. Or laying low after the mission. Or maybe—

A soft ding interrupted your spiral.

I’m fine.

That was it.

Two words. Cold. Clipped.

You stared at it.

You typed, then deleted. Then typed again.

Fine like “I’m busy” or fine like “leave me alone”?

No response.

You sighed, tossed your phone in your desk drawer, and tried to focus, but something was definitely wrong. And you weren’t going to be able to let it go.

You shouldn’t be worried.

After all, it’s not like you and Dick were friends.

You saw him on Wednesdays because of the damn cupcakes you brought into the breakroom, and even that was just routine at this point.

You’d barely speak at work outside of dry professional exchanges or the occasional sarcastic remark over paperwork. You weren’t enemies. But you weren’t exactly on “let me check on you when you miss work” terms either.

Flirty… adversaries? Work nemesis with a side of unresolved tension?

Honestly, you didn’t know.

All you did know was that something felt off. Deep in your gut.

You tossed your phone into your purse, stood up from your desk, and made your way toward Lyra’s cubicle. She was scrolling on her phone, feet kicked up, already halfway tuned out of the day.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Tell the boss I had a family emergency. I’m sorry—I’ll be in tomorrow.”

She raised a brow, then gave you a playful salute. “You’re lucky he likes you. Go.”

You gave her a weak smile, turned on your heel, and speed-walked toward the elevators like your life depended on it.

Back in your car, you scrolled up through your texts with Dick until you found the one time—months ago—when he’d sent you his address after a late-night debrief. “Just in case you get lost,” he’d said.

You copied the address and dropped it into your maps app.

Your GPS chimed.

“Head left, then merge onto Blüdhaven Parkway.”

You followed the directions in silence, your mind racing louder than the engine. This was probably a bad idea. He clearly didn’t want company. He barely texted you back. But something about that two-word reply—

I’m fine.

—it didn’t sit right with you.

Twenty minutes later, your GPS chirped again.

“Take a slight right onto Valmont Avenue.”

You looked up, surprised.

This neighborhood wasn’t just “nice.” It was exclusive.

Private buildings with tall glass windows. Sculpted greenery. High security. The kind of place where the mailroom looked like an art gallery and the lobby had 24-hour concierge.

Your jaw tightened.

You shouldn’t have been surprised. Dick Grayson had money. He didn’t flaunt it, but it was there. Every custom-fit suit, every wristwatch that didn’t belong to this tax bracket, it all made sense now.

Your GPS spoke one last time:

“Arrived. Destination is on your left.”

You pulled up in front of a sleek glass building with dark accents and no visible numbers. Just an all-black awning, tinted windows, and a valet station. The kind of place where people didn’t buzz to get in. They were let in.

You turned off the ignition, staring up at it. It felt… out of place. Like a secret tower.

You took a deep breath.

Then you grabbed your bag, stepped out of the car, and headed toward the entrance.

You cleared your throat as you approached the front desk. The woman at the concierge looked like she hadn’t blinked since 9AM.

“Hi,” you began, offering your most polite smile. “I’m here to check on someone. Dick Grayson? He lives here.”

Her face remained neutral. “Is Mr. Grayson expecting you?”

You gave a breathy laugh. “Not exactly, but—he wasn’t at work today, which is weird for him, so I just wanted to check in. Make sure he’s okay.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I’m sorry, but if your name isn’t on the guest list or resident file, I can’t let you through. Mr. Grayson has strict privacy settings.”

You blinked. “Right. Of course.”

So this was what rejection felt like at the fancy end of town.

You were just about to turn around, stomach twisting with regret, when a familiar voice spoke behind you:

“…She’s with me.”

You froze.

You turned around and there he was.

Dick Grayson. In the flesh.

Hair damp like he just showered, black hoodie slung lazily over his shoulder, jaw sharp, expression unreadable. He looked at you only once before wrapping his hand gently around your wrist, not roughly, not tightly, just enough to guide you.

“Come on,” he said simply.

No hi. No “thanks for coming.” Just those three words and then silence.

You didn’t say anything. Mostly because your brain had left your body the second his fingers touched your skin.

He led you to the elevator, swiped a keycard, and pressed the button that said 12.

The doors slid shut behind you.

Inside, the elevator was ridiculous. Glossy black floor. Plush seat tucked into the corner. Mirrors on all sides and even the ceiling. Your reflection stared back at you from every angle, looking like a woman who’d broken into someone’s mansion on instinct and regret.

Dick stood next to you, quiet. The air between you was heavy and charged, and somehow the silence felt louder with all those mirrors watching.

Then—because your mouth didn’t know how to behave—

“…Are you mad at me?”

You hadn’t meant to ask.

You really hadn’t.

You’d told yourself just shut up and ride the elevator. But no. Of course not.

His head turned, just slightly, his eyes flicking to yours in the reflection.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

Pause. Long pause.

“…But you shouldn’t have come.”

Your chest tightened. Your first instinct was to defend yourself, I was just worried. You didn’t show up. You never don’t show up. But something about his tone kept you quiet.

The elevator dinged.

You both stepped out.

And wow.

It wasn’t an apartment. It was a penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows cast the whole place in gold light. The skyline of Blüdhaven stretched beyond the glass, busy and alive, but the inside felt eerily still. Dark wood floors, modern furniture, everything neat—but not cold. Lived in, but perfectly curated. The kind of home that said money without having to scream it.

He walked ahead, not looking back. You followed slowly, still drinking it all in.

“Take off your shoes,” he said without turning. “I just cleaned.”

You blinked. That was… domestic.

You kicked your shoes off by the door.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about cupcakes,” he added dryly, walking toward the kitchen.

You hovered awkwardly behind him. “No. I’m here because you missed work. And because you said ‘I’m fine’ with a period, which is code for you’re lying.”

He let out a small exhale, almost a laugh.

Then he finally turned to face you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, hoodie still unzipped halfway.

His voice dropped just a little:

“So what now, huh?” he said. “You checked in. You saw I’m alive. Want me to prove it? Want me to spin in a circle or something?”

Your throat went dry.

You couldn’t tell if he was teasing. You couldn’t tell what he was doing.

But that tension again, the one from the elevator, from the workplace glances, from the cupcake Wednesdays, it was coiling between you two like a wire pulled tight.

And you suddenly realized…

You still didn’t know what you wanted from him.

But now you were in his space.

Then you blurted again, “Something happened yesterday. Between you and the captain. And your ex.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable.

“What happened to, ‘I was just about to leave,’ huh? You stalker,” he said, voice low and teasing, but laced with something heavier.

“I’m not a stalker!” you defended quickly, scoffing.

“Really. Then what are you?” he asked, stepping closer.

You tried to hold your ground, but he kept closing the space between you, one slow step at a time, until your back hit the cool wall with a soft thud. You swallowed hard.

“We’re friends?” you offered weakly. “Buddies? Coworkers… or whatever. I don’t know, but I’m glad you’re okay. Alive. And I think I should go now—”

You bowed.

Bowed.

What the actual hell.

He blinked. “Did you just—?”

“Shut up.”

He smirked and finally stepped back, giving you breathing room. Just enough to inhale without choking on your own awkward.

Then he started talking.

“My ex,” he said, exhaling like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “was a villain. She pretended not to know I was Nightwing, played the sweet, innocent girlfriend routine. Told me she didn’t want to lose her ‘baby’ to a dangerous lifestyle.”

He made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Anyway… she goes on this trip with her father, says it’s a family emergency. I go over to her place to feed her fish.”

“You… fed her fish?” you echoed.

“Yes. Because apparently I’m stupid and romantic,” he muttered. “Anyway, I got suspicious. Something about her story didn’t sit right. So I poked around a bit.”

Your heart started beating faster. You didn’t know where this was going, but it didn’t feel good.

“And I find this room. Hidden behind her closet. Like, actual villain-level cliché. I open the door…”

He paused. His expression turned darker. More serious.

“And I find pictures. Everywhere.”

You tilted your head. “Of you?”

He looked at you. Dead in the eye.

“Of you.”

You blinked. “Wait. Me—?”

He nodded once, slowly.

Your stomach dropped.

“She had surveillance shots. Mission footage. A few from work. Even one from that bakery you go to on Fridays.”

You stepped back, the wall reminding you there was nowhere else to go.

“She was planning something,” he said. “Something big. I don’t know exactly what yet, but whatever it was — you were the target.”

You just stood there. Breath caught in your throat. Not sure what to say.

He brought you water and gently tugged you to sit down on the couch.

“It’s not that serious anymore,” he said, setting the glass into your hands. “She was the one who initiated the mission last night. That’s why Captain was so pissed.”

You took a long sip, trying to swallow both the water and the lump in your throat. His eyes were already on you, watching, measuring, and then he sighed.

“Maybe I should’ve listened when you said you didn’t trust her.”

You choked. Hard. Water went the wrong way and suddenly you were sputtering.

“Shit—hey,” he said, quick to grab some napkins as he took the cup from your hands. “You come into my place one time and already you’re trying to leave your DNA everywhere?”

You smacked his arm lightly between coughs, and he chuckled.

“I did trust her,” you managed, clearing your throat, “I trust all the girls you date.”

You stared at him now. Your face unreadable, but your voice? It wavered.

“I just…”

“Go on,” he said, his voice softer now.

And that’s when you noticed. He was kneeling in front of you. One hand braced on your thigh, the other still holding the half-full water glass. His proximity was starting to feel suffocating—or maybe intoxicating. Either way, your body went warm.

“I think I should go home,” you said abruptly, pushing gently at his shoulder. He let you.

“I’ll walk you down,” he offered, standing and grabbing your bag for you. You didn’t argue. You just needed space.

The two of you stepped into the elevator.

Bad choice.

The second the doors slid shut, you were surrounded. Not by him, but by his reflection. All the mirrors showed him, every angle of him. And he was looking at you.

You shifted your weight, avoiding his gaze, pretending to dig through your bag for something—anything.

Then the elevator stopped.

A robotic voice echoed overhead:

“We’re sorry. The elevators are currently down. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

You froze.

“…What does that mean?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Dick. What does that mean??”

He was already tapping the emergency button. Nothing. He pulled out his communicator, static.

“I think we’re stuck.”

Your stomach flipped. “Stuck stuck??”

“Looks like it.”

You turned slowly, dread in your chest. Every wall was mirrored. You couldn’t look at him without seeing all of him.

And worse, now you couldn’t escape him either.

His voice broke through your panic. “Relax. We’ve been through worse.”

You laughed dryly, trying to ignore the way his reflection was stalking toward yours in the mirrored glass. “Yeah, but ‘worse’ didn’t usually involve you standing that close to me in a box full of mirrors.”

He smirked, eyes flicking to your reflection then back to you. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Among other things.”

“Like what?”

You sighed, avoiding the question entirely as you sank onto the tiny couch built into the elevator wall. “How long is it gonna take for help to arrive?” you muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing elevator panel.

Dick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crouched down in front of you again—seriously, what was this man’s obsession with kneeling like he’s about to propose?

You looked down at him, and something in his face had shifted. The teasing glint in his eye had faded just slightly, replaced with something more serious. Something unreadable.

“There’s something going on, love,” he said softly.

The nickname landed differently this time. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was… real. Heavy. Like something had changed…and you didn’t like change. You never had.

“Nothings wrong,” you said too quickly. “I mean… being stuck in an elevator with my crush isn’t the worst thing in the world—”

You froze. You felt your soul leave your body. Did you say that out loud?

Dick blinked, then tilted his head. “Your crush?”

You stared at anything that wasn’t him—unfortunately, all you saw was a full panoramic view of your own mortified face in the elevator mirrors. “I meant—friend. Friend. Obviously. I panic in enclosed spaces and say weird things.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, unconvinced.

And then, like the universe truly had it out for your self-control, his hand slid back onto your thigh.

You flinched. Your heart? Fully betraying you. Thundering. Melting. Screaming.

“I’m pretty sure I heard crush,” he said again, his voice lower now. Rougher. Since when was his voice that deep? Since when did it feel like that?

You swallowed, fighting every instinct not to run face-first into the elevator doors.

“I think you need to get your hearing checked,” you shot back, forcing a dry laugh.

He smiled—smirked actually—and leaned in just a little closer. His thumb moved in a small circle over the fabric of your pants, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Okay then,” he murmured. “If you’re not going to tell me about that, at least tell me what’s bothering you.”

Your breath caught. He was serious. This time, there was no teasing, no smug grin. Just genuine concern in those blue eyes that never stopped watching you.

“Come on,” he whispered. “You’ve been tense since yesterday. What is it?”

“What are we?” you asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Dick looked up at you, his eyes searching. “What do you think we are?”

His thumbs were drifting closer, brushing slow circles over your skin. Your pulse pounded in your ears—loud, insistent, like a warning or a promise.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just… I don’t think friends do what we’re doing right now.”

You finally met his gaze. It was a mistake.

Because the look in his eyes?

That was not friendly. That was not innocent. That was a storm waiting to break.

“If we’re not friends,” he said, voice dropping, “then what are we?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He tilted his head, mock confusion playing on his face, but the heat in his expression betrayed him.

“I don’t,” he murmured. “Enlighten me.”

The air in the elevator had changed—it was thick now, charged with something unspeakable. Your breath hitched. His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You didn’t trust your own mouth, didn’t trust your body to stay neutral. Everything inside you was screaming.

“Dick, don’t.”

But his hand was already sliding closer—dangerously close. Your thighs tensed, your chest rising and falling fast.

“Why not?” he asked, and it was soft. Almost innocent.

But there was nothing innocent about the way he was looking at you now.

You could lie.

You could shut it down.

You could get up and slap the elevator emergency button again just to make the walls move and give your body any excuse to cool off.

But instead, you whispered, “Because if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

His expression flickered—surprise, desire, something darker—and he leaned in, just enough for his forehead to brush yours. That damn hand still hadn’t moved.

“Then don’t stop,” he breathed.

His answer takes you by surprise, even though you'd hoped for it. His closeness is overwhelming. You can feel his breath on your face, the heat radiating off of him. The air between you is thick with tension.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind racing. But the look in his eyes, the dark desire in his voice...it's intoxicating.

Wordlessly, you reach up, your hand tracing the outline of his jaw, your fingers trailing over his lips.

You stared at him, heartbeat hammering in your throat.

Fuck it.

You reached up and grabbed his face, pulling him in.

The kiss started slow. Hesitant. You half-expected him to pull away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the hand that wasn’t resting on your thigh slid around your back, firm and certain, tugging you closer until your chest pressed against his. The heat between your bodies sparked something primal in you, something raw.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips parted, heart racing.

He stared at you with eyes that could burn a hole through concrete.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, voice thick like honey.

Your breath caught as his hand on your thigh drifted lower, fingers teasing the hem of your bottoms like he was testing a boundary he already knew you’d let him cross.

“Maybe,” you whispered, not even sure what you were answering.

He smiled—slow, smug, devastating—before pulling you into another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this longer than either of you would ever admit.

And holy shit—he kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Confident, precise, every movement coaxing more out of you. Your fingers slipped into his hair, gripping tight as your body leaned into him without hesitation.

Your back hit the elevator wall and you barely noticed.

Because all you could feel was him. His hands. His mouth. His body between your knees. And the terrifying, thrilling realization that this—whatever this was—was no longer a game.

You gasped between kisses, trying to ground yourself. “This is—this is insane, we’re literally stuck in an elevator—”

He kisses a trail along your jaw, then your neck, pressing you into the wall. His grip on your thigh tightens, possessive.

"Does it really matter where we are?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and heavy.

His hand slides up your side, fingers slipping under the edge of your shirt, leaving a trail of fire across your bare skin.

The way he said it—soft, low, laced with heat—sent a pulse straight to your core.

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist, and he took the invitation with zero hesitation, letting his hands explore more boldly now. His hand teased the edge of your bottoms, dragging lazy circles against your skin, maddeningly slow.

“Dick,” you breathed, warning or plea—you weren’t even sure.

“Hm?” he hummed against your collarbone, now pressing gentle kisses along the line of your neck, tasting you like a secret.

Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering open—

—and that’s when you caught it.

The mirror.

One whole wall of the elevator was reflecting this exact moment: your legs around him, his body slotted perfectly between yours, the way his mouth moved against your skin like it belonged there.

Your breath hitched.

He noticed. “What is it?”

You blinked, trying to find words, but your eyes drifted back to the mirror—and so did his.

The two of you locked eyes through the reflection.

“Oh,” he said, voice dipping again. “That’s what’s got you all shy now.”

“I’m not shy,” you lied, face flushed, body still burning.

“Mhm,” he teased, leaning in closer but keeping his eyes on yours in the mirror. “So you don’t mind watching me touch you like this?”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your bottoms—barely—and you twitched, biting your lip hard to keep from moaning.

He watched your reaction in the mirror, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He liked this. The way your body was responding. The way you were trying and failing to hold back.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your skin, so close to where you wanted them to be. Teasing. Torturing.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly in your ear. "You're so sensitive already."

You could barely breathe, let alone speak. But the way your body responded—the arch of your back, the tilt of your hips—it was answer enough.

Dick’s lips brushed your ear. “You know, I’ve always liked mirrors.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered.

He chuckled, but it was dark and rough and sent shivers down your spine.

The comm in the corner crackled suddenly—“Help is on the way. Please remain calm.”

He looked up. Then back at you.

“Guess we’re on a timer now,” he said, cocky as hell, and leaned in for another kiss—this one messier, deeper, full of promises he clearly meant to keep.

He then looked at you, eye contact heavy before tugging on your shirt. “Can I?” He asked.

You nodded slowly, starting to think if this is a good idea, but that completely vanished when he tugged your shirt off, and started leaving wet kisses on your chest.

Your whole body felt warm, you wanted—no—you needed more.

He then took your bra off in such a hurry you didn’t even notice it was off. Your boobs—now being exposed in front of him.

They were hard. You were wet. So much happening in such short time.

He let go of you bra as you watch it drop on the floor near your shirt. He pulled his other hand back around to the front of you body and all together with both hands he grabbed under your boobs and squeezed while starting to pinch on your nipples.

You could feel the warmth of your pussy start to increase, uncomfortably so.

This man was about to ruin you. Right here. Right now.

Your head was laid back against the wall and positioned perfectly for him to nestle his face into your neck.

As he leaned into you, he squeezed your nipples harder and started to move his face lower to where he was eye level with your breasts.

He then slowly opened his soft lips and met each nipple with them, sucking on each of them one at a time, while simultaneously rubbing the other one that was not in his mouth and pinching on it.

You were becoming weaker by the second.

You then pressed the entirety of your body and weight against the wall.

Had he put his fingers inside of you, you would have completely made a mess, and most likely would have completed your orgasm right there.

As you were getting lost in the feeling, the sound of the elevator letting you know that help is 10 minutes away. You watched yourself in the mirrors, watching his actions.

As he was pulling away from your breasts he gave them both one more bite on each nipple as you let out a moan.

He then hooked the waistband of your pants with his fingers, as you pulled, tugged and shimmied them over your hips and onto the ground. You were still sitting on the couch in the elevator as he went back to kneeling before you.

He then licked and kissed your inner thigh, leaving a trail of warm wetness on your skin. You squirmed and cooed as he got closer to your crotch, only to have you switch legs and start from the bottom again.

After what felt like years, he reached his destination and kissed your pussy against your underwear.

“D-Fuck, don’t tease me,” you pleaded as he withdrew his mouth. He then looked up at you, admiring you with a sly grin on his face.

“We have 10 minutes, isn’t that plenty of time?,” he asked. He then paused to plant kisses on your upper thighs and your lower stomach. “And I plan on making this last. Now, just relax, please.”

He stood up to kiss you and rubbed your pussy with the palm of his hand. Your panties were not wet anymore, they were all but soaked through. He then pressed two fingers in between your lower lips, eliciting a hungry moan. Your tongue slid into his mouth as your hands found his hard cock. You cupped his balls and stroked the shaft through his pants as he continued to finger you through your underwear.

He then broke the kiss and moved his hand under your front pantyline. His fingers moving over to your clit and dipped into your moist sex.

“What if the maintenance saw you now?” He nibbled on your earlobe, fingers still exploring between your legs. “Would they know how naughty you are, begging for me to fuck your wet pussy?”

“No… I- hope not…” you bucked a little against his fingers, trying to increase the friction.

You trailed off bitting your lip. Your hips moving faster against his fingers. As you gripped the couch with one hand while groping his stiff package with the other.

You pulled his t-shirt over his head. Taking the hint, he grabbed your underwear and pulled them down over your feet.

You’re now completely naked, perched on a couch inside an elevator, with your legs spread. You reached in and pulled his dick out of his boxers, stroking it slowly but with a firm grip.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said before stopping yourself. “Right here.”

He didn’t have to be asked again. Already slick and lubricated, his thick cock easily slid inside your warm, welcoming cunt. You let out a gasp as his dick probed the depths of your pussy, pressing towards your cervix.

You and him stayed like that for a few seconds, enjoying the moment, before he withdrew himself nearly completely. Then pushing into you again.

You put your arms around him and pulled him into you again. His rhythm increased steadily, much to your delight.

“Y-yes,” you moaned with each thrust, “Yes… just like that…”

You bucked into him as he entered you over and over again, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit. After a few minutes, maybe seconds, you were so so..close to an orgasm, and as if he noticed, he started rubbing your clit between thrusts to send you over the edge.

“YES… YES!” You were starting to get louder, loud enough for anyone on the other side of this elevator could hear. “Keep going… Keep going!”

“Cum for me, love,” he growled, driving his dick into you with new force. “Cum on my cock.”

“OH… OH GOD… D-DICK!” You felt your pussy clench down on his member as an orgasm overtook you. You then wrapped your legs and arms around him, holding him tight and pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

You had just cum, but now you were suddenly focused on getting him off.

A way to say thank you.

He continued to thrust. His voice now strained. “Your pussy feels so fucking good, love.” His bare cock pressed deep into your receptive cunt.

“Yeah?” You said.

“Yeah, love. Shit, you’re going to make me cum,” he warned.

“Cum.” You were whispering at first. You then repeated yourself, louder this time.

He then let out a primal moan thrusting his cock as deep as it could go. You felt his balls throbbed as he pulled out then climaxing.

He then pressed his face to you, this time penetrating your mouth with his tongue. You accepted it eagerly; your tongues danced together in your mouth.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered against him, breath shallow. “You know that?”

He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “You say that like it’s not what turns you on.”

The elevator gave a sudden ding.

Rescue had arrived.

He froze, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting like you’d just run for your lives.

“Saved by the bell,” you said weakly, trying to collect yourself.

He grinned, smug as hell. “For now.”

Then he whispered against your lips, “But when I get you alone again... you’re not leaving until you scream it.”

[stxrsval]

Made by yours truly -

[stxrsval]

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT - Nightwing (Dick) x Reader

𖦹 SUMMARY . . When he doesn't show up at work, forcing you into Nightwing’s penthouse and asking him what was wrong should’ve been the end. But between the teasing, the tension, and that damn private elevator… you’re not sure which is more dangerous—his enemies, or the way he’s looking at you.

𖦹 WORD COUNT . . 7.4k (sorry guys, atp I should write a damn book)

𖦹 WARNINGS . . Smut (18+), Enemies to Friends to lovers tension, Flirting / sexual tension, Light injury description (bandaging), Mild language, Teasing banter, elevator smut, explicit content, fingering, p-in-v, etc

𖦹 A/N . . I don’t even know where to start. I am so incredibly grateful for every single one of you who’s shown love to my last two fics — the Harry Potter and Draco one. You guys have no idea how happy that made me. Seriously, thank you for the likes, reblogs, and comments. 💕

So… naturally, I decided to throw Nightwing into the mix. Not just because I’ve been seeing way too many edits of him on my FYP (and maybe losing my mind a little 👀), but because you’ve all given me so much love and support that I wanted to make this one for you.

My usual posting schedule is Saturdays and Sundays (sometimes I’ll surprise-drop something on a random Tuesday), but for now, please enjoy this 7.4k word descent into Nightwing chaos because I simply cannot stop thinking about this man.

Love you all, and thank you again. This one’s for you. ❤️ Divider Creds - @enchanthings-a

Another peaceful night in the city.

The streets were calm, the skies were clear, and for once, the world wasn’t falling apart. Which could only mean one thing: Cupcake Wednesday. Your personal tradition, or, as Dick Grayson used to call it, your “world-famous cupcake night.”

Every Wednesday like clockwork, he’d show up at your door uninvited, somehow always smelling like danger and aftershave, stealing the batter before it hit the oven and throwing sprinkles at your head when he thought your frosting skills were “mid.”

But that was before. Before his new girlfriend. Before he got all distant and weird and stopped showing up. So now? More cupcakes for you.

You were halfway through spooning batter into the last tray when the doorbell rang.

Ding dong.

You blinked and glanced at the clock. It’s so… early. You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not on a night like this. You quickly pulled off your oven mitts and wiped your hands down the front of your apron.

“Coming!” you called, speed-walking to the door.

You peeked through the peephole—

No. Freaking. Way.

Dick Grayson. On your doorstep.

You open the door halfway, still clutching the oven mitt in one hand.

“Hey, cutie,” he says, leaning against the frame like he owns the place, voice smooth, that infuriating grin tugging at his lips.

Ah. There it is. The flirting. Which could only mean one thing.

Your eyes narrow. “You broke up with her.”

Dick just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she wasn’t his excuse for disappearing these past few weeks.

You almost slapped him.

Almost.

Instead, you drop your hand and shake your head, stepping aside. “When are you ever going to find someone to settle down with?”

“Are the cupcakes done?” he asks, already walking past you, completely ignoring your question.

You sigh. “No. I was just about to put them in the oven before you came along and ruined my night.”

He turns to face you, mock-offended. “Ruin? Please. You love me.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the tray and opening the oven. “You’re a headache.”

He leans against the counter, watching you work. There’s something familiar in the way he settles in your space, like he never left.

“So?” you say, tossing a quick glance over your shoulder. “What happened?”

“Hm?” He pretends not to hear you.

“You and Little Miss Perfect.”

“Not important.”

You raise a brow. “I liked you better when you were quiet and out fighting bad guys.”

He smirks. “And I liked you better when your mouth was busy frosting cupcakes.”

You scoff, slamming the oven shut and setting the timer. “Good thing we don’t like each other.”

You both fall quiet, the warm scent of vanilla slowly filling the kitchen.

Five minutes pass.

Then—

“Why’d you break up?” you ask again, softer this time, without the edge.

Dick stares at the wall like it has all the answers. He exhales through his nose.

“Got bored.”

You pause. “Are you sure it’s not because you weren’t good in bed?”

He finally turns his head, glaring at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

“I’m very good in bed, sweetheart.”

You bite back your grin. “Mhm. That’s not what she said.”

“Do you want a demonstration?”

You choke on your own spit, swatting his arm with the oven mitt. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he says, grin widening, “I’m very believable. Especially when you’re on top.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the kitchen. Dick is still watching you like he’s two seconds from starting trouble, which, with him, meant it was already happening.

“You’re such an ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

You huff, grabbing the dish towel and wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the way his eyes follow you around the room.

He’s quiet for a beat too long. That should’ve been your warning.

Next thing you know, he’s at your side, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“What the—Dick!”

Before you can stop him, he’s tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, then plopping you down on the couch with a bounce.

“You’re so annoying—”

“Admit it,” he grins, hovering above you, “you missed me.”

“I missed having extra cupcakes. Now get off—ah! DICK!”

He starts tickling you, hands merciless as you squirm beneath him, shrieking with laughter.

“Say you missed me!”

“NEVER—STOP—I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You’re breathless, your face hurting from smiling too hard. And then—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The cupcake timer.

You shove at his chest. “Get off! You’re going to make them burn, you psychopath.”

He rolls off you dramatically, sprawled across the couch like he just survived war. You dart toward the oven, grabbing your mitts and pulling the cupcakes out before they get too dark.

As you place the tray down and close the oven, you hear his voice again—quieter this time.

“We broke up because she found out I’m Nightwing.”

You pause.

Turn around slowly, towel still in hand.

“What does that mean?”

He leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking to yours. “It means she thought I was too dangerous. That one night I wouldn’t come home. That maybe the next mission would be my last.” He pauses. “She didn’t sign up for that kind of life.”

You stare at him for a moment, the scent of fresh cupcakes filling the silence between you.

“…So instead of trying to talk it through, you ghosted her and showed up here to steal my food?”

He shrugs. “I liked the view better here.”

You snort. “Unbelievable.”

“But I’m still very good in bed.”

“Shut up, Dick.”

You set the tray of warm cupcakes on the counter, the scent of vanilla and buttercream filling the air like a promise.

“So,” you say, grabbing two plates, “you gonna eat one like a civilized guest or just lick the frosting off and run like last time?”

“Tempting,” he says with a sly smile, already reaching for the one with the most icing. “But I’m feeling generous tonight.”

He hands you a cupcake first. You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden manners, but before you can thank him—

BZZZ.

The shrill sound of his comm slices through the air.

His jaw tightens.

You both freeze.

He taps the earpiece in his left ear, the playfulness on his face gone in an instant. “Go ahead.”

You can barely hear the voice crackling through the line, but it’s serious. You catch fragments. “Hostile… South Sector… taken… Gotham PD compromised…”

“Copy that,” he says, voice low. “On my way.”

You cross your arms, staring at him as he grabs his gear from beside the door—like he always does. Like this is routine.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving mid-cupcake again.”

He turns to face you, and for a split second, he’s not Nightwing. He’s just Dick. Tired, heavy-eyed, but still trying to act like he’s got it all handled.

“Rain check.”

“You said that last week.”

“And the week before that,” he mutters, zipping up his suit. The black and electric blue shift under the kitchen light, making him look less like a man and more like a shadow about to disappear.

You take a step forward, your voice quieter. “Is it bad?”

He hesitates. That’s how you know it is.

“They took an entire precinct hostage. Might be a trap.”

You swallow hard. “And you’re going anyway.”

“That’s kind of the gig.”

He starts toward the window—always the window—but then stops. Turns back to look at you.

“Don’t wait up.”

You roll your eyes. “I won’t.”

But the truth is, you always do.

He smirks faintly, then vanishes into the night, leaving behind the lingering scent of frosting, danger, and things unsaid.

You settle back on the couch, half-watching the movie flickering on your TV. Your cupcake-night apron still hangs limply on a kitchen chair, the oven warmth lingering in the air, the cupcakes untouched. But your head’s already somewhere else.

The city feels colder tonight.

Your phone pings — location sharing. Dick is here. Outside your house. But he’s been there for a while… and he hasn’t knocked.

Weird.

You toss off your blanket and head for the door, figuring maybe he forgot what house number you were in, though that’s impossible.

The moment you step outside, the chill nips at your skin. There he is, standing under the weak glow of the streetlight.

A wicked idea strikes — you’ll sneak up on him.

But before you can, you freeze. He’s on the phone. His tone is low, but sharp, each word clipped like it costs him to say it.

“No, we can’t get back together.” He rakes a hand through his hair, tension rolling off him. “You know why. You tried to kill someone I care about. Thank God I found out about your little plan.”

Your stomach knots. You don’t know the full story — you don’t need to. His ex wasn’t just toxic. She was dangerous. And she’d tried to hurt… someone he loves.

A pause. Then, colder: “Jail’s not that bad. You’ll like it.”

The call ends. He stays there, still as stone, eyes closed for a beat like he’s trying to reset his entire mind.

“I know you’re here,” he says suddenly.

Your heart drops straight to your ass.

You step out from behind the wall, deadpan: “Well, yeah… this is my house, of course.”

You tried to sound casual, but it came out rushed and awkward. He turned to look at you, eyes unreadable.

“Mm.”

You looked at him again, really looked. His face was tense, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. His whole body felt… guarded. And despite the cocky little smirk he kept giving you when you caught him staring, there was something different in him now. Off.

Your gaze dropped to a wound. It was bleeding.

"You're hurt" you said arms crossed.

He looked at his wound and shrugged, "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he said, voice casual.

You got a bit irritated.

“Can we please do something about that?” you asked, pointing at the wound, then stepping closer before he could brush you off again.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

You scoffed. “You’re not fine. You’re stubborn. That’s not the same thing.”

His lip twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but instead, he just looked away, nodding once before walking inside your house without another word.

You stood there, confused and a little stunned. But eventually, you followed, heart annoyingly pounding the whole way.

You opened the door, letting him in first. The second he stepped inside, he toed off his boots like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like he lived here. Which he didn’t. Obviously.

He sat on your couch, already unzipping the top of his suit like it wasn’t skin-tight. You tried not to stare. You really tried.

“Bathroom’s still in the same place, right?” he asked, looking up at you.

“You’ve been here like twice.”

“Three times,” he corrected. “Once for cupcakes, once for movie night, and that one time you said you’d help dye my hair to throw off the villains.”

“That was your dumb idea,” you muttered, heading to grab the first aid kit anyway.

You came back and knelt beside him, opening the kit and grabbing some gauze. He leaned back casually, like none of this mattered.

“Take off your shirt,” you said flatly.

His eyebrows rose. “A little forward, don’t you think?”

You didn’t even flinch. “I could just let you bleed out. Up to you.”

With a little dramatic sigh, he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside.

Your eyes scanned the wound—it was worse than you thought. Clean but deep.

“What happened?” you asked quietly.

“Sharp end of a railing.”

“Is that what you told the captain?”

He didn’t answer.

Your hands moved gently, dabbing at the blood. You felt his eyes on you the entire time, but you didn’t look up until you were mostly done.

“You didn’t tell anyone what she did, did you?” you asked finally.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to explain why I ever dated her in the first place,” he said, voice flat. “And the truth is, I saw the red flags. I just ignored them.”

You nodded slowly, applying the last bit of gauze, then taping it down.

“Well,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “Good thing you’ve got people now who’ll stab her for you if she ever comes back.”

He laughed, low and soft. “I’d pay to see that.”

You stood, gathering the used materials. “Just let me know when. I’ll bring the knives.”

As you turned to walk to the kitchen, he called out, “Can I tell you something?.”

You paused.

“Thanks.”

The next morning came fast.

You were tired, still sore from the mission, and your brain wouldn’t stop replaying everything, from the way he bled without flinching to the way he said “you tried to kill someone I care about.” You didn’t ask who. You probably should have. But instead, you let him crash on your couch, and by the time you came out of the shower, he was gone.

Typical.

Still, you had work. Superhero or not, bills existed. And lucky you, your day job happened to be at the same law firm where Dick worked, except he was a senior associate and you were… well, the not senior one. He was respected, sharp, always in a fitted suit like he walked out of a magazine. And somehow, even after long nights chasing criminals, he always made it in before everyone else.

Whispers followed you down the hall like smoke.

“—he never misses work.”

“Do you think he got fired? No way—right?”

“I heard he was in some kind of fight—”

You rolled your eyes, hugging your to-go coffee tighter. “Ugh. Gossip,” you muttered under your breath. You were too tired for the rumor mill.

As you made it to your desk, a familiar voice popped up right behind you.

“Have you heard?”

You turned and found Lyra, one of the other paralegals, leaning on the cubicle wall like a nosy sitcom neighbor. You raised an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t. What’s wrong?”

“Dick’s not here,” she said, eyes wide like it was breaking news. “Didn’t show up. No email, no heads-up, nothing.”

You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Mmhm.” She nodded. “Grayson lives and breathes this place. He’s usually in here before the janitors.”

“Maybe he’s sick?” you offered weakly, sliding your bag off your shoulder.

Lyra scoffed like you just said the moon was made of cheese. “Sick? That man’s immune system is healthier than kale. You know it. I bet he’s somewhere doing weird ex-military brooding shit.”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped.

She grinned, dropped a green Jolly Rancher on your desk like it was currency, and turned on her heel.

You shook your head, chewing on her words as you pulled out your phone. Your stomach was already twisting with worry.

You opened a text thread and typed:

hey, you okay? you didn’t show up to work. just checking in.

You hovered for a second before pressing send. Then you stared at the screen like it might spit out answers.

Read.

No reply.

You bit the inside of your cheek, anxiety creeping in like fog. Maybe he was sick. Or tired. Or laying low after the mission. Or maybe—

A soft ding interrupted your spiral.

I’m fine.

That was it.

Two words. Cold. Clipped.

You stared at it.

You typed, then deleted. Then typed again.

Fine like “I’m busy” or fine like “leave me alone”?

No response.

You sighed, tossed your phone in your desk drawer, and tried to focus, but something was definitely wrong. And you weren’t going to be able to let it go.

You shouldn’t be worried.

After all, it’s not like you and Dick were friends.

You saw him on Wednesdays because of the damn cupcakes you brought into the breakroom, and even that was just routine at this point.

You’d barely speak at work outside of dry professional exchanges or the occasional sarcastic remark over paperwork. You weren’t enemies. But you weren’t exactly on “let me check on you when you miss work” terms either.

Flirty… adversaries? Work nemesis with a side of unresolved tension?

Honestly, you didn’t know.

All you did know was that something felt off. Deep in your gut.

You tossed your phone into your purse, stood up from your desk, and made your way toward Lyra’s cubicle. She was scrolling on her phone, feet kicked up, already halfway tuned out of the day.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Tell the boss I had a family emergency. I’m sorry—I’ll be in tomorrow.”

She raised a brow, then gave you a playful salute. “You’re lucky he likes you. Go.”

You gave her a weak smile, turned on your heel, and speed-walked toward the elevators like your life depended on it.

Back in your car, you scrolled up through your texts with Dick until you found the one time—months ago—when he’d sent you his address after a late-night debrief. “Just in case you get lost,” he’d said.

You copied the address and dropped it into your maps app.

Your GPS chimed.

“Head left, then merge onto Blüdhaven Parkway.”

You followed the directions in silence, your mind racing louder than the engine. This was probably a bad idea. He clearly didn’t want company. He barely texted you back. But something about that two-word reply—

I’m fine.

—it didn’t sit right with you.

Twenty minutes later, your GPS chirped again.

“Take a slight right onto Valmont Avenue.”

You looked up, surprised.

This neighborhood wasn’t just “nice.” It was exclusive.

Private buildings with tall glass windows. Sculpted greenery. High security. The kind of place where the mailroom looked like an art gallery and the lobby had 24-hour concierge.

Your jaw tightened.

You shouldn’t have been surprised. Dick Grayson had money. He didn’t flaunt it, but it was there. Every custom-fit suit, every wristwatch that didn’t belong to this tax bracket, it all made sense now.

Your GPS spoke one last time:

“Arrived. Destination is on your left.”

You pulled up in front of a sleek glass building with dark accents and no visible numbers. Just an all-black awning, tinted windows, and a valet station. The kind of place where people didn’t buzz to get in. They were let in.

You turned off the ignition, staring up at it. It felt… out of place. Like a secret tower.

You took a deep breath.

Then you grabbed your bag, stepped out of the car, and headed toward the entrance.

You cleared your throat as you approached the front desk. The woman at the concierge looked like she hadn’t blinked since 9AM.

“Hi,” you began, offering your most polite smile. “I’m here to check on someone. Dick Grayson? He lives here.”

Her face remained neutral. “Is Mr. Grayson expecting you?”

You gave a breathy laugh. “Not exactly, but—he wasn’t at work today, which is weird for him, so I just wanted to check in. Make sure he’s okay.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I’m sorry, but if your name isn’t on the guest list or resident file, I can’t let you through. Mr. Grayson has strict privacy settings.”

You blinked. “Right. Of course.”

So this was what rejection felt like at the fancy end of town.

You were just about to turn around, stomach twisting with regret, when a familiar voice spoke behind you:

“…She’s with me.”

You froze.

You turned around and there he was.

Dick Grayson. In the flesh.

Hair damp like he just showered, black hoodie slung lazily over his shoulder, jaw sharp, expression unreadable. He looked at you only once before wrapping his hand gently around your wrist, not roughly, not tightly, just enough to guide you.

“Come on,” he said simply.

No hi. No “thanks for coming.” Just those three words and then silence.

You didn’t say anything. Mostly because your brain had left your body the second his fingers touched your skin.

He led you to the elevator, swiped a keycard, and pressed the button that said 12.

The doors slid shut behind you.

Inside, the elevator was ridiculous. Glossy black floor. Plush seat tucked into the corner. Mirrors on all sides and even the ceiling. Your reflection stared back at you from every angle, looking like a woman who’d broken into someone’s mansion on instinct and regret.

Dick stood next to you, quiet. The air between you was heavy and charged, and somehow the silence felt louder with all those mirrors watching.

Then—because your mouth didn’t know how to behave—

“…Are you mad at me?”

You hadn’t meant to ask.

You really hadn’t.

You’d told yourself just shut up and ride the elevator. But no. Of course not.

His head turned, just slightly, his eyes flicking to yours in the reflection.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

Pause. Long pause.

“…But you shouldn’t have come.”

Your chest tightened. Your first instinct was to defend yourself, I was just worried. You didn’t show up. You never don’t show up. But something about his tone kept you quiet.

The elevator dinged.

You both stepped out.

And wow.

It wasn’t an apartment. It was a penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows cast the whole place in gold light. The skyline of Blüdhaven stretched beyond the glass, busy and alive, but the inside felt eerily still. Dark wood floors, modern furniture, everything neat—but not cold. Lived in, but perfectly curated. The kind of home that said money without having to scream it.

He walked ahead, not looking back. You followed slowly, still drinking it all in.

“Take off your shoes,” he said without turning. “I just cleaned.”

You blinked. That was… domestic.

You kicked your shoes off by the door.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about cupcakes,” he added dryly, walking toward the kitchen.

You hovered awkwardly behind him. “No. I’m here because you missed work. And because you said ‘I’m fine’ with a period, which is code for you’re lying.”

He let out a small exhale, almost a laugh.

Then he finally turned to face you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, hoodie still unzipped halfway.

His voice dropped just a little:

“So what now, huh?” he said. “You checked in. You saw I’m alive. Want me to prove it? Want me to spin in a circle or something?”

Your throat went dry.

You couldn’t tell if he was teasing. You couldn’t tell what he was doing.

But that tension again, the one from the elevator, from the workplace glances, from the cupcake Wednesdays, it was coiling between you two like a wire pulled tight.

And you suddenly realized…

You still didn’t know what you wanted from him.

But now you were in his space.

Then you blurted again, “Something happened yesterday. Between you and the captain. And your ex.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable.

“What happened to, ‘I was just about to leave,’ huh? You stalker,” he said, voice low and teasing, but laced with something heavier.

“I’m not a stalker!” you defended quickly, scoffing.

“Really. Then what are you?” he asked, stepping closer.

You tried to hold your ground, but he kept closing the space between you, one slow step at a time, until your back hit the cool wall with a soft thud. You swallowed hard.

“We’re friends?” you offered weakly. “Buddies? Coworkers… or whatever. I don’t know, but I’m glad you’re okay. Alive. And I think I should go now—”

You bowed.

Bowed.

What the actual hell.

He blinked. “Did you just—?”

“Shut up.”

He smirked and finally stepped back, giving you breathing room. Just enough to inhale without choking on your own awkward.

Then he started talking.

“My ex,” he said, exhaling like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “was a villain. She pretended not to know I was Nightwing, played the sweet, innocent girlfriend routine. Told me she didn’t want to lose her ‘baby’ to a dangerous lifestyle.”

He made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Anyway… she goes on this trip with her father, says it’s a family emergency. I go over to her place to feed her fish.”

“You… fed her fish?” you echoed.

“Yes. Because apparently I’m stupid and romantic,” he muttered. “Anyway, I got suspicious. Something about her story didn’t sit right. So I poked around a bit.”

Your heart started beating faster. You didn’t know where this was going, but it didn’t feel good.

“And I find this room. Hidden behind her closet. Like, actual villain-level cliché. I open the door…”

He paused. His expression turned darker. More serious.

“And I find pictures. Everywhere.”

You tilted your head. “Of you?”

He looked at you. Dead in the eye.

“Of you.”

You blinked. “Wait. Me—?”

He nodded once, slowly.

Your stomach dropped.

“She had surveillance shots. Mission footage. A few from work. Even one from that bakery you go to on Fridays.”

You stepped back, the wall reminding you there was nowhere else to go.

“She was planning something,” he said. “Something big. I don’t know exactly what yet, but whatever it was — you were the target.”

You just stood there. Breath caught in your throat. Not sure what to say.

He brought you water and gently tugged you to sit down on the couch.

“It’s not that serious anymore,” he said, setting the glass into your hands. “She was the one who initiated the mission last night. That’s why Captain was so pissed.”

You took a long sip, trying to swallow both the water and the lump in your throat. His eyes were already on you, watching, measuring, and then he sighed.

“Maybe I should’ve listened when you said you didn’t trust her.”

You choked. Hard. Water went the wrong way and suddenly you were sputtering.

“Shit—hey,” he said, quick to grab some napkins as he took the cup from your hands. “You come into my place one time and already you’re trying to leave your DNA everywhere?”

You smacked his arm lightly between coughs, and he chuckled.

“I did trust her,” you managed, clearing your throat, “I trust all the girls you date.”

You stared at him now. Your face unreadable, but your voice? It wavered.

“I just…”

“Go on,” he said, his voice softer now.

And that’s when you noticed. He was kneeling in front of you. One hand braced on your thigh, the other still holding the half-full water glass. His proximity was starting to feel suffocating—or maybe intoxicating. Either way, your body went warm.

“I think I should go home,” you said abruptly, pushing gently at his shoulder. He let you.

“I’ll walk you down,” he offered, standing and grabbing your bag for you. You didn’t argue. You just needed space.

The two of you stepped into the elevator.

Bad choice.

The second the doors slid shut, you were surrounded. Not by him, but by his reflection. All the mirrors showed him, every angle of him. And he was looking at you.

You shifted your weight, avoiding his gaze, pretending to dig through your bag for something—anything.

Then the elevator stopped.

A robotic voice echoed overhead:

“We’re sorry. The elevators are currently down. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

You froze.

“…What does that mean?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Dick. What does that mean??”

He was already tapping the emergency button. Nothing. He pulled out his communicator, static.

“I think we’re stuck.”

Your stomach flipped. “Stuck stuck??”

“Looks like it.”

You turned slowly, dread in your chest. Every wall was mirrored. You couldn’t look at him without seeing all of him.

And worse, now you couldn’t escape him either.

His voice broke through your panic. “Relax. We’ve been through worse.”

You laughed dryly, trying to ignore the way his reflection was stalking toward yours in the mirrored glass. “Yeah, but ‘worse’ didn’t usually involve you standing that close to me in a box full of mirrors.”

He smirked, eyes flicking to your reflection then back to you. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Among other things.”

“Like what?”

You sighed, avoiding the question entirely as you sank onto the tiny couch built into the elevator wall. “How long is it gonna take for help to arrive?” you muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing elevator panel.

Dick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crouched down in front of you again—seriously, what was this man’s obsession with kneeling like he’s about to propose?

You looked down at him, and something in his face had shifted. The teasing glint in his eye had faded just slightly, replaced with something more serious. Something unreadable.

“There’s something going on, love,” he said softly.

The nickname landed differently this time. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was… real. Heavy. Like something had changed…and you didn’t like change. You never had.

“Nothings wrong,” you said too quickly. “I mean… being stuck in an elevator with my crush isn’t the worst thing in the world—”

You froze. You felt your soul leave your body. Did you say that out loud?

Dick blinked, then tilted his head. “Your crush?”

You stared at anything that wasn’t him—unfortunately, all you saw was a full panoramic view of your own mortified face in the elevator mirrors. “I meant—friend. Friend. Obviously. I panic in enclosed spaces and say weird things.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, unconvinced.

And then, like the universe truly had it out for your self-control, his hand slid back onto your thigh.

You flinched. Your heart? Fully betraying you. Thundering. Melting. Screaming.

“I’m pretty sure I heard crush,” he said again, his voice lower now. Rougher. Since when was his voice that deep? Since when did it feel like that?

You swallowed, fighting every instinct not to run face-first into the elevator doors.

“I think you need to get your hearing checked,” you shot back, forcing a dry laugh.

He smiled—smirked actually—and leaned in just a little closer. His thumb moved in a small circle over the fabric of your pants, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Okay then,” he murmured. “If you’re not going to tell me about that, at least tell me what’s bothering you.”

Your breath caught. He was serious. This time, there was no teasing, no smug grin. Just genuine concern in those blue eyes that never stopped watching you.

“Come on,” he whispered. “You’ve been tense since yesterday. What is it?”

“What are we?” you asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Dick looked up at you, his eyes searching. “What do you think we are?”

His thumbs were drifting closer, brushing slow circles over your skin. Your pulse pounded in your ears—loud, insistent, like a warning or a promise.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just… I don’t think friends do what we’re doing right now.”

You finally met his gaze. It was a mistake.

Because the look in his eyes?

That was not friendly. That was not innocent. That was a storm waiting to break.

“If we’re not friends,” he said, voice dropping, “then what are we?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He tilted his head, mock confusion playing on his face, but the heat in his expression betrayed him.

“I don’t,” he murmured. “Enlighten me.”

The air in the elevator had changed—it was thick now, charged with something unspeakable. Your breath hitched. His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You didn’t trust your own mouth, didn’t trust your body to stay neutral. Everything inside you was screaming.

“Dick, don’t.”

But his hand was already sliding closer—dangerously close. Your thighs tensed, your chest rising and falling fast.

“Why not?” he asked, and it was soft. Almost innocent.

But there was nothing innocent about the way he was looking at you now.

You could lie.

You could shut it down.

You could get up and slap the elevator emergency button again just to make the walls move and give your body any excuse to cool off.

But instead, you whispered, “Because if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

His expression flickered—surprise, desire, something darker—and he leaned in, just enough for his forehead to brush yours. That damn hand still hadn’t moved.

“Then don’t stop,” he breathed.

His answer takes you by surprise, even though you'd hoped for it. His closeness is overwhelming. You can feel his breath on your face, the heat radiating off of him. The air between you is thick with tension.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind racing. But the look in his eyes, the dark desire in his voice...it's intoxicating.

Wordlessly, you reach up, your hand tracing the outline of his jaw, your fingers trailing over his lips.

You stared at him, heartbeat hammering in your throat.

Fuck it.

You reached up and grabbed his face, pulling him in.

The kiss started slow. Hesitant. You half-expected him to pull away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the hand that wasn’t resting on your thigh slid around your back, firm and certain, tugging you closer until your chest pressed against his. The heat between your bodies sparked something primal in you, something raw.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips parted, heart racing.

He stared at you with eyes that could burn a hole through concrete.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, voice thick like honey.

Your breath caught as his hand on your thigh drifted lower, fingers teasing the hem of your bottoms like he was testing a boundary he already knew you’d let him cross.

“Maybe,” you whispered, not even sure what you were answering.

He smiled—slow, smug, devastating—before pulling you into another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this longer than either of you would ever admit.

And holy shit—he kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Confident, precise, every movement coaxing more out of you. Your fingers slipped into his hair, gripping tight as your body leaned into him without hesitation.

Your back hit the elevator wall and you barely noticed.

Because all you could feel was him. His hands. His mouth. His body between your knees. And the terrifying, thrilling realization that this—whatever this was—was no longer a game.

You gasped between kisses, trying to ground yourself. “This is—this is insane, we’re literally stuck in an elevator—”

He kisses a trail along your jaw, then your neck, pressing you into the wall. His grip on your thigh tightens, possessive.

"Does it really matter where we are?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and heavy.

His hand slides up your side, fingers slipping under the edge of your shirt, leaving a trail of fire across your bare skin.

The way he said it—soft, low, laced with heat—sent a pulse straight to your core.

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist, and he took the invitation with zero hesitation, letting his hands explore more boldly now. His hand teased the edge of your bottoms, dragging lazy circles against your skin, maddeningly slow.

“Dick,” you breathed, warning or plea—you weren’t even sure.

“Hm?” he hummed against your collarbone, now pressing gentle kisses along the line of your neck, tasting you like a secret.

Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering open—

—and that’s when you caught it.

The mirror.

One whole wall of the elevator was reflecting this exact moment: your legs around him, his body slotted perfectly between yours, the way his mouth moved against your skin like it belonged there.

Your breath hitched.

He noticed. “What is it?”

You blinked, trying to find words, but your eyes drifted back to the mirror—and so did his.

The two of you locked eyes through the reflection.

“Oh,” he said, voice dipping again. “That’s what’s got you all shy now.”

“I’m not shy,” you lied, face flushed, body still burning.

“Mhm,” he teased, leaning in closer but keeping his eyes on yours in the mirror. “So you don’t mind watching me touch you like this?”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your bottoms—barely—and you twitched, biting your lip hard to keep from moaning.

He watched your reaction in the mirror, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He liked this. The way your body was responding. The way you were trying and failing to hold back.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your skin, so close to where you wanted them to be. Teasing. Torturing.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly in your ear. "You're so sensitive already."

You could barely breathe, let alone speak. But the way your body responded—the arch of your back, the tilt of your hips—it was answer enough.

Dick’s lips brushed your ear. “You know, I’ve always liked mirrors.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered.

He chuckled, but it was dark and rough and sent shivers down your spine.

The comm in the corner crackled suddenly—“Help is on the way. Please remain calm.”

He looked up. Then back at you.

“Guess we’re on a timer now,” he said, cocky as hell, and leaned in for another kiss—this one messier, deeper, full of promises he clearly meant to keep.

He then looked at you, eye contact heavy before tugging on your shirt. “Can I?” He asked.

You nodded slowly, starting to think if this is a good idea, but that completely vanished when he tugged your shirt off, and started leaving wet kisses on your chest.

Your whole body felt warm, you wanted—no—you needed more.

He then took your bra off in such a hurry you didn’t even notice it was off. Your boobs—now being exposed in front of him.

They were hard. You were wet. So much happening in such short time.

He let go of you bra as you watch it drop on the floor near your shirt. He pulled his other hand back around to the front of you body and all together with both hands he grabbed under your boobs and squeezed while starting to pinch on your nipples.

You could feel the warmth of your pussy start to increase, uncomfortably so.

This man was about to ruin you. Right here. Right now.

Your head was laid back against the wall and positioned perfectly for him to nestle his face into your neck.

As he leaned into you, he squeezed your nipples harder and started to move his face lower to where he was eye level with your breasts.

He then slowly opened his soft lips and met each nipple with them, sucking on each of them one at a time, while simultaneously rubbing the other one that was not in his mouth and pinching on it.

You were becoming weaker by the second.

You then pressed the entirety of your body and weight against the wall.

Had he put his fingers inside of you, you would have completely made a mess, and most likely would have completed your orgasm right there.

As you were getting lost in the feeling, the sound of the elevator letting you know that help is 10 minutes away. You watched yourself in the mirrors, watching his actions.

As he was pulling away from your breasts he gave them both one more bite on each nipple as you let out a moan.

He then hooked the waistband of your pants with his fingers, as you pulled, tugged and shimmied them over your hips and onto the ground. You were still sitting on the couch in the elevator as he went back to kneeling before you.

He then licked and kissed your inner thigh, leaving a trail of warm wetness on your skin. You squirmed and cooed as he got closer to your crotch, only to have you switch legs and start from the bottom again.

After what felt like years, he reached his destination and kissed your pussy against your underwear.

“D-Fuck, don’t tease me,” you pleaded as he withdrew his mouth. He then looked up at you, admiring you with a sly grin on his face.

“We have 10 minutes, isn’t that plenty of time?,” he asked. He then paused to plant kisses on your upper thighs and your lower stomach. “And I plan on making this last. Now, just relax, please.”

He stood up to kiss you and rubbed your pussy with the palm of his hand. Your panties were not wet anymore, they were all but soaked through. He then pressed two fingers in between your lower lips, eliciting a hungry moan. Your tongue slid into his mouth as your hands found his hard cock. You cupped his balls and stroked the shaft through his pants as he continued to finger you through your underwear.

He then broke the kiss and moved his hand under your front pantyline. His fingers moving over to your clit and dipped into your moist sex.

“What if the maintenance saw you now?” He nibbled on your earlobe, fingers still exploring between your legs. “Would they know how naughty you are, begging for me to fuck your wet pussy?”

“No… I- hope not…” you bucked a little against his fingers, trying to increase the friction.

You trailed off bitting your lip. Your hips moving faster against his fingers. As you gripped the couch with one hand while groping his stiff package with the other.

You pulled his t-shirt over his head. Taking the hint, he grabbed your underwear and pulled them down over your feet.

You’re now completely naked, perched on a couch inside an elevator, with your legs spread. You reached in and pulled his dick out of his boxers, stroking it slowly but with a firm grip.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said before stopping yourself. “Right here.”

He didn’t have to be asked again. Already slick and lubricated, his thick cock easily slid inside your warm, welcoming cunt. You let out a gasp as his dick probed the depths of your pussy, pressing towards your cervix.

You and him stayed like that for a few seconds, enjoying the moment, before he withdrew himself nearly completely. Then pushing into you again.

You put your arms around him and pulled him into you again. His rhythm increased steadily, much to your delight.

“Y-yes,” you moaned with each thrust, “Yes… just like that…”

You bucked into him as he entered you over and over again, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit. After a few minutes, maybe seconds, you were so so..close to an orgasm, and as if he noticed, he started rubbing your clit between thrusts to send you over the edge.

“YES… YES!” You were starting to get louder, loud enough for anyone on the other side of this elevator could hear. “Keep going… Keep going!”

“Cum for me, love,” he growled, driving his dick into you with new force. “Cum on my cock.”

“OH… OH GOD… D-DICK!” You felt your pussy clench down on his member as an orgasm overtook you. You then wrapped your legs and arms around him, holding him tight and pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

You had just cum, but now you were suddenly focused on getting him off.

A way to say thank you.

He continued to thrust. His voice now strained. “Your pussy feels so fucking good, love.” His bare cock pressed deep into your receptive cunt.

“Yeah?” You said.

“Yeah, love. Shit, you’re going to make me cum,” he warned.

“Cum.” You were whispering at first. You then repeated yourself, louder this time.

He then let out a primal moan thrusting his cock as deep as it could go. You felt his balls throbbed as he pulled out then climaxing.

He then pressed his face to you, this time penetrating your mouth with his tongue. You accepted it eagerly; your tongues danced together in your mouth.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered against him, breath shallow. “You know that?”

He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “You say that like it’s not what turns you on.”

The elevator gave a sudden ding.

Rescue had arrived.

He froze, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting like you’d just run for your lives.

“Saved by the bell,” you said weakly, trying to collect yourself.

He grinned, smug as hell. “For now.”

Then he whispered against your lips, “But when I get you alone again... you’re not leaving until you scream it.”

[stxrsval]

HELWOOO SMOL LIWEL BEIBI may i politely request a fic where draco is so stupidly in love with the reader that he goofy lil ass literally STUMBLES OVER HIS OWN TWO FEET AND TRIPS every.single.time. he sees the reader looking at him LIKE I DONT HAVE THE WORDS TOO EXPRESS HOW UNDENIABLY IN LOVE THIS MAN IS his ass lowk turns into LITERAL GOO (that should definitely be sent to a lab and be studied with scientific precession) EVERY SINGLE DAMN TIME HE SENSES THE READER AROUND HIM 😔 and the reader is very much aware of such and constantly annihilates this poor little soul who clearly cant take more than one ounce of the readers attention THE READER IS ALWAYS ON GUARD THINKING OF WHEN SHE CAN TEASE THIS POOR LITTLE FLUFFBALL.

Thats honestly all my shmoll little brain can think of all day (i absolutely love wimpy and soft on the inside boys)

Hiii! Thanks so much for the request 🫶 it’s a fun concept and I appreciate you sending it in! I’m currently focused on another project, so I probably won’t get to it right now, but I’ll definitely do it or keep it in mind for the futuree!! Again so fun, and cannot wait to start writing it soon 🥰

[stxrsval]

SECRETS MOMENTS IN A CROWDED PLACE - Harry x Reader

𖤐 SUMMARY . . After years of toeing the line between friendship and something more, Harry and Reader finally confront their feelings for each other, but not without misunderstandings, jealousy, and a party that changes everything. From rooftop confessions to a passionate shift in their relationship, this is a friends-to-lovers story with all the fluff, angst, and spice you’ve been waiting for.

𖤐 WORD COUNT . . 6.0k words (I gotta stop writing, like I’m running out of time 😉)

𖤐 WARNINGS . . Friends-to-lovers tension, Emotional angst, Mild language, Oral sex (f. receiving), Rooftop smut (explicit, 18+), Light alcohol mention, One (1) useless man named Paul

𖤐 A/N . . First off, a HUGE thank you to everyone who showed love for the first fic. Y’all really had me smiling like a fool reading the comments 🥹🫶

Second of all… I might be ovulating because the way I was writing this?? Mess. And then I was scrolling and saw those Harry pics—the hair, the face, the hands?? And I said, “Yeah. You’re mine now.” 🤭 Divider Creds - @enchanthings

Night time. 6:30 pm.

“How the fuck did you manage to break your cable?” Harry grunted from beneath the TV stand.

You looked up from your phone, legs curled under you on the couch. “It wasn’t connecting, so I was trying to fix it… then it wouldn’t, and I panicked, so I called you.”

Harry slid his head out just enough to glance up at you, giving you a tired, unamused look. “Brilliant,” he muttered, and rolled his eyes before ducking back under.

You snorted and went back to your phone. Just as you were aimlessly scrolling, a message lit up your screen from Hermione:

Hermione: It’s my birthdayyy, and you’re invited to the party this Saturday! Bring a date 💋🪩🎉

You perked up instantly. “Hermione’s throwing a party,” you announced, smiling. “And she said to bring a date.”

“Mhm,” Harry mumbled, fiddling with the cables.

You paused, staring at the screen thoughtfully. “Maybe I should finally think about dating. Like… getting a boyfriend.”

THUNK.

“Ow—fuck,” Harry cursed sharply, smacking his head against the bottom of the TV stand. He scooted out, rubbing his temple and looking at you with wide eyes. “What?”

You blinked. “What?”

He blinked back. “You said—never mind.”

“Yes, I need a date. Which means,” you paused dramatically, “I need a boyfriend.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still rubbing the spot where he hit his head. “Or… you could just go by yourself.”

You gave him a look. “I go by myself all the time. That’s exactly the problem.”

He leaned against the wall now, arms crossed, watching you too intently. “So what, you’re suddenly allergic to independence?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m allergic to showing up alone every damn year while everyone else has arm candy and I have—” You gestured at him. “—you.”

He smirked. “Ouch.”

“No offense.”

“None taken,” he said casually, but there was something tight in his voice.

You went on, “I can’t bring you again, Harry. You always act like my bodyguard-slash-human lie detector and glare at any man who looks at me for more than two seconds.”

His smirk grew wider, cockier. “Maybe I’m just being protective.”

You snorted. “Protective of what? My single streak?”

“I just think most of those guys were losers,” he shrugged.

“Right,” you said, deadpan. “Totally coincidental that you think every single one of them was a loser.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you. “Maybe you just have bad taste.”

You gasped. “Wow. Rude.”

He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should raise your standards.”

“Right now my standards are anyone with a pulse who won’t ghost me.”

“Sounds promising,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “I’ll either go by myself and flirt my way to a date or scroll on Tinder until I find someone decent. It’s Hermione’s birthday—we’re grown now, I need to stop being the single friend who brings her roommate every year.”

He flinched. “Ouch. Roommate?”

You snickered. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually,” he said, and you didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched slightly as he turned back toward the TV. “Guess I’ll finish fixing this and then leave you to your swiping.”

You tilted your head, noticing the sudden change in his voice. “You good?”

“Peachy.”

He definitely wasn’t.

“Okay then…” you muttered, thumbing open the Tinder app again. After a few minutes of swiping left on guys holding fish and mirror selfies with sunglasses, you sighed dramatically.

“There’s no good person on here. They either fish or look like they cheat.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He was still crouched by the TV stand, but you noticed the glitching had stopped. “That’s nice,” he mumbled, not even looking at you.

You frowned a little but didn’t push it.

“Done,” he finally announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. He grabbed the remote, clicked it, and the screen lit up perfectly.

“Boom. Fixed. Don’t break it again,” he said, handing it over.

You grinned, standing to give him a hug. “You’re like my own little Bob the Builder.”

He gave a small chuckle as you snatched the remote from him and plopped back on the couch. “We could—or should—watch a movie or something,” you offered, patting the spot next to you.

But he didn’t sit.

Instead, he looked at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression; before glancing at the wall clock.

“I think I should get going.”

You blinked. “It’s… seven?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just have a few things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow at the party.”

You tilted your head. “You never leave this early.”

He forced a smile. “Yeah, well. First time for everything.”

You sat there, remote in hand, still watching him.

“Alright then…” you said slowly, standing back up and walking him to the door. “You’re not mad at me or something, right?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Just tired.”

“Okay… well, thanks for fixing my TV.”

“Anytime,” he said, already stepping outside. “Night.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You stared at the door for a second, feeling that weird twist in your stomach. Something wasn’t right. But before you could really place it, your phone buzzed.

A Tinder match.

You sighed and flopped back on the couch.

You looked at the match—Paul.

“He’s cute,” you muttered to yourself, studying his profile.

He had warm brown eyes, a scruffy little beard, and a smile that looked permanently crooked, like he was always up to something.

5’8, loves dogs, horror movies, and making a mean carbonara. Fluent in sarcasm. Probably not a murderer.

You snorted, then tapped Message.

You: hi Paul: hey hey :) Paul: what’s your favorite color You: purple Paul: solid choice. I’m a forest green guy myself. dark n mysterious, y’know Paul: what about food? You: popcorn chicken or chipotle Paul: lmaoo you’re either 12 or elite no in-between You: I contain multitudes 💅

You smiled, kicking your legs a little on the couch. It had been a while since flirting felt easy. He was quick, funny, and cute. This was good.

Paul: so what’s a pretty girl like you doing on tinder? 👀

You blinked.

Before you could answer, the TV unmuted itself.

The volume wasn’t loud, but it was enough to pull you completely out of the moment. You stared at it, heartbeat skipping. That was weird… it had been off.

You reached under you and realized the remote had been sitting beneath your thigh the whole time. Still, the glitch made your mind flash back to earlier—

Harry. Crawling under your TV. His hands. His stupid little smirk when you hugged him. His mood shift when you mentioned getting a boyfriend.

Your stomach did that annoying thing again.

You shook your head. No. Stop.

You grabbed the remote and muted the TV again, then refocused on the app.

You: I need a date to my best friend’s birthday party. Paul: oh snap Paul: 👀 maybe you’d like to go with me?

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

You: first date at a birthday party? bold move Paul: was thinking of dinner first but hey, if you’re inviting me to a party full of strangers, who am I to say no?

You bit your lip, smiling to yourself.

You got a date.

He’s cute. He’s funny. He’s 5’8.

(He’s not 6’0 like Harry.)

You paused.

Why did that matter?

You frowned and tossed your phone on the cushion beside you.

Your mind felt too busy. Like it wouldn’t shut up.

“Whatever,” you muttered aloud, standing to go shower.

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Maybe Paul would be good.

But that little knot in your chest?

It didn’t go anywhere.

Party time.

Harry hadn’t texted you since last night, and the silence was loud. You tried reaching out this morning, casually letting him know you’d found a date for the party. His reply? A single thumbs up.

A thumbs up.

Something was definitely off. For a man who swore communication was key, he was doing an awful job of it lately.

You sighed and pushed the thought away. Paul was picking you up soon, and you were determined to have a great time. The party started in less than an hour—you just needed to finish getting ready. You’d debated wearing jeans and a corset top, something flirty but casual… but your hands kept drifting to the red dress hanging by your closet door.

You didn’t overthink it. Not too much, anyway.

Your makeup was done—warm tones, nothing too heavy. A few swipes of mascara. Lip gloss. A little blush across your nose because why not. You spritzed your perfume—his favorite, but whatever and took one last look in the mirror.

Ding.

You grabbed your bag, assuming it was Paul waiting outside, but froze when you saw the name on your screen.

Harry.

“Hey, sorry for not texting. Happy you got a date. Hermione wanted to know what color you’re wearing for your flower crown.”

Your heart stalled.

Why was your heart stalling?

You stared at the message longer than necessary, then quickly typed back: “Oh um, it’s okay. I’m wearing red.”

He started typing.

Stopped.

Then sent another thumbs up.

You blinked down at your screen, heart sinking. Harry liked red on you. Always did. He was the one who told you to buy that red sweater in winter, the one who said the color “did something insane to your skin tone,” whatever that meant.

You shook your head.

No. It’s just a color. It’s what you had clean. It didn’t mean anything.

The sound of a car horn snapped you out of it. You moved toward the door, peeking out the peephole—Paul.

He was real. And not an old man catfish like your worst fear suggested. You let out a tiny breath of relief, grabbed your keys, bag, and coat, and headed outside, locking the door behind you.

You stepped outside, tugging your coat tighter as the early evening breeze caught the hem of your dress. Paul leaned out the window of his car and waved with that same crooked grin from his profile.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he called, unlocking the doors.

You smiled, grateful for something normal. “Hey yourself.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you smoothed the skirt of your red dress over your thighs. Not too short, not too formal. Soft satin, a little off-shoulder.

“Wow,” Paul said as he gave you a once-over. “Red suits you.”

You forced a small laugh. “Thanks. It’s the only thing clean.”

“Liar,” he smirked, pulling onto the road.

The ride was fine. Paul talked—about a dumb horror movie he watched last night, about his job at the bike shop, about how this was his first time crashing someone else’s friend party. He was easy to talk to, in that way people are when you don’t know them well enough to be hurt by them.

You arrived at Hermione’s house just after seven. Fairy lights blinked around the porch, music thumped inside, and a few people were already out front with red solo cups. You spotted a girl in a sunflower dress waving at someone, and another with glitter on her cheeks walking barefoot through the grass.

“I feel underdressed,” Paul joked, eyeing the casual chaos.

“No such thing. She said ‘vibes,’ not ‘theme.’”

You stepped out of the car, tugging your dress down as the breeze threatened to introduce your thighs to the universe. Paul offered his hand. You hesitated—but took it.

Inside was warmer. Louder. Lavender-scented candles competed with the smell of pizza and perfume. You spotted Ron handing out shots in the kitchen. Hermione was laughing in the living room, a flower crown already tangled in her curls.

She ran up when she saw you, arms open. “You’re here!! And you look so good—oh my god!! I made your crown already!”

You hugged her, feeling that familiar comfort only best friends can give.

“Hey, happy birthday, ‘Mione. This is Paul.”

Paul gave a wave. “Hey. I’ve heard nothing but great things.”

Hermione blinked. “Who…?”

“Long story,” you whispered, smiling.

Then, you felt it. That slow prickle down your spine. That feeling of being watched. Your head turned on instinct.

And there he was.

Harry. By the drink table, dressed in his usual black button-up and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up. A little gold chain at his throat. He had a drink in his hand but wasn’t sipping it. He was looking right at you.

And not at you. At Paul.

Your stomach twisted.

Paul leaned into your ear, “Is that… him?”

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah.”

“He doesn’t look thrilled.”

You forced a smile. “He’s just dramatic.”

You turned back to Hermione. “I’ll grab a drink and meet you in a sec?”

She nodded, clearly picking up on the tension but not pushing it.

Paul wandered off toward the snacks.

You made a beeline for the drinks—but Harry beat you to it.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm, eyes unreadable.

“Hey,” you echoed, grabbing a plastic cup and pretending you weren’t flustered.

“You look nice,” he said, like he meant it. Like it hurt him to say it.

“Thanks. So do you.”

He looked over your shoulder briefly, then back to you. “So… Tinder worked fast, huh?”

You froze.

“Harry—”

“I’m just saying. You found a whole date overnight. Efficient.”

You blinked. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” he said, casually sipping from his cup. “I’m being supportive. Gave a thumbs up and everything.”

“That thumbs up felt like a middle finger.”

He shrugged. “Sorry. I must’ve hit the wrong emoji.”

You stared at him, jaw tight. “You know, if you have something to say, you could just say it.”

He looked down at his cup. “You wouldn’t like what I have to say.”

“Try me.”

His eyes lifted back to yours, and for a second—just a split second—it looked like he might. Like everything was going to spill out right here, between the tequila bottles and the tacky flower garlands.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just said, “Your crown’s on the table,” and walked away.

You stood there and sighed, smoothing down the fabric of your dress. The music was loud, people were laughing, the lights were dimmed and golden—but your nerves were annoyingly sharp.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

You turned, and there was Paul, smiling with a little bag of chips and a cup of punch in his hands. He handed you the chips with a dramatic bow.

“I figured a queen deserves a snack.”

You laughed, “Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

You and Paul chatted for a while, bouncing between dumb party games, his disastrous last Tinder date, and whether pineapple belonged on pizza. He was easy to talk to, funny in a dorky way. You felt calm, even happy.

But the whole time, you felt it, that unmistakable sensation of eyes on you.

You knew exactly who it was.

You didn’t look. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. You focused on Paul. Smiled at his jokes. Nodded when he leaned in a little too close. Pretended you didn’t feel the heat of that stare burning through you like a damn laser beam.

“Hi Paul,” came a familiar voice.

Hermione.

She slid into the conversation effortlessly, wearing a sparkly pink two-piece and a smile that could shatter diamonds. “Lovely name, by the way. Mind if I steal my friend for just a sec?”

Paul smiled politely. “Yeah, of course. See you on the dance floor, gorgeous.”

You giggled despite yourself, nodding at him before letting Hermione grab your wrist and tug you toward the gift table in the corner.

“You look fucking gorgeous,” she said, stopping in front of the glittering display of presents and cupcakes.

You smiled, “So do you, birthday girl.”

“No, like seriously. Do a little spin for me,” she said, twirling her finger like she meant business.

You twirled once, the hem of your red dress flaring slightly as you both giggled like middle schoolers at prom.

“Damn,” she muttered, grabbing your arm again. “That man’s gonna lose his mind.”

You frowned. “What man?”

“Paul?” came a voice from behind you.

You froze.

You turned slowly, already feeling the heat creep up your neck.

Harry stood there, casually holding two drinks like he hadn’t just materialized out of nowhere and dropped a bomb on your chest.

“The one you brought as your date,” he said, nodding toward Paul across the room.

Your heart thudded.

“Oh,” you managed, a little too quickly. “Right. Yeah. I mean—of course. He’s my date.”

Harry’s gaze was unreadable. Calm, cool, frustratingly neutral. His curls were messier than usual, a thin chain peeking out from the collar of his black button-down. He looked like trouble. Like secrets. Like late-night conversations you weren’t ready to unpack.

“Here,” he said, holding out one of the drinks. “Hermione said you like these. Sparkling apple with a splash of cranberry.”

You took it before you could say no. “Thanks…”

“Thought I’d try being the nice friend today,” he added lightly, but there was something sharp under his words. Almost teasing. Almost not.

Hermione raised her brows slightly, then cleared her throat. “I’m gonna…go make sure no one’s lighting sparklers inside again.”

She disappeared without another word, leaving you alone with him.

You took a sip of the drink, mostly to avoid having to look at him for a second too long. He didn’t move.

“So…” you said finally. “Nice party, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, eyes flicking over your dress just for a second before he looked away. “Red suits you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

You should’ve changed.

“Well, your date’s flirting with another woman,” Harry said, his tone flat.

Your stomach twisted as you followed his gaze across the room. Sure enough, Paul was at the drinks table, leaned in close to some pretty girl in a low-cut dress, both of them giggling. You watched as he touched her arm lightly—then disappeared with her toward the hallway.

“What the fuck…” you muttered, your throat tightening. You blinked hard, anger and embarrassment bubbling under your skin. Paul, really? He couldn’t just be decent for one night?

Harry didn’t even look at him. He leaned casually against the gift table, sipping from his drink like this wasn’t a bomb he just dropped. “Maybe I should’ve picked your date for you.”

You snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. But sharp.

“Oh, fuck off, Harry,” you said, finally turning to face him fully. “You’ve been acting like a fucking child since yesterday, and I still don’t know what the hell is wrong with you.”

He straightened a bit, surprised by the shift in your voice.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said tightly.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” you scoffed. “You fixed my TV, then ghosted me all day. No texts, no calls, no snarky morning meme…nothing. I had to text you. Do you not want to be my friend anymore or something?”

He took a deep breath, chest rising slow. His eyes were on yours now. No smile. No smirk. Just that look—the one he gets when he’s about to say something irreversible.

“Yes,” he said.

Your heart stopped.

“What?” you whispered.

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

The words were quiet, but they hit like a slap.

You blinked, stunned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I can’t do this—be your best friend and watch you go on dates with guys like him, or flirt with strangers in front of me, or pretend like I don’t—”

He cut himself off.

You stared. “Like you don’t what?”

He looked away, shaking his head like the words were trying to escape on their own.

“Harry,” you said, voice low. “Say it.”

He looked at you, just for a second, then over your shoulder at the wall like it suddenly held all the answers.

His eyes flicked away again, and his shoulders slumped.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Didn’t mean all that. I think I’m just going through some… mood swings or something.”

Before you could say anything, he set his drink down on the table with a quiet clink and turned away.

“Harry—”

But he was already walking off, disappearing out the front door without a glance back.

You stood there in stunned silence, chest burning.

What the actual fuck is wrong with this man?

Your date ditched you for another girl. Your best friend just told you he didn’t want to be your friend—and then acted like it never happened. And you were standing at a party alone, spinning in the wreckage of it all.

You swallowed a lump in your throat, blinking fast, but it was no use. The tears were coming. You felt the pressure build until your chest ached.

Grabbing your bag, you turned and walked away—pushing past guests, music, and laughter like it was all happening in a different world. You climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop, your only refuge.

The sky greeted you like a quiet friend—dark, speckled with stars. It should’ve made you feel better.

It didn’t.

You tossed your bag onto a cushioned lounge chair, kicked off your shoes, and plopped down hard. The tears broke loose, fast and hot. Your face was already wet before you could stop them, your breath catching on each sob.

“Stupid,” you whispered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

You curled into yourself, hands fisting the edge of the cushion, heart raw.

Then—shuffling.

You froze.

The rooftop was supposed to be empty. You wiped at your eyes, trying to blink through the blurry streaks.

A figure stepped closer, and you couldn’t quite see—until he spoke.

“I left to get some snacks for one second,” Harry’s voice said softly, “and you were gone.”

You sniffled. “What do you want, Harry.”

He didn’t say anything at first. You heard the sound of napkins rustling—then felt the cushion dip slightly under his weight.

“I just…” he let out a sigh, kneeling down in front of you. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to.

But you did.

And the moment your eyes met his, his whole face softened—his brows knitting, his jaw twitching like he hated seeing you like this.

He reached up with the napkins and gently patted your tear-streaked cheeks, slow and careful.

You hated that it felt so good.

“You didn’t deserve tonight,” he murmured. “None of it.”

You laughed bitterly. “Yeah, no shit.”

“I mean it.”

You stared at him, blinking as more tears welled up despite yourself. “You said you didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

He hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper: “I lied.”

You exhaled sharply, a small sob hitching in your throat. “You’re so fucking confusing, Harry.”

“I know.”

“Why’d you say it?”

He dropped his eyes for a second before looking back up at you, like he was tired of hiding. “Because being just your friend hurts.”

The air between you shifted again—like it was heavy with everything unspoken.

You let the silence stretch.

“Then what are we?” you finally asked, voice cracking.

He reached out slowly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye to catch another tear. “But I know I can’t be your friend anymore.”

You blinked at him. “If we’re not friends… do you hate me?”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “I could never hate you. Quite the opposite, actually.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing just a bit as the puzzle started coming together. The staring. The attitude. The sudden distance. The heartbreak in his voice. And then—

“You… you like me,” you said, confused, the words barely above a whisper.

Harry looked at you for a long second, his face unreadable.

“I don’t like you,” he said.

The breath you were holding dropped from your chest, and for a moment, you thought—thank goodness. Until—

“I love you.”

The words landed like a sucker punch. He got up slowly, walking toward the edge of the rooftop, where the stone barrier overlooked the street below. He leaned his hands against it, head tilted back toward the sky. The moonlight painted him silver and soft.

“I love you a lot, actually,” he continued, voice low and steady. “I love your smile. Your voice. Your Chipotle obsession. The way you sing in the car, even when you’re offbeat as hell. I love the color red on you. I love how you rub your necklace when you’re nervous. And how you play with your fingers when you’re lying.”

Your breath hitched.

“I love the way you always say you’re fine when you’re absolutely not. And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say this. But I can’t just be your friend anymore. Not when I feel like this.”

You sat there frozen, the breeze sweeping your curls across your face, heart racing so loud it drowned out the city noise below. You didn’t know what to say. Your body hadn’t caught up to your mind yet. Harry. Potter. Loves. You.

You didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. You just stared at him, lips parted, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest. The air felt heavier now, like it was holding its breath right alongside you.

Harry turned to face you slowly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t—”

“No. Stop it.” The words left your mouth sharp and fast. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He blinked, confused. You stepped forward, your voice soft but shaking with the force of everything you hadn’t said until now.

“I’m sorry I never realized. I liked you too, Harry. I liked you so much, but you were always so serious—so hard to read. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to ruin what we had, so I said nothing. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.”

You were standing now, barefoot on the rooftop, walking toward him with each word. The breeze danced around you, catching the hem of your dress, the streetlights below casting golden shadows.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You do?” he asked.

“I do,” you said, nodding once. “I don’t show it because you never showed it. But I do love you. So much. You make me feel like the happiest girl on earth, even when you’re just existing in the same room as me—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Harry stepped forward in a rush and grabbed your waist, pulling you into him, his hands warm and certain, and kissed you.

His lips crashed into yours with the urgency of someone who had waited years. It wasn’t soft or tentative, it was messy and real and overflowing with everything he had held back.

You kissed him back with just as much force, your hands sliding up into his hair, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid to let go.

The kiss slowed after a moment, turning tender. He pulled back just a little, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your cheek again, softer this time.

You smiled, breathless, dazed. “Then do it again.”

You weren’t sure who leaned in first this time. Maybe it was both of you, pulled together like magnets after years of pretending you weren’t completely drawn to each other.

His lips were back on yours, slower now, deeper, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands gripped your waist again, pulling you impossibly closer, until there was no space left between you.

You gasped a little when his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower—his breath hot against your neck. “Harry,” you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice.

He hummed, a sound that vibrated against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his hand gently running down your spine.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, more urgently this time, walking you backwards until the back of your knees hit the lounge chair. You sank into it, your fingers tugging him down with you. He didn’t hesitate—settling between your legs, his mouth never leaving yours, like he was starved for this. For you.

“Been thinking about this,” he muttered between kisses, his voice thick. “For so long.”

You couldn’t even speak. Your mind was all heat and motion and him. His hands roamed your sides, slow at first, testing, then with more confidence as you arched into his touch. Every brush of his fingers sent sparks racing under your skin.

He pulled back just slightly, looking down at you eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Are you sure?” he asked, breathing heavy. “Because if we do this… it’s not casual. Not for me.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek. “I don’t want casual, Harry. I want you.”

His eyes dropped to your lips, then down further—to the way your dress clung to your curves in the soft rooftop light. His voice came out low, almost like a growl. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to rip this fucking dress off you.”

You giggled, heat rising to your cheeks. “It was either red or purple.”

He smirked, brushing his fingers lightly down your arm. “Red does something to me when it’s on you.”

Before you could reply, his lips were on yours again—hot, claiming. His hand slid down your back, fingers finding the zipper of your dress. He moved slowly, deliberately, tugging it down inch by inch while his mouth never left yours. The soft sound of the zipper felt loud in your ears, your heart beating faster with every second.

As the fabric loosened around your shoulders, you shivered, not from the cool air, but from his touch. His hands were steady, reverent, like he’d been dreaming of this moment for years and wasn’t about to rush a second of it.

He pulled back just enough to slip the straps off your shoulders, the dress falling down your body like water. His breath hitched when you stood there in nothing but your underwear and bra, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed under the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes raking over every inch of you. “You’re unreal.”

You suddenly felt shy under his gaze, arms instinctively crossing over your chest, but he stepped forward and gently pulled your hands away. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

Your lips parted to say something, but he was already kissing you again—this time slower, deeper, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. He lowered you back onto the lounge chair, his body pressed against yours, warm and solid.

His hands explored your body like he’d been waiting for permission, like he was finally allowed to touch where he always wanted but never dared. He kissed your collarbone, your shoulders, the swell of your chest, his mouth painting a trail of fire down your skin.

You gasped when he dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your stomach, then another just below your navel. He hooked his fingers into the fabric at your hips, pausing—waiting for any sign you didn’t want this.

But you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, like it hurt to say it out loud. Like he’d been holding it in for too long.

He leaned in slowly, kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other, drawing a shaky breath from your lips. You grabbed the edge of the lounge chair behind you for balance, heart racing as he nudged your legs apart and settled between them.

The first brush of his tongue was soft. Careful. Testing. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. But then he did it again, with more pressure, more purpose, and you let out a soft, broken sound you didn’t know you could make.

Harry groaned against you like the taste of you was something he’d craved for years. His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips gently but firmly, keeping you steady as he worked—slow at first, letting you feel every flick, every swirl, every kiss he gave you there.

It wasn’t just lust. It was worship.

He paid attention to every gasp, every shift of your hips, learning what made you tremble, what made you whisper his name like a prayer. When you reached down, fingers tangling in his hair, he moaned again, like he was the one unraveling.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured between kisses, lips slick and voice wrecked. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your knees nearly gave out. He pulled you closer, mouth greedy now, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough—like he never would. Stars spun in your vision, and you could feel your release building fast, overwhelming and warm and all-consuming.

“Harry,” you gasped, your voice high and desperate.

He only hummed in response, sucking gently, just right, and your whole body seized with pleasure. You came with a cry, clinging to him, breath shattered, vision blurred. He held you through it, slow and tender, kissing your thighs as you came down, whispering something soft you couldn’t make out over the pounding of your heart.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with a crooked, dazed smile, like you’d just made his entire world spin.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “And I’d do it a hundred times over, if you’ll let me.”

You pulled him up and kissed him like your life depended on it.

Because maybe, in a way, it did.

His head dropped to your neck, lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you just yet—like he needed this part too, the quiet after. You sighed, fingers combing gently through his messy hair.

Ding.

You both flinched. Your phone lit up with a notification on the table behind you.

Harry turned his head just enough to glance at the screen, already knowing.

Paul.

He groaned, dramatically loud this time, flopping back on the lounge chair like the mere mention of that man physically pained him. “He sucks,” he grumbled, dragging a hand over his face.

You let out a breathless laugh, still catching your bearings. “He wasn’t even my real date,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just filler. Should’ve brought you instead.”

Harry looked at you then, really looked. “You can’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.” You smiled, leaning over him, fingers tracing lazy shapes across his bare chest. “You were the only person I wanted to bring.”

His lips quirked into that familiar smirk, the one that always made your stomach flip. “Guess I’ll be your date to everything now. Family weddings, dentist appointments, midnight Taco Bell runs—locked in.”

You laughed again, then sighed, quietly. “So… what are we now?”

He sat up slightly, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb across your jaw. “We’re whatever you want us to be.”

Your heart squeezed.

“Are we… boyfriend and girlfriend now?” you asked softly, searching his face.

Harry leaned in, kissed you slow and sweet, lips still tasting like the night you just shared. Then he pulled back just enough to whisper, “We’re whatever you want to be.”

He reached down, found your dress on the ground, and zipped it back up for you with slow, careful fingers. When he finished, he kissed your shoulder.

You smiled, heart full.

And under the stars, on that quiet rooftop, you knew there was no turning back.

Not with Harry.

Not anymore.

[stxrsval]

ALL THIS TIME I DIDN’T KNOW - Draco x Reader

᪤ SUMMARY . . After months of silence, a familiar face appears in the middle of the night ~ Draco Malfoy, older, sharper, and just as difficult to forget. You haven’t spoken since the messy end of a relationship that burned too hot too fast, and now he’s here, claiming he never stopped loving you. ᪤ WORD COUNT . . 5.9k words (crazy for a first story) !! ᪤ WARNINGS . . emotional angst, past cheating (not between main characters), messy breakup, vulnerable reunion, explicit smut, heavy emotions, post-Hogwarts setting, soft!Draco, regret & yearning, crying during kissing, reader has backbone, library scenes, emotional comfort, hotel reunion, slow burn then fast burn. ᪤ A/N . . spent the whole night writing this instead of sleeping 😭 this is my first fic so i’m kinda scared to share it but also like?? i cried writing this?? Draco’s so hot it’s insane. best believe he was gonna get his girl back. Divider Credits - @enchantings 💌

Another night.

That’s what you told yourself—you’ll get over it.

It’s been a year and a half now, and somehow, you’re still not.

Everywhere you go, you see his face. His smile. His hair—the same hair you used to run your fingers through.

The memories come back in waves, relentless and sharp.

It’s over. It’s fine, you whisper.

You’re happier now. So is he.

He and his girlfriend are thriving in London, while you rot in Sweden.

Love was the most beautiful thing you ever experienced.

Heartbreak? Not so much.

The sun sinks just below the horizon, and the moon rises quietly behind the clouds. You shouldn’t be upset—not really. You don’t even have the right to cry.

You ended it.

So why does it still hurt like this? Why does it feel like you’re unraveling?

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts.

Draco.

You freeze.

It stops.

Then rings again.

He wouldn’t call twice unless it was serious… right?

What if she’s hurt? What if it’s worse?

Your thumb hovers before you finally swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Hey. Was starting to think I had the wrong number…Sorry for calling so late and out of nowhere. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice.

You hate how much you missed it—soft, careful, like he’s trying not to break you again.

You shift on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you let me in first?”

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’d hope I’m not at the wrong address.”

Your heart skips.

You get up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long in your own misery.

Peeking through the peephole, you nearly drop your phone.

He’s outside.

Here.

Draco Malfoy is standing at your front door.

Your hands are shaking when you unlock it.

And when you open the door, your breath catches.

You open the door to see your ex, your best friend, your everything, standing right there in front of you.

His usual polished look is gone. His blond hair, once so perfectly styled, is a ruffled mess. His eyes look tired—maybe red around the edges. Maybe he was crying. Or maybe not. Draco doesn’t cry.

But everything about him feels unraveled. Like he came apart somewhere between London and here.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he says back with a small smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

You blink, like that might help you make sense of this. “I’m not sure why I should. Why are you even here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be in London.”

He sighs, slow and deep. “You always asked too many questions. That’s what I loved about you.”

Your heart skips.

You cross your arms, trying not to let the words sink in. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting away for a second before meeting yours again.

“Me and Vanessa broke up.”

You stare.

He lets out a short laugh, dry and tired. “She cheated on me. Can you believe that? The woman who drained my vault on handbags and dinners couldn’t even do me the courtesy of breaking up first.”

You can only blink. What.

“She said I was ‘distant.’” He lifts his hands like he’s done trying to make sense of it. “Maybe I was.” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes, confused. “When did this happen?”

He pauses. “Four hours ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“I took the first flight here,” he says, voice softening. “Theo’s in Sweden, thought maybe I’d crash at his, but he and his boyfriend are out on some romantic dinner. So I sat in that hotel room, alone, just… thinking. And suddenly, I thought of you.”

Your breath catches.

“What could the girl who broke my heart be up to?” he says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “I really tried not to come here, love.” The nickname makes something in you hitch. “I swear I did. But next thing I know, I’m out the door, phone in my hand, driving way over the speed limit. And now I’m here. Outside your house. Telling you me and my ex broke up. What a night, huh? Feels like a dream. Or a sick joke.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“And here I am, to ask the one question I never got an answer to.” His voice is lower now, like it’s trying not to break. “Why did you break up with me, hm?”

The question slams into you like a wave.

Everything you’ve worked to rebuild, the peace, the routine, the silence—it all begins to crack. Slowly, painfully.

You don’t speak right away.

The question lingers between you both, heavy and dangerous.

“Why did you break up with me?” he repeats, quieter now.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. Your throat burns. You try to form the words, but nothing sounds right. So you look away.

“This house,” you say. “I should’ve sold it. I tried, I really tried. But everything happened here.”

He blinks, confused. You step back into the doorway like the memories are starting to breathe again.

“Your toothbrush is still in the drawer,” you whisper. “There’s still flour on the ceiling from that time you thought you could bake. And every damn time I walk past that couch—” your voice breaks, “I still feel your hands in my hair.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him, finally.

“You kissed me for the first time in this house, remember? That stupid truth or dare game, after the war, when we were all pretending to be friends and healing and moving on like we didn’t nearly kill each other.” You exhale shakily. “You kissed me and I hated you for it. Then hated myself for not hating it enough.”

A long pause.

You let the silence swallow your next thought before it forces itself out anyway.

“You were everything I didn’t want to love. You were selfish and proud and messy and—”

“And you loved me,” he finishes for you, eyes glassy.

“Exactly,” you whisper. “And that’s why I left.”

He blinks, stunned. “What—?”

“I loved you so much I forgot how to breathe without you. I stopped going out with friends. Stopped painting. Stopped living my own life. I was drowning in you. In us. And you didn’t even notice.” You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“And maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” you continue, “but you weren’t over her, either. Not really. Not Hermione, not Pansy, not any of them. You were trying so hard to be someone else, someone I could build a future with, but I think… I think you were still just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth.

“You broke my heart,” you say, softer now. “But I broke yours first, didn’t I?”

He steps closer.

“What?” His voice is low.

“I couldn’t love myself,” you breathe. “I couldn’t find myself without thinking of you. And yeah, maybe it sounds poetic—‘oh, she lived and breathed for him’—but it wasn’t romantic, Draco. It was suffocating. I stopped being me. I only knew you.”

His jaw tenses, but you don’t stop.

“I did what was healthy. I had to leave. I told myself it was the right thing, and I held onto that until my fingers bled.”

You swallow hard, eyes glassy now.

“And even then, I wasn’t sure. For weeks, I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was stupid, maybe I’d made the worst mistake of my life. So I went to your place. I wanted to talk. I wanted to try—”

You laugh.

“But there you were. Tongue-fucking Vanessa on that stupid couch.”

His eyes widen. “You saw—?”

“It broke me a little,” you say, voice trembling. “But it really shouldn’t have, right? We were done. You didn’t cheat on me. You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

“But still—”

“Still!” you snap. “Still, I stood there in your hallway, holding your favorite chocolate like some idiot. And you were already over me. Already inside someone else like I never even existed. So yeah, I left. Quietly..”

Draco swallows hard.

“It’s completely valid,” you go on, voice tight. “You moved on. You were allowed to. But it made me wonder—that fast? Was I that easy to forget? That replaceable?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your cheek roughly with your sleeve. “And now you’re here. Months later. Telling me she cheated and you thought of me. Like.. like I’m your backup plan.”

“That’s not fair,” he says voice a bit louder. “Don’t you dare reduce what we had to that.”

“Then what is this?” you shout, chest heaving. “You didn’t fight for me, Draco! You let me go. You didn’t show up. You didn’t write. You didn’t even ask why. You just ran into her arms like I never fucking mattered! And yeah, I did break up with you, BUT I needed to find myself. I WAS losing myself.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” he shouts, voice cracking. “I was so tired! I couldn’t fix you, I couldn’t fix me, I was drowning too, and all I saw was the look on your face when you said goodbye.”

You let out a sigh.

“It killed me,” he says, softer now. “That day ruined me. You walked out with no warning, no explanation, and I—I didn’t have the strength to chase you.”

He takes another step, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“I thought Vanessa would distract me. I thought I could forget. But every time I kissed her, it tasted like ashes. Every time I touched her, I imagined you flinching away. And I hated myself for it.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but you stand firm.

“Then why are you here?” you whisper. “Why now?”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because even after all the mess, even after the silence and the pain—you’re still the only one who ever made me feel real.”

You can’t breathe.

He looks like he’s about to say more—but you step back.

“I can’t do this, Draco. I can’t be your second chance when I was never your first priority.”

Silence.

And then—slam.

You close the door.

You’re sitting in a tiny café tucked away in a quiet corner of Stockholm, a place you used to visit when homesickness crept in. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom fills the air, but you can’t taste anything. Your tea is barely touched.

Hermione eyes you from across the table, lips pursed over her cup like she’s bracing herself.

“So… he showed up?” she finally says.

You nod, stirring your tea, watching the swirl of milk.

“And?”

You exhale, leaning back in your chair. “He said Vanessa cheated. Called me right after. Showed up to my house. I thought I imagined it.”

Hermione stays quiet, letting you talk.

“He looked awful. Like he hadn’t slept. Hair all over the place. That stupid half-smile he does when he’s trying to act fine.”

“And you let him in?” she asks, softly.

You nod again. “We fought. I cried. I told him the truth… why I ended things. That I couldn’t find myself. That I only knew how to breathe if he told me how.”

Hermione’s eyes drop, like she remembers exactly what that feels like.

She sighs. “When I dated him… it wasn’t pretty. Constantly. He’d show up for me in one moment and push me away the next. I thought maybe he didn’t know how to be soft with anyone.”

You glance up, heart heavy.

“But with you,” she continues, her voice quieter, “I saw something different. You softened him. Not in a weak way—just… more himself. He laughed more. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid in front of you. And he let himself be cared for.”

That ache in your chest twists.

“I think… I think you were the first person he trusted with all of him. Even the ugly parts.” Hermione pauses. “And that terrified him.”

You blink, tears stinging again, but you won’t cry.

“Truth is,” Hermione says, setting her cup down, “he might’ve been happier with you than he’s ever been.”

You whisper, “I was the only one drowning.”

Her smile is sad. “Maybe you both were. Just in different oceans.”

Mm.

After Hermione left, you wandered the cobbled streets for a while, letting the morning breeze clear your head. There’s a strange comfort in Stockholm’s quiet corners—where magic feels distant, like a dream you once had and can’t quite remember.

You open up the library earlier than usual.

No one’s there yet, just the scent of old pages and wood polish. You inhale deeply. This place is your sanctuary. Before anything else, you brew yourself a small pot of coffee—your favorite beans, the ones you hide in the staff cabinet behind the herbal teas.

You take your mug to the back stacks, where no one will bother you, and begin your morning ritual: organizing the returned books, restocking shelves, checking the inventory system, placing a small order for a shipment of new titles you’ve been dying to get your hands on.

Finally, you curl into your reading nook, worn armchair under the skylight, the city just a whisper outside. A new romance novel rests in your lap. It’s cheesy and dramatic and absolutely what you need.

You’re so absorbed you don’t even hear the door until a deep voice says, casually:

“Don’t stop on my account.”

You jump. Hard.

“What the hell?” you say, half scared, half defensive, clutching the book to your chest. “Why are you here?”

Draco Malfoy, fully reclining against the archway like he owns the place—shrugs, completely unbothered. “Scarlett let me in.”

You glance across the room. Sure enough, Mrs. Scarlett, the sweet old Muggle lady who runs community book club nights, is humming softly to herself while sweeping. She doesn’t even look your way.

You squint. “You sure you didn’t… do something to her?”

He raises his hands. “I don’t do that anymore, love.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname again, and you groan. “Stop calling me that.”

He ignores you. “I told her I needed a book badly. Which is true.”

You exhale through your nose. “What book?”

He smirks, steps forward, and plucks your book from your lap without asking. “Apparently… this one.”

You grab for it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flips a few pages dramatically, skimming. “Oh wow. They’re kissing already? This author doesn’t believe in pacing, do they?”

You lean forward, snatching the book back. “Shut up. This is the good part.”

He sits beside you, knees bumping yours as if that’s normal now. “You really work here?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “Been here nearly a year. It’s quiet. Smells like paper. That’s hard to come by.”

He lets that settle, watching you for a second. “You always loved books.”

You shrug. “They don’t leave.”

That hangs in the air like a pin dropped in water.

He tries again, lighter. “So, librarian by day. What about at night? Still writing poetry and baking cakes no one gets to eat?”

You glance at him sideways. “I still write. The cakes… not so much.”

“Shame,” he says, nudging you gently. “Your lemon ones could’ve ended wars.”

You let out a reluctant laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, voice quieter now.

You look away first. He always made it hard to hold eye contact when he meant something.

There’s a long silence between you, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Finally, he mutters, “You gonna kick me out, librarian?”

You roll your eyes and sip your coffee. “If you try anything to my pages, I’ll hex you.”

He grins like it’s the first real smile he’s worn in days.

“Noted.”

He shifts beside you, fidgeting with a paperclip from the desk. You glance over, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw—he’s growing bored, or maybe just restless.

You sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still never told me why you’re here.”

He looks up.

Not just at you. Through you.

His eyes trace your lips for a second too long before finding yours again. “Missed you,” he says simply. “Couldn’t sleep after last night. I don’t think I slept at all, really.”

Your heart thuds, soft and slow. You smile—just a tiny one. It barely stretches your mouth, but it’s real.

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your composure. You close your book, slip it under your arm, and head to the front desk to check it out for yourself. Your hands move by habit—scan, stamp, slide.

Behind you, Draco’s watching.

“I learned something recently,” you say, still facing the desk. “I can show you, if you’re not in a rush to ruin someone else’s peace today.”

He smirks and follows without hesitation. “Lead the way, love.”

You guide him down a quiet hallway behind the staff area. It smells like cedar and printer ink, and the air is cooler here. At the end of the hall is a locked door that leads to a secret room only staff have access to—meant for archiving older, rarer books.

You unlock it with your key, flip on the warm amber lights overhead, and step inside.

Rows of shelves tower around you, dust dancing in sunbeams that slice through the stained-glass skylight. But in the center of the room sits a magic circle—chalked faintly into the wood beneath a glass dome, drawn with careful lines and symbols.

“I learned to enchant the air in here,” you say, stepping into the middle of the circle. “Just a little charm. Makes sound… feel like a hug. Hard to explain.”

He follows you, his eyes moving over the circle, then to you. “You always were strange.”

You grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm. “Takes one to know one.”

You reach out and murmur a soft incantation—something you picked up in a buried old spellbook from the reserve section. Instantly, the space around you changes. Not in temperature or light, but in feeling.

Warmth settles over your shoulders. Like someone draping a blanket across your back.

Draco shivers. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “That’s…”

“Comforting,” you finish.

He nods, swallowing. His voice is quiet again. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you. Not like he’s studying you—but like he remembers you. All at once. All of it.

You don’t look away this time. You’re too wrapped in the moment. The quietness. The proximity.

It just… happens.

His hand brushes yours.

You turn to say something, and your noses almost touch. Your breath hitches.

Then he leans in.

His lips meet yours—soft, slow, like a secret being passed between hearts. The kiss doesn’t ask permission. It just is.

And it aches.

Because it feels like home.

And you miss him.

But you also remember why you left.

You pull away first—gasping lightly, like you forgot how to breathe.

He blinks, stunned. “You okay—?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I can’t—”

You step back, one hand to your lips, the other to your chest.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, turning toward the door, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “We can’t do this. We’re not dating. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you and her broke up—Draco, I will not be the one to experience that pain again. Not after everything I went through just watching you be with someone else.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “This isn’t the same.”

You scoff bitterly, wiping under your eye. “No, of course not. This time I’m the other woman—not even the one you chose.”

He steps forward. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” you snap. “And you know it. We did love, Draco. And we loved too fast, too hard, and somewhere in all that chaos we forgot to be people. We forgot to breathe. We didn’t even experience ourselves—we just tried to fix each other.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

You shake your head, heart pounding in your ears. “It is when it burns everything else to the ground.”

You turn to leave. You have to.

But he grabs your hand.

Not roughly. Not like a demand. Like he’s begging without words.

You try to pull away, your voice rising. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I don’t want to do this again?”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand,” he snaps, eyes flashing, “that I love you?”

The silence hits like a punch.

Your eyes burn, and your throat tightens. “Because you don’t do love, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping back—but he doesn’t let go. “Last time you tried, it broke both of us. You shut down, you drank too much, you let everything fester. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me, not really, not unless it was in the dark, when no one could see.”

He flinches.

You take a shaky breath. “Why are you even here? Why can’t you just—just leave me alone?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then…

“I am,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tomorrow.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t stay away from London too long,” he mutters.

You freeze, only now realizing his fingers were still wrapped around yours. His hand drops.

“What…” Your voice trembles. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw clenching.

“I lied.”

Your heart skips.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

“I lied,” he says again, eyes finally meeting yours. “Me and Vanessa broke up months ago.”

You stare.

“I’ve been coming to Sweden for weeks now. Months, really. Looking for you. Places you used to go. Scarlett knew. That’s why she let me in without asking. I know what coffee you drink now—after you stopped using that awful vanilla syrup you always had with me. I know your schedule. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I still see you.”

He pauses, breath shaking. “Yes, Vanessa cheated. Yes, it hurt. But nothing hurts like missing you. I tried everything. Drinking, smoking, working nonstop, none of it worked. I kept trying to replace you, but it just made the hole bigger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“I miss you,” he says, almost whispering now. “I need you. I’m not asking for anything—I know I hurt you. I know we burned it all down. But what else do I do? Pretend I never knew you? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me wasn’t you?”

Your hands start to shake again.

“I came here because I needed to say goodbye,” he finishes, backing toward the door. “I think it’s time I end my chapter. My obsession. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. And I can’t bear to keep watching us exist like this—knowing nothing is ever going to change.”

He opens the staff room door.

And walks out.

Leaving you standing in a dim, quiet archive, your chest heaving, heart bleeding through the cracks you thought you’d sealed shut.

You finally leave the room, head spinning, heart gutted, and sink into one of the bean bags. It swallows you whole. A moment passes before Scarlett comes up behind you, startling you again.

“He left you something,” she says, handing you a piece of paper. “That boy really loves you,” she adds softly, then walks away.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mutter, fingers threading through your hair as you sigh.

You stare at the note. Then you unfold it.

I’m not sure if we’ll talk about everything today, but I really needed to see you and explain before I go back to London. I want to start with how much I love you. Your smile, your eyes, everything from head to toe- makes me smile and feel warm every time I see you. I miss you. So much. And I regret every day I didn’t chase you, didn’t beg harder. Because I’ve realized… I can’t live without you. If we haven’t talked again before you read this, my flight leaves at 10 p.m. I’m staying at a hotel 20 minutes from your house. It’s okay if you don’t come. But if you do… a chapter will close, and a new one will open.

Tears fall before you even realize they’ve escaped.

You glance at the clock. 6 p.m.

If his flight leaves at 10, he could already be back at the hotel. The library isn’t far from your house… right?

You hesitate.

Then you grab your bag, wave goodbye to Scarlett, and pull out your phone. You search for hotels within twenty minutes of your house, about ten minutes from the library.

There were two hotels, twenty minutes from your house, and the first one you found—the nicer one—had glowing yellow lights beaming through the front lobby. You practically fell through the doors, out of breath.

The lady at the front desk blinked at you. “Do you need a room, miss?”

“No, I—” you held up your phone with a shaking hand, pulling up your notes. “I’m looking for someone. Draco Malfoy. He’s staying here, I think.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we don’t give out guest information.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just tell me if he checked in.”

A pause. Her face softened. “Room 306. Left elevator.”

You didn’t even thank her properly. You bolted to the elevator, smacking the “up” button again and again like it would hurry the universe along. When the doors finally opened, your reflection was a wreck.

You made it to the third floor and stood in front of the door.

Room 306.

You raised your hand to knock, but it shook. Then lowered it. Raised it again.

Before you could even touch the door, it opened. Of course he’d heard your steps, your breathing. He always knew when it was you.

Draco stood there in a black shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting..knowing.

“I—” you started, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

“I didn’t know which hotel it was,” you said, breathless. “I just guessed.”

“And you guessed right.” He stepped aside. “Come in?”

You nodded.

The room smelled like old cologne and tea. You saw a single suitcase by the desk, half-packed. His wand rested beside it, untouched. The window was cracked open, the rain whispering against the glass.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted, standing stiffly by the door. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You never are when it comes to me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a lie. I’ve been wrong about us before.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a single thing you were saying. “What does this mean then? You coming here?”

You stepped closer, the rain still dripping off the hem of your coat. “I don’t know yet. I just—” you swallowed hard. “I needed to see if you meant it. What you wrote.”

He stood now, close. Too close. “Every word.”

Your eyes welled up again. “Then why didn’t you fight for me before?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve spent so long being taught how to protect what I have, but never how to chase what I need.”

“And now?”

“Now I know,” he said. “But if it’s too late, say it. I’ll get on that plane and go. I won’t ask again.”

The silence stretched.

You took one breath. Two. Then whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His face cracked open just a little—like he’d been holding himself together too tightly for too long. “Say it again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

And then you were in his arms. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It was needy, messy, and real. His lips met yours halfway through your sob, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was everything.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he backed you into the hotel room wall, lips crashing and breaking apart between gasps. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, but trembling as if trying to memorize every inch he once knew.

“You don’t get to do this to me again,” you murmured against his mouth, even as your hands fisted into his hair, dragging him closer.”

“I know,” he breathed, voice hoarse and low, eyes glazed with something between guilt and desperation. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth found your neck—slow, reverent, like a prayer he forgot how to say, then rougher, sucking just beneath your ear, biting down harder when you let out a quiet moan.

“You missed me?” you whispered, breathless as his hands slipped beneath your shirt.

He pulled back, dark eyes searching. “I’ve been fucking starving.”

He pushed the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, eyes flicking over your bare skin like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His hands were warm, worshipful, but there was something frenzied building underneath, like a dam cracking.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, like it hurt to say it. “I used to dream about you like this. Begging me. Falling apart on my cock. Think I went mad once or twice.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching, heat pooling fast between your legs. “Stop talking and touch me.” you whispered.

And Merlin—he did.

He lifted you easily, walking you backwards toward the bed as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your mouths didn’t separate, not for air, not for reason.

You were tugging at his shirt, impatient. He then tugged your jeans down, rough now, desperate. You helped, shimmying out of them with frantic hands.

You reach up to start unbuttoning his pants, but he pushes your hands away gently.

“Missed you so much today, I miss you everyday…” he says pressing sloppy wet kisses onto your inner thighs, sending you small sparks that ignited in your core. His fingers continued to roam on your legs as he continued to lazily separate them off to the side. 

Parted enough for his height, his hand cups under your knee to lock you in place. His finger prodding at your panties which now had a damp spot, causing you to quietly gasp under your breath.

His darken eyes meet with yours asking for your permission, to which you allow his advances. You quickly slip from his grasp to slide down your undergarments and throw them off towards the edge of the bed.

His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you soaked and aching, and he groaned into your neck.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. All for me?” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds and then slipping one inside. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

“Draco—” you gasped, hips bucking, one hand gripping the sheets and the other digging into his shoulder.

Swirling around your sensitive cunt with his fingers you can’t help but moan. His eyes fixated on you with each stroke he makes on your slippery clit. Flicking it up and down, then circling around it before he moved further down towards your entrance.

The usual sensation entering your slick hole while the grasp you held onto the sheets loosens to move onto the back of your his head. Your grip on Draco’s head increased as you pushed him further onto you. 

His tongue’s attacking you aggressively while watching you squirm right in front of him, growing more engorged with each whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He added a second finger, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit as he kissed down your chest. “I’ll take my time with you later. Tonight, I need to feel you,” he growled, voice darker now, his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You were panting, teetering on the edge when he pulled his fingers out and spread your legs wider.

The hands wrapped behind your knees increased in strength when he folded them further, pushing you onto your back as he continued to rip out an orgasm out of you. You’re at a breathless mindless state when he does, painting a vision of white as you cum on his digits. His face, red with a smug look and slightly wet from your release.

Planting a kiss on your lips, you pull back to gaze at him for a moment while his breath tickles the surface of your cheek. His erection, painfully hard, slightly rubbing onto your radiating core. Sharing an intimate kiss once more before he unbuckles his restraining belt that laid on his waist, letting comfort ease over him when he unclasps the button on his pants.

Once you were both stripped, he paused—chest rising and falling, eyes devouring you.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered, leaning in, lips ghosting yours. “Say you want this.”

“I want you,” you breathed. “I never stopped.”

That was it.

He kissed you again—messy, bruising, like he needed to consume every breath you’d ever taken.

“You ready?” he asked, voice like gravel, forehead pressed to yours.

“Please.”

He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He let you adjust to his size for a moment before he further started to rock his hips into you. You're absorbing the feeling of him while he started off at a slow consistent pace, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed, head falling back into the pillows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hips started slow, grinding deep, kissing your cervix with each stroke, but that softness cracked as you moaned his name like a prayer. His pace quickened—harder, rougher, until the headboard banged softly against the wall.

“I missed this,” he grunted. “Missed the way you grip me so fucking tight.”

Your pussy’s stretching from all the gradually building up pleasure to his length, squeezing down when you felt his dick twitch inside you. His cock is plunging back in and out covered in your glistening fluids, making it easier to continue thrusting.

His eyes his longing for you fill with overwhelming rapture, heightening his experience. 

Heat building up at the bottom of your stomach once more, breathlessly panting throughout moans that resonated in his ears. All the blood is rushing to his tip, feeling all hot and heavy inside you as Draco’s body continues to surge into yours at full speed.

You arched under him, moaning louder now, nails dragging down his back. “Draco—fuck—I’m close.”

“Let go for me, love,” he whispered hot against your ear. “Show me it’s still mine.”

His thumb reaches down to play with your swollen clit to help finish you off. You’re curling your toes while accepting all of the stimulation he’s giving you while you shiver.

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He followed moments later with a strangled groan, hips stuttering, collapsing on top of you as your heartbeats thundered together.

For a while, there was only silence and sweat and tangled limbs.

Then, softly—

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go either.

“I love you too.”

[stxrsval]

First launch kinda scared!!

[stxrsval]

ALL THIS TIME I DIDN’T KNOW - Draco x Reader

᪤ SUMMARY . . After months of silence, a familiar face appears in the middle of the night ~ Draco Malfoy, older, sharper, and just as difficult to forget. You haven’t spoken since the messy end of a relationship that burned too hot too fast, and now he’s here, claiming he never stopped loving you. ᪤ WORD COUNT . . 5.9k words (crazy for a first story) !! ᪤ WARNINGS . . emotional angst, past cheating (not between main characters), messy breakup, vulnerable reunion, explicit smut, heavy emotions, post-Hogwarts setting, soft!Draco, regret & yearning, crying during kissing, reader has backbone, library scenes, emotional comfort, hotel reunion, slow burn then fast burn. ᪤ A/N . . spent the whole night writing this instead of sleeping 😭 this is my first fic so i’m kinda scared to share it but also like?? i cried writing this?? Draco’s so hot it’s insane. best believe he was gonna get his girl back. Divider Credits - @enchanthings-a 🫶🏽

Another night.

That’s what you told yourself—you’ll get over it.

It’s been a year and a half now, and somehow, you’re still not.

Everywhere you go, you see his face. His smile. His hair—the same hair you used to run your fingers through.

The memories come back in waves, relentless and sharp.

It’s over. It’s fine, you whisper.

You’re happier now. So is he.

He and his girlfriend are thriving in London, while you rot in Sweden.

Love was the most beautiful thing you ever experienced.

Heartbreak? Not so much.

The sun sinks just below the horizon, and the moon rises quietly behind the clouds. You shouldn’t be upset—not really. You don’t even have the right to cry.

You ended it.

So why does it still hurt like this? Why does it feel like you’re unraveling?

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts.

Draco.

You freeze.

It stops.

Then rings again.

He wouldn’t call twice unless it was serious… right?

What if he’s hurt? What if it’s worse?

Your thumb hovers before you finally swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Hey. Was starting to think I had the wrong number…Sorry for calling so late and out of nowhere. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice.

You hate how much you missed it—soft, careful, like he’s trying not to break you again.

You shift on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you let me in first?”

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’d hope I’m not at the wrong address.”

Your heart skips.

You get up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long in your own misery.

Peeking through the peephole, you nearly drop your phone.

He’s outside.

Here.

Draco Malfoy is standing at your front door.

Your hands are shaking when you unlock it.

And when you open the door, your breath catches.

You open the door to see your ex, your best friend, your everything, standing right there in front of you.

His usual polished look is gone. His blond hair, once so perfectly styled, is a ruffled mess. His eyes look tired—maybe red around the edges. Maybe he was crying. Or maybe not. Draco doesn’t cry.

But everything about him feels unraveled. Like he came apart somewhere between London and here.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he says back with a small smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

You blink, like that might help you make sense of this. “I’m not sure why I should. Why are you even here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be in London.”

He sighs, slow and deep. “You always asked too many questions. That’s what I loved about you.”

Your heart skips.

You cross your arms, trying not to let the words sink in. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting away for a second before meeting yours again.

“Me and Vanessa broke up.”

You stare.

He lets out a short laugh, dry and tired. “She cheated on me. Can you believe that? The woman who drained my vault on handbags and dinners couldn’t even do me the courtesy of breaking up first.”

You can only blink. What.

“She said I was ‘distant.’” He lifts his hands like he’s done trying to make sense of it. “Maybe I was.” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes, confused. “When did this happen?”

He pauses. “Four hours ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“I took the first flight here,” he says, voice softening. “Theo’s in Sweden, thought maybe I’d crash at his, but he and his boyfriend are out on some romantic dinner. So I sat in that hotel room, alone, just… thinking. And suddenly, I thought of you.”

Your breath catches.

“What could the girl who broke my heart be up to?” he says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “I really tried not to come here, love.” The nickname makes something in you hitch. “I swear I did. But next thing I know, I’m out the door, phone in my hand, driving way over the speed limit. And now I’m here. Outside your house. Telling you me and my ex broke up. What a night, huh? Feels like a dream. Or a sick joke.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“And here I am, to ask the one question I never got an answer to.” His voice is lower now, like it’s trying not to break. “Why did you break up with me, hm?”

The question slams into you like a wave.

Everything you’ve worked to rebuild, the peace, the routine, the silence—it all begins to crack. Slowly, painfully.

You don’t speak right away.

The question lingers between you both, heavy and dangerous.

“Why did you break up with me?” he repeats, quieter now.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. Your throat burns. You try to form the words, but nothing sounds right. So you look away.

“This house,” you say. “I should’ve sold it. I tried, I really tried. But everything happened here.”

He blinks, confused. You step back into the doorway like the memories are starting to breathe again.

“Your toothbrush is still in the drawer,” you whisper. “There’s still flour on the ceiling from that time you thought you could bake. And every damn time I walk past that couch—” your voice breaks, “I still feel your hands in my hair.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him, finally.

“You kissed me for the first time in this house, remember? That stupid truth or dare game, after the war, when we were all pretending to be friends and healing and moving on like we didn’t nearly kill each other.” You exhale shakily. “You kissed me and I hated you for it. Then hated myself for not hating it enough.”

A long pause.

You let the silence swallow your next thought before it forces itself out anyway.

“You were everything I didn’t want to love. You were selfish and proud and messy and—”

“And you loved me,” he finishes for you, eyes glassy.

“Exactly,” you whisper. “And that’s why I left.”

He blinks, stunned. “What—?”

“I loved you so much I forgot how to breathe without you. I stopped going out with friends. Stopped painting. Stopped living my own life. I was drowning in you. In us. And you didn’t even notice.” You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“And maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” you continue, “but you weren’t over her, either. Not really. Not Hermione, not Pansy, not any of them. You were trying so hard to be someone else, someone I could build a future with, but I think… I think you were still just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth.

“You broke my heart,” you say, softer now. “But I broke yours first, didn’t I?”

He steps closer.

“What?” His voice is low.

“I couldn’t love myself,” you breathe. “I couldn’t find myself without thinking of you. And yeah, maybe it sounds poetic—‘oh, she lived and breathed for him’—but it wasn’t romantic, Draco. It was suffocating. I stopped being me. I only knew you.”

His jaw tenses, but you don’t stop.

“I did what was healthy. I had to leave. I told myself it was the right thing, and I held onto that until my fingers bled.”

You swallow hard, eyes glassy now.

“And even then, I wasn’t sure. For weeks, I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was stupid, maybe I’d made the worst mistake of my life. So I went to your place. I wanted to talk. I wanted to try—”

You laugh.

“But there you were. Tongue-fucking Vanessa on that stupid couch.”

His eyes widen. “You saw—?”

“It broke me a little,” you say, voice trembling. “But it really shouldn’t have, right? We were done. You didn’t cheat on me. You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

“But still—”

“Still!” you snap. “Still, I stood there in your hallway, holding your favorite chocolate like some idiot. And you were already over me. Already inside someone else like I never even existed. So yeah, I left. Quietly..”

Draco swallows hard.

“It’s completely valid,” you go on, voice tight. “You moved on. You were allowed to. But it made me wonder—that fast? Was I that easy to forget? That replaceable?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your cheek roughly with your sleeve. “And now you’re here. Months later. Telling me she cheated and you thought of me. Like.. like I’m your backup plan.”

“That’s not fair,” he says voice a bit louder. “Don’t you dare reduce what we had to that.”

“Then what is this?” you shout, chest heaving. “You didn’t fight for me, Draco! You let me go. You didn’t show up. You didn’t write. You didn’t even ask why. You just ran into her arms like I never fucking mattered! And yeah, I did break up with you, BUT I needed to find myself. I WAS losing myself.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” he shouts, voice cracking. “I was so tired! I couldn’t fix you, I couldn’t fix me, I was drowning too, and all I saw was the look on your face when you said goodbye.”

You let out a sigh.

“It killed me,” he says, softer now. “That day ruined me. You walked out with no warning, no explanation, and I—I didn’t have the strength to chase you.”

He takes another step, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“I thought Vanessa would distract me. I thought I could forget. But every time I kissed her, it tasted like ashes. Every time I touched her, I imagined you flinching away. And I hated myself for it.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but you stand firm.

“Then why are you here?” you whisper. “Why now?”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because even after all the mess, even after the silence and the pain—you’re still the only one who ever made me feel real.”

You can’t breathe.

He looks like he’s about to say more—but you step back.

“I can’t do this, Draco. I can’t be your second chance when I was never your first priority.”

Silence.

And then—slam.

You close the door.

You’re sitting in a tiny café tucked away in a quiet corner of Stockholm, a place you used to visit when homesickness crept in. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom fills the air, but you can’t taste anything. Your tea is barely touched.

Hermione eyes you from across the table, lips pursed over her cup like she’s bracing herself.

“So… he showed up?” she finally says.

You nod, stirring your tea, watching the swirl of milk.

“And?”

You exhale, leaning back in your chair. “He said Vanessa cheated. Called me right after. Showed up to my house. I thought I imagined it.”

Hermione stays quiet, letting you talk.

“He looked awful. Like he hadn’t slept. Hair all over the place. That stupid half-smile he does when he’s trying to act fine.”

“And you let him in?” she asks, softly.

You nod again. “We fought. I cried. I told him the truth… why I ended things. That I couldn’t find myself. That I only knew how to breathe if he told me how.”

Hermione’s eyes drop, like she remembers exactly what that feels like.

She sighs. “When I dated him… it wasn’t pretty. Constantly. He’d show up for me in one moment and push me away the next. I thought maybe he didn’t know how to be soft with anyone.”

You glance up, heart heavy.

“But with you,” she continues, her voice quieter, “I saw something different. You softened him. Not in a weak way—just… more himself. He laughed more. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid in front of you. And he let himself be cared for.”

That ache in your chest twists.

“I think… I think you were the first person he trusted with all of him. Even the ugly parts.” Hermione pauses. “And that terrified him.”

You blink, tears stinging again, but you won’t cry.

“Truth is,” Hermione says, setting her cup down, “he might’ve been happier with you than he’s ever been.”

You whisper, “I was the only one drowning.”

Her smile is sad. “Maybe you both were. Just in different oceans.”

Mm.

After Hermione left, you wandered the cobbled streets for a while, letting the morning breeze clear your head. There’s a strange comfort in Stockholm’s quiet corners—where magic feels distant, like a dream you once had and can’t quite remember.

You open up the library earlier than usual.

No one’s there yet, just the scent of old pages and wood polish. You inhale deeply. This place is your sanctuary. Before anything else, you brew yourself a small pot of coffee—your favorite beans, the ones you hide in the staff cabinet behind the herbal teas.

You take your mug to the back stacks, where no one will bother you, and begin your morning ritual: organizing the returned books, restocking shelves, checking the inventory system, placing a small order for a shipment of new titles you’ve been dying to get your hands on.

Finally, you curl into your reading nook, worn armchair under the skylight, the city just a whisper outside. A new romance novel rests in your lap. It’s cheesy and dramatic and absolutely what you need.

You’re so absorbed you don’t even hear the door until a deep voice says, casually:

“Don’t stop on my account.”

You jump. Hard.

“What the hell?” you say, half scared, half defensive, clutching the book to your chest. “Why are you here?”

Draco Malfoy, fully reclining against the archway like he owns the place—shrugs, completely unbothered. “Scarlett let me in.”

You glance across the room. Sure enough, Mrs. Scarlett, the sweet old Muggle lady who runs community book club nights, is humming softly to herself while sweeping. She doesn’t even look your way.

You squint. “You sure you didn’t… do something to her?”

He raises his hands. “I don’t do that anymore, love.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname again, and you groan. “Stop calling me that.”

He ignores you. “I told her I needed a book badly. Which is true.”

You exhale through your nose. “What book?”

He smirks, steps forward, and plucks your book from your lap without asking. “Apparently… this one.”

You grab for it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flips a few pages dramatically, skimming. “Oh wow. They’re kissing already? This author doesn’t believe in pacing, do they?”

You lean forward, snatching the book back. “Shut up. This is the good part.”

He sits beside you, knees bumping yours as if that’s normal now. “You really work here?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “Been here nearly a year. It’s quiet. Smells like paper. That’s hard to come by.”

He lets that settle, watching you for a second. “You always loved books.”

You shrug. “They don’t leave.”

That hangs in the air like a pin dropped in water.

He tries again, lighter. “So, librarian by day. What about at night? Still writing poetry and baking cakes no one gets to eat?”

You glance at him sideways. “I still write. The cakes… not so much.”

“Shame,” he says, nudging you gently. “Your lemon ones could’ve ended wars.”

You let out a reluctant laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, voice quieter now.

You look away first. He always made it hard to hold eye contact when he meant something.

There’s a long silence between you, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Finally, he mutters, “You gonna kick me out, librarian?”

You roll your eyes and sip your coffee. “If you try anything to my pages, I’ll hex you.”

He grins like it’s the first real smile he’s worn in days.

“Noted.”

He shifts beside you, fidgeting with a paperclip from the desk. You glance over, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw—he’s growing bored, or maybe just restless.

You sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still never told me why you’re here.”

He looks up.

Not just at you. Through you.

His eyes trace your lips for a second too long before finding yours again. “Missed you,” he says simply. “Couldn’t sleep after last night. I don’t think I slept at all, really.”

Your heart thuds, soft and slow. You smile—just a tiny one. It barely stretches your mouth, but it’s real.

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your composure. You close your book, slip it under your arm, and head to the front desk to check it out for yourself. Your hands move by habit—scan, stamp, slide.

Behind you, Draco’s watching.

“I learned something recently,” you say, still facing the desk. “I can show you, if you’re not in a rush to ruin someone else’s peace today.”

He smirks and follows without hesitation. “Lead the way, love.”

You guide him down a quiet hallway behind the staff area. It smells like cedar and printer ink, and the air is cooler here. At the end of the hall is a locked door that leads to a secret room only staff have access to—meant for archiving older, rarer books.

You unlock it with your key, flip on the warm amber lights overhead, and step inside.

Rows of shelves tower around you, dust dancing in sunbeams that slice through the stained-glass skylight. But in the center of the room sits a magic circle—chalked faintly into the wood beneath a glass dome, drawn with careful lines and symbols.

“I learned to enchant the air in here,” you say, stepping into the middle of the circle. “Just a little charm. Makes sound… feel like a hug. Hard to explain.”

He follows you, his eyes moving over the circle, then to you. “You always were strange.”

You grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm. “Takes one to know one.”

You reach out and murmur a soft incantation—something you picked up in a buried old spellbook from the reserve section. Instantly, the space around you changes. Not in temperature or light, but in feeling.

Warmth settles over your shoulders. Like someone draping a blanket across your back.

Draco shivers. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “That’s…”

“Comforting,” you finish.

He nods, swallowing. His voice is quiet again. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you. Not like he’s studying you—but like he remembers you. All at once. All of it.

You don’t look away this time. You’re too wrapped in the moment. The quietness. The proximity.

It just… happens.

His hand brushes yours.

You turn to say something, and your noses almost touch. Your breath hitches.

Then he leans in.

His lips meet yours—soft, slow, like a secret being passed between hearts. The kiss doesn’t ask permission. It just is.

And it aches.

Because it feels like home.

And you miss him.

But you also remember why you left.

You pull away first—gasping lightly, like you forgot how to breathe.

He blinks, stunned. “You okay—?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I can’t—”

You step back, one hand to your lips, the other to your chest.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, turning toward the door, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “We can’t do this. We’re not dating. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you and her broke up—Draco, I will not be the one to experience that pain again. Not after everything I went through just watching you be with someone else.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “This isn’t the same.”

You scoff bitterly, wiping under your eye. “No, of course not. This time I’m the other woman—not even the one you chose.”

He steps forward. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” you snap. “And you know it. We did love, Draco. And we loved too fast, too hard, and somewhere in all that chaos we forgot to be people. We forgot to breathe. We didn’t even experience ourselves—we just tried to fix each other.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

You shake your head, heart pounding in your ears. “It is when it burns everything else to the ground.”

You turn to leave. You have to.

But he grabs your hand.

Not roughly. Not like a demand. Like he’s begging without words.

You try to pull away, your voice rising. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I don’t want to do this again?”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand,” he snaps, eyes flashing, “that I love you?”

The silence hits like a punch.

Your eyes burn, and your throat tightens. “Because you don’t do love, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping back—but he doesn’t let go. “Last time you tried, it broke both of us. You shut down, you drank too much, you let everything fester. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me, not really, not unless it was in the dark, when no one could see.”

He flinches.

You take a shaky breath. “Why are you even here? Why can’t you just—just leave me alone?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then…

“I am,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tomorrow.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t stay away from London too long,” he mutters.

You freeze, only now realizing his fingers were still wrapped around yours. His hand drops.

“What…” Your voice trembles. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw clenching.

“I lied.”

Your heart skips.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

“I lied,” he says again, eyes finally meeting yours. “Me and Vanessa broke up months ago.”

You stare.

“I’ve been coming to Sweden for weeks now. Months, really. Looking for you. Places you used to go. Scarlett knew. That’s why she let me in without asking. I know what coffee you drink now—after you stopped using that awful vanilla syrup you always had with me. I know your schedule. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I still see you.”

He pauses, breath shaking. “Yes, Vanessa cheated. Yes, it hurt. But nothing hurts like missing you. I tried everything. Drinking, smoking, working nonstop, none of it worked. I kept trying to replace you, but it just made the hole bigger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“I miss you,” he says, almost whispering now. “I need you. I’m not asking for anything—I know I hurt you. I know we burned it all down. But what else do I do? Pretend I never knew you? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me wasn’t you?”

Your hands start to shake again.

“I came here because I needed to say goodbye,” he finishes, backing toward the door. “I think it’s time I end my chapter. My obsession. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. And I can’t bear to keep watching us exist like this—knowing nothing is ever going to change.”

He opens the staff room door.

And walks out.

Leaving you standing in a dim, quiet archive, your chest heaving, heart bleeding through the cracks you thought you’d sealed shut.

You finally leave the room, head spinning, heart gutted, and sink into one of the bean bags. It swallows you whole. A moment passes before Scarlett comes up behind you, startling you again.

“He left you something,” she says, handing you a piece of paper. “That boy really loves you,” she adds softly, then walks away.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mutter, fingers threading through your hair as you sigh.

You stare at the note. Then you unfold it.

I’m not sure if we’ll talk about everything today, but I really needed to see you and explain before I go back to London. I want to start with how much I love you. Your smile, your eyes, everything from head to toe- makes me smile and feel warm every time I see you. I miss you. So much. And I regret every day I didn’t chase you, didn’t beg harder. Because I’ve realized… I can’t live without you. If we haven’t talked again before you read this, my flight leaves at 10 p.m. I’m staying at a hotel 20 minutes from your house. It’s okay if you don’t come. But if you do… a chapter will close, and a new one will open.

Tears fall before you even realize they’ve escaped.

You glance at the clock. 6 p.m.

If his flight leaves at 10, he could already be back at the hotel. The library isn’t far from your house… right?

You hesitate.

Then you grab your bag, wave goodbye to Scarlett, and pull out your phone. You search for hotels within twenty minutes of your house, about ten minutes from the library.

There were two hotels, twenty minutes from your house, and the first one you found—the nicer one—had glowing yellow lights beaming through the front lobby. You practically fell through the doors, out of breath.

The lady at the front desk blinked at you. “Do you need a room, miss?”

“No, I—” you held up your phone with a shaking hand, pulling up your notes. “I’m looking for someone. Draco Malfoy. He’s staying here, I think.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we don’t give out guest information.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just tell me if he checked in.”

A pause. Her face softened. “Room 306. Left elevator.”

You didn’t even thank her properly. You bolted to the elevator, smacking the “up” button again and again like it would hurry the universe along. When the doors finally opened, your reflection was a wreck.

You made it to the third floor and stood in front of the door.

Room 306.

You raised your hand to knock, but it shook. Then lowered it. Raised it again.

Before you could even touch the door, it opened. Of course he’d heard your steps, your breathing. He always knew when it was you.

Draco stood there in a black shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting..knowing.

“I—” you started, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

“I didn’t know which hotel it was,” you said, breathless. “I just guessed.”

“And you guessed right.” He stepped aside. “Come in?”

You nodded.

The room smelled like old cologne and tea. You saw a single suitcase by the desk, half-packed. His wand rested beside it, untouched. The window was cracked open, the rain whispering against the glass.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted, standing stiffly by the door. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You never are when it comes to me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a lie. I’ve been wrong about us before.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a single thing you were saying. “What does this mean then? You coming here?”

You stepped closer, the rain still dripping off the hem of your coat. “I don’t know yet. I just—” you swallowed hard. “I needed to see if you meant it. What you wrote.”

He stood now, close. Too close. “Every word.”

Your eyes welled up again. “Then why didn’t you fight for me before?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve spent so long being taught how to protect what I have, but never how to chase what I need.”

“And now?”

“Now I know,” he said. “But if it’s too late, say it. I’ll get on that plane and go. I won’t ask again.”

The silence stretched.

You took one breath. Two. Then whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His face cracked open just a little—like he’d been holding himself together too tightly for too long. “Say it again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

And then you were in his arms. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It was needy, messy, and real. His lips met yours halfway through your sob, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was everything.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he backed you into the hotel room wall, lips crashing and breaking apart between gasps. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, but trembling as if trying to memorize every inch he once knew.

“You don’t get to do this to me again,” you murmured against his mouth, even as your hands fisted into his hair, dragging him closer.”

“I know,” he breathed, voice hoarse and low, eyes glazed with something between guilt and desperation. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth found your neck—slow, reverent, like a prayer he forgot how to say, then rougher, sucking just beneath your ear, biting down harder when you let out a quiet moan.

“You missed me?” you whispered, breathless as his hands slipped beneath your shirt.

He pulled back, dark eyes searching. “I’ve been fucking starving.”

He pushed the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, eyes flicking over your bare skin like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His hands were warm, worshipful, but there was something frenzied building underneath, like a dam cracking.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, like it hurt to say it. “I used to dream about you like this. Begging me. Falling apart on my cock. Think I went mad once or twice.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching, heat pooling fast between your legs. “Stop talking and touch me.” you whispered.

And Merlin—he did.

He lifted you easily, walking you backwards toward the bed as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your mouths didn’t separate, not for air, not for reason.

You were tugging at his shirt, impatient. He then tugged your jeans down, rough now, desperate. You helped, shimmying out of them with frantic hands.

You reach up to start unbuttoning his pants, but he pushes your hands away gently.

“Missed you so much today, I miss you everyday…” he says pressing sloppy wet kisses onto your inner thighs, sending you small sparks that ignited in your core. His fingers continued to roam on your legs as he continued to lazily separate them off to the side. 

Parted enough for his height, his hand cups under your knee to lock you in place. His finger prodding at your panties which now had a damp spot, causing you to quietly gasp under your breath.

His darken eyes meet with yours asking for your permission, to which you allow his advances. You quickly slip from his grasp to slide down your undergarments and throw them off towards the edge of the bed.

His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you soaked and aching, and he groaned into your neck.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. All for me?” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds and then slipping one inside. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

“Draco—” you gasped, hips bucking, one hand gripping the sheets and the other digging into his shoulder.

Swirling around your sensitive cunt with his fingers you can’t help but moan. His eyes fixated on you with each stroke he makes on your slippery clit. Flicking it up and down, then circling around it before he moved further down towards your entrance.

The usual sensation entering your slick hole while the grasp you held onto the sheets loosens to move onto the back of your his head. Your grip on Draco’s head increased as you pushed him further onto you. 

His tongue’s attacking you aggressively while watching you squirm right in front of him, growing more engorged with each whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He added a second finger, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit as he kissed down your chest. “I’ll take my time with you later. Tonight, I need to feel you,” he growled, voice darker now, his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You were panting, teetering on the edge when he pulled his fingers out and spread your legs wider.

The hands wrapped behind your knees increased in strength when he folded them further, pushing you onto your back as he continued to rip out an orgasm out of you. You’re at a breathless mindless state when he does, painting a vision of white as you cum on his digits. His face, red with a smug look and slightly wet from your release.

Planting a kiss on your lips, you pull back to gaze at him for a moment while his breath tickles the surface of your cheek. His erection, painfully hard, slightly rubbing onto your radiating core. Sharing an intimate kiss once more before he unbuckles his restraining belt that laid on his waist, letting comfort ease over him when he unclasps the button on his pants.

Once you were both stripped, he paused—chest rising and falling, eyes devouring you.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered, leaning in, lips ghosting yours. “Say you want this.”

“I want you,” you breathed. “I never stopped.”

That was it.

He kissed you again—messy, bruising, like he needed to consume every breath you’d ever taken.

“You ready?” he asked, voice like gravel, forehead pressed to yours.

“Please.”

He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He let you adjust to his size for a moment before he further started to rock his hips into you. You're absorbing the feeling of him while he started off at a slow consistent pace, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed, head falling back into the pillows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hips started slow, grinding deep, kissing your cervix with each stroke, but that softness cracked as you moaned his name like a prayer. His pace quickened—harder, rougher, until the headboard banged softly against the wall.

“I missed this,” he grunted. “Missed the way you grip me so fucking tight.”

Your pussy’s stretching from all the gradually building up pleasure to his length, squeezing down when you felt his dick twitch inside you. His cock is plunging back in and out covered in your glistening fluids, making it easier to continue thrusting.

His eyes his longing for you fill with overwhelming rapture, heightening his experience. 

Heat building up at the bottom of your stomach once more, breathlessly panting throughout moans that resonated in his ears. All the blood is rushing to his tip, feeling all hot and heavy inside you as Draco’s body continues to surge into yours at full speed.

You arched under him, moaning louder now, nails dragging down his back. “Draco—fuck—I’m close.”

“Let go for me, love,” he whispered hot against your ear. “Show me it’s still mine.”

His thumb reaches down to play with your swollen clit to help finish you off. You’re curling your toes while accepting all of the stimulation he’s giving you while you shiver.

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He followed moments later with a strangled groan, hips stuttering, collapsing on top of you as your heartbeats thundered together.

For a while, there was only silence and sweat and tangled limbs.

Then, softly—

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go either.

“I love you too.”

[stxrsval]

𓍯 🎀 ⊹ ࣪˖⁩ RULES & BOUNDARIES ♡̷̷۫۫ ꕀ

PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING

Minors do NOT interact (..◜ᴗ◝..)

This blog contains NSFW, dark, and mature content. If you are under 18, do not follow, read, or interact— If you choose to ignore this rule, that’s your decision. I will not be responsible for your lack of supervision online.

✨ I do not age up characters. I only write NSFW for characters who are canonically 18+.

I write fiction. These are fictional works and do not reflect my real-life opinions, desires, or beliefs.

Topics I will never write about: paedophilia, incest, infidelity, bestiality, vore, scat, piss, vomit, feet.

Pregnancy is case-by-case (maybe, maybe not)

Expect NSFW, angst, smut, and some very dark themes. Always check warnings, please I beg!!

YES & NO'S

What I write ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

I’m a free spirit, but I’m also a person—with boundaries, curiosity, and a whole lot of heart. I write for fun, exploration, and expression. That means you can suggest kinkier or more niche requests (as long as they’re not in my hard limits), and if I vibe with it, I might give it a try. If I end up enjoying it—yay! new kink unlocked. If I try it once and never write it again, please take that as a polite “no thanks.”

Everything will always be labeled with proper warnings and tags. If you’re unsure about something, just ask—I don’t bite unless requested 🫶🏽

What I DON'T tolerate!! ( ｡ •̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ )

I’m a Black woman of color. If you bring racism into my blog, you will be blocked—no questions, no discussion. Don’t ask me why, you already know. I don’t do slow.

This also applies to:

Sexism (seriously, grow up)

Homophobia, transphobia, ableism, or any kind of bigotry

Bullying, harassment, or rude vibes

Plagiarism or reposting my work — Writing is for everyone. If you like what I make, cool! Get inspired! But don’t steal. Be an adult.

Spammy messages or guilt-tripping — I’m new to this space. Give me time to adjust. I’m learning, not clueless.

17+ blogs toeing the line on NSFW — NO means NO. If you’re not 18+, you will be blocked. Period.

My blog is a safe space—for me and for anyone who comes here with respect.

Requests & Last Words!!

I write for a select few characters—but like I said, I’m a free spirit. If there’s a show, game, or character you’re vibing with and want to explore something with, let me know. I’m open-minded! But you must be 18+. Don’t test me, I will check and I will block you.

I write for everyone—fem, masc, GN, etc. If you like what I write and want something personal, I’ll see what I can do. But remember: I’m a college student and I work a job. That means real life gets busy, and while I love writing with my whole heart, responses may come early in the morning, a day or two late, or even after a longer break if I’m dealing with exams or burnout.

🕰️ Requests are only open when I say so. Please don’t pressure me or spam my inbox—I’ll ignore you.

Tell me if I make a spelling or grammar error, or if you think something needs a better warning/tag. I’m not above feedback and I want my blog to be safe and welcoming.

🤍 FINAL WORDS

✨ formerly known as valgg ✨

if you knew me from my K-pop moodboard days, hi again! I’m still me, just writing more than editing now 🫶🏾

Have fun. Don’t be weird. Respect me and the space I'm creating. This blog is my little world of healing, creativity, and chaos. If you’re here, act accordingly.

[stxrsval]

I KNOW YOU WANNA KISS ME ── .✦

VALANTINA 〧 ⭑ 18+ Blog ONLY - MDNI please 🐰⁹⁷◗

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ⋆. Full-time college student, part-time delulu!! - I love EVERYTHING, which means I write about what my heart desires (im in too many fandoms)

I write NSFW things (sorry), angst (cry with me), and fluff (sometimes, maybe, we'll see). Writing is my way of healing, screaming, and soft-core flirting with fictional men.

Requests open if my soul says yes.

Sensitive. Stubborn. Shameless. Romantic.

[stxrsval]

⊦﹒﹒you didn't love me the way I thought 🎙️₊﹐⊞

[stxrsval]

♡＇🎧．music is honestly my therapy﹐𓂋. ＋

[stxrsval]

My love <333 ♥️🍒

Gif from @o-3wie

[stxrsval]

゜𓂂 ઇ I'll be your book partner ˖ ! ˚ ♡