#Seven Basic Plots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 23 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs��really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ��darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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nekovale · 23 days ago

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So, I don't know how many Bsd fans are also Fate/Stay Night fans...... BUT I AM and this is the only reason this exists Fate is one of my favorite series and I was listening to the Fate/Zero ost one day because it's one of my fav ost ever... and I started thinking about a possible crossover and it kinda snowballed from there lol Explanations and ramblings under the cut!

For who doesn't know what Fate/Stay Night is about: the gist of it is there's a recurring event where seven mages (masters) summon seven heroic spirits (servants) who fight between each other to win the Holy Grail. Basic things to know are: servants are divided in classes and each has a Noble Phantasm, aka a servant's ultimate weapon/ability; each master has three command spells which compel the servant to obey to three absolute orders; servants need mana to keep existing. said mana is usually provided by the master, but can also be transferred with bodily fluids (that includes sex) The pairs I had thought of for this au are: - berserker!Chuuya + Dazai (in this case the berserker's typical madness happens only with Corruption, which is Chuuya's Noble Phantasm and can be stopped only using a command spell) - saber!Akutagawa + Atsushi - caster!Nikolai + Fyodor - lancer!Bram + Aya - assassin!Nathaniel + Margareth - archer!Mark Twain + Lucy I have absolutely NO idea who to cast as rider lol Kunikida is the Church's overseer though (an impartial judge for the Holy War) I've thought about these combinations for fun since I don't have an overarching plot or anything, just some little disconnected scenes, but I liked the possible interactions with these pairs. I wanted to have characters from the main factions in the series (so like, the Port Mafia, the Agency, the Guild...) but since servants are heroic spirits of the past (and in this au they're not their irl literary counterparts, but characters on their own. Chuuya's real identity would be Arahabaki, etc) I wanted to pick characters who also could have a particular design while fitting the role........... I wanted to put Lovecraft in there too but he's definitely a berserker and I'm not giving up Chuuya for it lol This wip has been eating my brain for literal months, so here it is!! It got me back into doodling just for fun so it was a good time. I actually have more sketches but I feel like these are already a lot lol...... so I'll post those at a later time (also because I'm rewatching ubw now so I might end up doing more....)

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #skk #soukoku #fate series #fate stay night #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #bsd atsushi #bsd akutagawa #bsd fyodor #bsd nikolai #doodles #i feel like ive just come out from the longest fever dream

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nulluxe · 2 months ago

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being a predator fan is so funny. you’ve got maybe four good movies out of seven-ish, but that depends on who you ask. the fandom is about the size of a rural town in idaho and most of those fans want to fuck the monsters. the storyline of your crossover movies is basically “what if we watched a big scary monster beat the shit out of a bigger, scarier monster”. they’re also our babies and we love them. one of the more popular forms of fan debate is powerscaling but actually funny. the second to last movie in the series had “autism is an evolutionary superpower” as an actual plot point. said movie was genuinely so fucking bad that it killed the franchise for a few years until it came back with a great movie and an upcoming spin-off film + tv show- mirroring jesus being crucified for his sins and then resurrecting after three days. you’re also Technically a sister series to a franchise that’s way more culturally relevant and popular to the point it’s comedic

#predator #yautja #who’s excited for badlands and killer of killers tho??#WE’RE IN OUR RENAISSANCE ERA BOYS

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iceunhie · 1 year ago

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— out of this world (and into another) : genshin impact

premise: you could've sworn the transmigration curse didn't have an effect on you... so what exactly are you doing here?! (alternatively, you tumble straight into your favorite video game; and you're kinda fucked)

...or, a genshin manhwa otome game inspired au.

act i: scaramouche, alhaitham, wriothesley.

↳ act ii: lyney, neuvilette, kazuha, kaeya. (next)

warnings. fem!reader but can be imagined as genderless if u'd like hehe, a shit ton of manhwa tropes in one, this is a hot mess aka not proofread all that much, half clunky half decent writing

a/n: as promised via the poll heh,, while i do plan to make this an actual au, im not that sure ^^; just the tip of the iceberg here tho!!

MAIN MASTERLIST | AU MASTERLIST (coming soon)

YOU — unsuspecting civilian turnt transmigrator

you've always been too attached to fictional characters for your own good.

yes, even the ones that are remarkably irredeemable (the power of a backstory is very formidable) and complex (complexity is a virtue!)

villains have always been destined to die, be cursed, or destined to curse others. it was heartbreaking, really. you've wished for a chance to rewrite their fates for them to find even a sliver of happiness, even when the fate of their plot says otherwise.

which is why when you find yourself awake into the game of your dreams, “Teyvat's Seven Stars”, like any lover of cliche novel and manhwa tropes, this is the time you think that maybe life wasn't so shitty on you.

....there's only one tiny, teensy, itty bitty problem here, actually.

you're not the protagonist. you're not even one of the protagonist's faithful friends and underlings that light protagonist's road to conquering the world and its men (and as of the 4.0 update, it's women); no, you're none of those.

you're a no name extra, and not to mention, a character involved with the game's main villain characters who are coincidentally the love interests of the game's black route!

[ unlock transmigration package: ultimate transmigrator's route ( ????? MODE ) ]

[ no ] [ yes ]

( 国崩 ) SCARAMOUCHE — the tyrant

“as of today, you will be engaged to crown prince kunikuzushi, who is her grace the shogun's rightful heir to the throne.”

when given approval to stare at your so-called soon to be husband, you expect the worst, mostly. the multitudes of character dialogue you've played through detailing his rather discourteous personality (which basically meant he was a huge asshole) don't exactly paint a pretty picture.

however...

who was this tender hearted looking scaramouche that ‘obliterated armies in the blink of an eye?’ the t in tyrant stands for tyrannical, not timid!

eyes like lighting framed by the longest eyelashes you've ever seen and an unfairly pretty face, comparable to a fair lotus. after fawning over his otherworldly countenance, a sinking realization of dread pools in your stomach.

oh, you are so screwed.

essentially tied to the indigo-haired ticking time bomb of a future tyrant due to the strong standing of your family for a period of until the main story starts, you're destined to never get crown prince scaramouche's affection, being his fiancée who scaramouche is arranged to for political means only.

not to mention, you're in an even more deadly position; of all the characters you switched souls with, it's the one that essentially dies by their own fiancé's hand because they were horrible to him! what atrocious luck!

frantic, you wrack up about three ways to survive.

plan a) win over the shogun's favor by being an appropriate partner unlike the original flavor of this body, who resorted to bullying the innocent prince and unknowingly digging their own grave or b) be a guiding friend to scaramouche as he learns the ways of the world and c) make sure you don't end up giving the protagonist a bad ending via his twisted personality.

weighing all these options, you decide to do all three in hopes to cement a life instead of a deathflag. prevention is better than the cure (aka: the protagonist) after all!

(you may also just want to spend time with your favorite character. having a time limit and a sign that says ‘i'll die in the future!’ should at least warrant you extra time to show some affection to scaramouche, at least.)

so, you do what anyone in your position would do: give affection! lots of it.

admittedly, it wasn't all flowers and rainbows. scaramouche—ahem, kunikuzushi—was very shy and reserved indeed, with his mother ei even worse off! (besides, who trains and studies all day and has to stop crying every time they were injured?! that was just too much!)

it was rather hard at first, the frigid atmosphere of the usually silent Tenshukaku Palace almost impossible to permeate. but with your amazing charm (read: deathflag radar) and social skills, you manage to let the members of the Royal family open up to you.

speaking words of praise in ei's cooking (a very difficult feat to accomplish), spending afternoons with your fiancé and teaching him ‘how to be a shoujo worthy male lead, name-version’ (very confusing to explain), and the cherry on top, driving away that vile teacher of his—the Doctor—once word got out that he'd been taking advantage of scaramouche as a political puppet king in the future. trauma enabler destroyed! look at your immeasurable powers!

(“you're not a failure.” clasping kunikuzushi's hands in yours as he reels back from you. damn that doctor.

his tears shot a wave of heartache through you. you can't bear to see your favorite in such suffering. “whatever happens in the future, i won't abandon you.

no matter what, i'll always be on your side, okay?”

kunikuzushi looks at you with something in his eyes—something like adoration. “do you promise that?”

“yeah.” you say without hesitation, the glow of the sunlight hitting your face so dazzlingly that kunikuzushi's eyes widen that his mouth hangs agape in awe. “i promise, kuni.”)

to your greatest delight, your efforts worked in your favor.

ei now spends time with her son, and though it's almost always just a tad bit awkward, you and the guuji yae miko get the two to strike up conversation, and overtime, kunikuzushi becomes more open to you.

(“[name], what kind of man is your type?”

“huh? well...” you think for a while. this was a great opportunity to say it, right? that life changing protagonist quote!

“to me, the only person i'll ever like the most is you, kunikuzushi.”

“do you really, really mean that?” and oh, he looks so cute—flustered and red from your words. worth it.

“yup! now, i made some shimi chazuke, try some—”)

(admittedly, lots of favoritism is involved.)

—and while you reap the fruits of your hard work, you spend warm, sunlit afternoons with ei at tea, even learning about other nations from scaramouche's aunt nahida and even befriended a few of his future affiliates—childe (though for some reason, kunikuzushi always pulls you away from him whenever he spots the two of you together), signora (she tolerates you, you think) and etcetera.

(“then, if i do well, can you kiss me on the cheek, [name]?”

you agree, much to his delight. scaramouche avoids the gaze of a certain pink haired fox eyeing him questionably. unbeknownst to you, he glares at the woman's scrutiny.)

unprecedented things unrelated to the plot happen too; like how your family, which basically only saw you as a political bargaining chip and an unwanted child they could get rid of easily—no longer sent you any demeaning letters demanding money once scaramouche found out....

(“they've been leeching off of you for how long?” so scary... is this was kunikuzushi is like when he's worried?)

(“...kunikuzushi, how long will you keep up that weak-hearted facade of yours? if they find out how.... dishonest you are....”

“i don't need the reminders of a foxy old hag that doesn't know her place. this is fine as it is.”)

(you don't need to know.)

but, you're nothing compared to the inevitable flow of the plot. inazuma is wracked with war, and it just so happened that you'd been unceremoniously kidnapped by a certain resistance leader's trusted general, used as a hostage bargain for approximately the majority of your life. in the worst moments in your dreary cell, there's only one thought in your mind.

....kunikuzushi's face, devastated when he tries to reach for you, before slipping away from him like sand— face morphing into an unbridled state of rage that's too natural, too familiar. when did he learn to make a face like that?

(they say the kingdom was wracked with thunderstorms all night that day.)

afterwards, fate doesn't make it kind for you.

years go by in the blink of an eye, with your capture fervently forgotten in the midst of the growing animosity of the two conflicting forces.

although you did hear that yae sent out a search party for you while at the resistance's base, the shogun's forces never reached you.

eventually, you got released secretly by sympathy of kokomi, the leader of the resistance, who felt pity for you getting caught in the crossfire. letting you go under the condition that you'd likely never meet any of the precious characters you've gotten to know and change was a heavy price to pay, but you didn't have any choice.

indeed, no matter how much you tried to divert the plot, your duty as an extra has ended, and you were even lucky to even be alive. you could only hope that your fiancé—ex-fiancé—took note of your lessons well, bidding farewell to inazuma as you hop on the boat to mondsdat.

by now, you at least hoped that scaramouche and the protagonist met, his true chance at happiness starting now that you were basically dead.

(even if your heart felt like breaking into a million pieces.)

....is what you thought would happen, but why is it that after three years from your supposed capture, inazuma was still at war?

“that crazy prince... he's still working to find his former fiancée... and he's razing almost every village apart looking for them!”

“—didn't the shogunate say that whoever finds her would receive almost 3 million mora?”

“the entire lot of them are lunatics, i tell you. all because of a missing person, too!”

what's more, why was it still going because of you?!

( 艾尔海森 ) AL-HAITHAM: the information guild master

to be fair, normal people don't really run into one of their favorite characters often after transmigrating.

but to be fair, again, you certainly didn't think you'd actually be in your favorite video game franchise caged in bed with essentially one of its main love interests.

eyes wide and unceremoniously looking—definitely not ogling— at the toned body that's currently enveloping you in its arms, the soft tuft of ashy gray hair caressing the crook of your neck, murmuring incoherent mumbles of—is that another language?

???????

you blink, looking down at the bare body currently embracing you. oh. oh.

you're an extra.

you're just an extra, but why are you in bed, currently being served breakfast by the most gorgeous man you've ever laid your eyes on, with a pretty view of the rainforests' canopy?

“you should lie down. if i recall, sufficient sleep is required in order for the human body to perform its basic bodily functions. although our partnership is temporary, to let you fall to harm is a situation i'd like to avoid as much as possible.”

“....what?”

“...?”

the guild master, al-haitham, is a character in Teyvat's Seven Stars that is heavily debated on whether he's technically a villain or not. in the game, he's the right hand of sumeru's leader, nahida, working as the overseer of the AKASHA, a guild that gathers information to the nation's leader. he's a pretty shady character—always working behind the scenes and very unfalteringly blunt—and a ‘villain’ for crown prince scaramouche's route, helping the protagonist escape his clutches.

he's often the subject of comedic ire, his banters with a certain broke architect always the highlight of any bonafide al-haitham fan.

“we're expected to work together by lord kusanali's decree in the duration of investigating the hivemind project the lord suspects the baron siraj is partaking in.”

right, that one scene in the game where al-haitham needed to go undercover to infiltrate a coup de etat staged by one of the factions against nahida... right... what.

you were that extra! the one that fell in love with him and pined for his affection!

(“well, i get that part, but does sleeping together really have to play a part in this...?”

al-haitham gives you a mere quirk of the lip, tilting his head. “we do have to play the part of a married couple in dire straights, do we not? this cover is more efficient.

...besides, i don't have anything to complain about. you're certainly better company than kaveh.” )

in truth, al-haitham wasn't bad company. far from it. aside from the internal giggling and fangirling (you) and the incredible stack of books (alhaitham) that you have to see more than the grey haired man on a daily basis, the two of you work out a rapport that stems from memories of the body you transmigrated in.

he's nice to be around, surprisingly considerate when he wants to be—he tells you about the books he always reads....

(who even reads ‘20 Tongues Language Memorization Guidebook: A Basic Overview of Vocabulary and Terms’ for enjoyment?

the content makes your head run in circles because of how complicated it is; but who wouldn't like to listen to an extremely attractive man overexplain to you with a calm and pretty voice?)

...is generous enough to provide meals and cook dinners that have you crying tears of gratitude because you know how awful yours compares (it was either too bland or too seasoned; al-haitham is surprisingly picky when he wants to be)

(you assigned al-haitham the title of “absolute s-tier husband material”— his capabilities are out of this world!)

by chance, you once gave al-haitham a little tidbit of information that proved to be valuable later in the investigation—courtesy of your avid game knowledge—when you two had been lost to the psychological illusion magic cast by siraj when you two finally broke in his estate.

(“whatever happens, if siraj messes with your mind, just make sure to think of me instead of anything else.” al-haitham lets his hand find yours.

“you once asked me if i trusted you, [name].”

“....” you're treated to one of al-haitham's rare smiles, one that warms you up from within. “i do. so don't let yourself get hurt.”)

however, your temporary partner had faltered for once, flinching when siraj took the form of his old grandmother who'd passed to exploit al-haitham's mind, hesitating and frozen in place while siraj inched ever closer to finding out his weakness.

and you couldn't stand it, the character you cared for—the al-haitham that always had a plan, always knew how to stay calm, had looked so unsure and hopeless.

(“wake up, al-haitham!”

with you cradling his face, al-haitham stares back at the only constant in the memories of his grief, eyes meeting yours. “you don't have to do it all alone. i'm right here, aren't i? believe in me.”)

your (fake) husband snaps back to reality, finally allowing enough time to apprehend siraj and put a stop to his malicious project.

(“thank you.” al-haitham tells you solemnly. it hits you that this may be the last time you may ever see him. “i'm grateful that you brought me back to y— to my senses.”

there's a sincerity in your voice that rings from your heart. “anytime, al-haitham.”)

you thought that was the end of it.

defeating siraj meant you two no longer had to associate with each other, but somehow, to your great surprise, al-haitham doesn't stick to the plot at all. you were sure you didn't interfere with the game, though?

for some reason, al-haitham doesn't erase himself from your life, unlike the original route's flow.

in fact, he's become... easy to run into, a constant in your otherwise mundane life. he takes you out to lambad's tavern for an occasional drink, says he's lending you his headphones when you find yourself overwhelmed by the city (you were never good with noises) and even helps you out as you vent your problems to him.

(the day after, said problem conveniently disappears. how strange....)

and most of all, allowing you to enter his personal space... leaving kaveh's jaw dropping when he accuses al-haitham of having a lover.

“you're always going who knows where with them! what else is there to figure out?”

“...we are merely friends.”

“a friend that you let into your personal library? do they know that you still keep the ‘fake’ ring in a box inside the closet?” kaveh laughs. “nice try, al-haitham.”

(after all, kaveh could never unsee the way al-haitham's eyes softened at the feeling of the head on his shoulder lean onto him, with you no doubt asleep. he even took his headphones off! kaveh has never seen him actually take them off in order to keep the person who's sleeping on his shoulder as undisturbed as possible.

in fact, kaveh doesn't think he's ever seen al-haitham be this touchy or considerate with anyone this much before.

.....and most importantly, kaveh would never forget the way al-haitham, a man who found no merit in politeness and preferred bluntness, a man who preferred solitude rather than company—deliberately getting close to someone—pressing a fleeting kiss on the crown of your head.

kaveh blinks. it seems even the throes of love can reach even the most unconquerable of peaks....)

( 莱欧斯利 ) WRIOTHESLEY — the monster duke of the north

“—i need you to gather information on duke wriothesley. serve him undercover as one of the prisoners of the fortress.”

the duke of meropide—a man swamped with terrible rumors. they say he was exiled from the nation due to murdering his entire family. they say he possessed a face worthy of the title of a beast— grotesque, littered in scars. they say that any who end up in his estate, the iron prison of the north, meropide, never saw the light of day again.

(“only criminals of the worst kind are fated to be sentenced there. nobody returns, so we've stopped questioning it...” )

so to say you're not fearing for your life that bad right now is a massive understatement.

“now, mind telling me how you were able to sneak into the most impenetrable prison in all the land, miss prisoner?”

how did it end up like this?

so you wake up and find yourself in jail. lovely.

seriously, of all the places you can transmigrate into, why did it have to be fontaine?! Teyvat's Seven Stars chapter 4's main starting point, the nation of justice is littered with dark themes and high difficulty capture targets.

.... such is the case with the man in front of you. unlike what the rumors of him say, duke wriothesley paints a rugged yet dashing picture of a nobleman, even if he was —if you recall— one of the hardest capture targets to conquer in the game.

a villain character who you played once during one game route, acting as the driving force during one of the love events of one of the protagonist's other love interest, lyney. duke wriothesley almost assassinates lyney's younger brother, freminent, leading lyney to rally up a certain group to bring the nobleman down.... a typical side character villain, who's existence was added as late as 3 patches away from lyney's.

(even inazuma would be better than this! at least the tyrant route could be avoided, and let's not mention the easy sumeru route as well...)

“well, miss prisoner, cat got your tongue?”

in summary: fortunately for you, the body you transmigrated is in the position to spy on the current affairs of the fortress of meropide, with courtesy and with permission of one of Fontaine's leaders, neuvillette. unfortunately for you, it seems our dear monsieur wasn't able to inform wriothesley beforehand, leading to the current situation.

aka, you're pressed dangerously close to wriothesley's chest, with a knife at his throat and his hands pinning you against the wall, noses almost touching. you're not sure if this is even the kind of tension that two people who are trying to kill each other are supposed to have...

(“i'm an ally!” you sputter out. wriothesley raises an eyebrow at you. “monsieur neuvillette sent me.”

“how am i supposed to trust you after i saw you slinking around here, knife at my throat?” he replies, eyes narrowing. “i know that i'm labelled as a beast, but i don't really know what came over that pretty little head of yours when trying to sneak into my chambers.”

what does he take you for?! “...are you accusing me of something indecent?!”

“just saying — i've met lots of prisoners with your excuse, my lady.”

“i'm prepared to use this knife, you know.”

“hah.” wriothesley grins. “how aggressive. more aggressive than most. do you want me that bad?”

“stop twisting my words!”)

in any case, you hate wriothesley. you know he's one of the characters in Teyvat's Seven Stars and is a villain for one of the easy love interest routes in the game, but his personality is... a real piece of work.

you'd rather the protective and kind kazuha, or even the charming and elusive lyney! why did it have to be him?

not only did he not believe you, he even told you to prove your authenticity! you're just glad that his assistant sigewinne had been there to vouch for you — you're not sure if you'd even be on your two feet right now if she didn't.

so now you're stuck constantly on your feet, running to and fro — helping the dark-haired man record new prisoners, establishing trading routes to the main city of Fontaine, and treating other prisoners of the fortress with sigewinne.

your biggest surprise by far, though, is just how... different the duke is from the rumors. his scars were merely battle scars of honor (to which sigewinne rolls her eyes, “your grace, please stop trying to look cool”) he got from various succession fights, not scars to show how he was cursed to turn into a beast. he has a love for tea, but always seems to have a cup of your favorite blend with him when you feel tired after a long day of working (laboring) for him and the estate.

(“your daily report of new convicts, your grace.”

“-this is the tea you like, your grace. i've prepared it in advance.”

“you're very adamant on proving yourself. aren't you sick of such tasks by now, miss prisoner?”

“no.” wriothesley's expression screams 'why not?' on it. “ it's because of my own misjudgement of you.”

“...elaborate.”

“i may have had unnecessary prejudices on your conduct thus far. but you're... not like what the rumors paint you out to be.” you say sincerely. “you're more amazing and incredible than anyone else. i truly do admire you.”

wriothesley's expression; you couldn't decipher it. “i see.”)

he's battered, but caring. sigewinne makes you watch (in horror) as she doodles cartoonish looking characters on his face when he's asleep — wriothesley never fusses, only an exasperated sigh to his assistant. he's harsh with his tasks and duties, but is the first to rush you into sigewinne's infirmary to tend to you after you pass out from overwork.

(“don't worry, [name]. the duke may not look it, but he's very gentle!” sigewinne giggles. humoring the little girl who was the first to show you actual decency in this place, you try to nod. sigewinne doesn't seem convinced.

“i'm serious! after all, compared to other people who've snuck into the fortress, you're the first he's treated this way.” she says cheerily.

“what does that mean?” you can't help but scoff at that. “so he just works someone to the bone from the get go?” you shudder. damn production zone...

sigewinne blinks. “ oh no, not like that. it's just that he's never been so lenient before. in fact, when you fainted, he even gave me the order to prioritize treating you over anything else.”)

well, this wasn't exactly what you thought you would be doing when you transmigrated into your favorite game, but you suppose you can take it.

besides, you'd miss a certain duke otherwise. life truly is full of strange twists....

a/n: thank you for making it this far! if anyone asks why wriothesley's was short, listen, this was completely impulsive and i was out of inspiration LOL, but i do hope you enjoy! look forward to new parts though hehe :3

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 6 months ago

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SAFE & SOUND — enhypen (m)

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 142k words

genre: dystopian, post-apocalyptic survival, horror/thriller, slow burn, ANGST

status: completed! (15/01/25 – 05/04/25)

warnings: depictions of graphic violence, blood, death, and loss, horror themes, usage of strong language and profanities, descriptions of gore, killing, weaponry use, survivor guilt, trauma bonding, morally gray characters/ideologies, and basically anything and everything that comes with a zombie apocalypse. readers' discretion is advised. please click out if you have a weak heart, I MEAN IT.

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

notes from nat: some plot points and zombies are inspired by the walking dead franchise. also inspired by safe & sound—mother swift's soundtrack for the hunger games. actually lowkey want to kms for writing this.

part 1 - rotten

part 2 - warmth

part 3 - whispers

part 4 - blood

part 5 - people

part 6 - dusk

part 7 - hope

extra cuts - jungwon's pov

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juyeoz · 6 months ago

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˙ㅤ۪ 𓂋 FOR THE PLOT! — AN 02z SMAU

∿ THE PLOT IN QUESTION 📁 A crush from kindergarten, a classmate from second to fifth grade who you refused to admit you liked (even with a blushing face), and a childhood friend you never saw in any other way surrounded your school life. What if, the three boys you had forgotten about return to your life, and you can’t help but fall for all of them? Also, what if your feelings for these boys all existed at the same time?

∿ 📢 CASTING ≋ childhood-crush!jay, childhood-crush!jake, childhood-friend!sunghoon x fem!reader (ft. 02z + niki from enhypen, chaewon and yunjin from le sserafim, karina from aespa, juyeon and sunwoo from tbz, sohee from riize, nayeon from twice, rei from ive, seoyeon from fromis_9, belle from kiof, zhanghao from zb1, taehyun from txt, taeyoung from cravity, jaemin from nct dream, mingi from ateez, choi yena, and includes mention of other idols too)

∿ GENRES 🔗 › smau + written, childhood crushes/friends to lovers, highschool au, nonidol au, reverse but not so reverse harem, fluff, angst, and crack.

∿ CONTAINS 🔍 profanity, 02z aren’t the same age, random timestamps, kys/kms jokes, joking threats, no official faceclaim but images may be used, y/n goes on dates w all three boys (diff days), and y/n is lwk leading them on but they don’t get heartbroken (??).

∿ SCHEDULE 📰 completed (dec 27th, 2024 - mar 4th, 2025)

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

PROFILES › ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

CHAPTER ONE — let you break my heart again

CHAPTER TWO — WHAT THE FUCK IS TRIPLE BALL

CHAPTER THREE — chronicles of narnia 2 (0.6k words)

CHAPTER FOUR — jake?????? like nerdy boy jake?????

CHAPTER FIVE — #ResortToDominican

CHAPTER SIX — clock it

CHAPTER SEVEN — so basically diva down

CHAPTER EIGHT — cute 😊

CHAPTER NINE — need him miss him want him 💔💔

CHAPTER TEN — calm luh facial structure (0.4k words)

CHAPTER ELEVEN — MONTHLY REUNION (0.4k words)

CHAPTER TWELVE — for the 𝖕𝖑𝖚𝖍

CHAPTER THIRTEEN — a date?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN — “nah id win” ahh reply 😭🙏

CHAPTER FIFTEEN — panda enthusiast

CHAPTER SIXTEEN — keep laughing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — blue icing cupcakes (0.6k words)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — keep yourself on ur toenails

CHAPTER NINETEEN — SIKEEE YOU THOUGHT 😂😂🫵

CHAPTER TWENTY — because i know i did

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE — cute ay eff!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO — even as a joke

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE — my fave soccer play

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR — #ourbad

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE — white roses (1.2k words)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX — i’m sorry (1.0k words)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN — start running hoon!!!!!

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT — FUCK YOU MR LEE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE — death of him (1.2k words)

CHAPTER THIRTY — don’t hit him up 😆

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE — loving you from a distance

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO — mabagal (1.3k words)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE — U DOWNBAD FREAK

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR — Join me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE — UNSTOPPABLE FR 😂😂😂

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX — single and NOT able to mingle

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN — in love or mentally ill

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT — gave a fuck

CHAPTER THIRY-NINE — i’m going to reply to

ENDINGS (FORTY) — SUNGHOON JAKE JAY

COMPLETED!

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antinousletmehit · 6 months ago

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𐙚 ⋮ Aphrodites gamble ꒱ ‧₊˚

୨୧┇This series is basically like what if Antinous had a younger sister that likes to bully Telemachus but plot twist they fall in love and Antinous crashes out.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

╰─ ♡ Main series:

୨୧┇Chapter one

୨୧┇chapter two

୨୧┇Chapter three

୨୧┇Chapter four

୨୧┇Chapter five

୨୧┇Chapter six

୨୧┇Chapter seven

୨୧┇Chapter eight

୨୧┇Chapter nine

୨୧┇Chapter ten

୨୧┇Chapter eleven

୨୧┇Chapter twelve

୨୧┇Chapter thirteen

୨୧┇Chapter fourteen

୨୧┇Chapter fifteen

୨୧┇Chapter sixteen

୨୧┇Chapter seventeen

୨୧┇Chapter eighteen

୨୧┇Chapter nineteen

୨୧┇Chapter twenty

୨୧┇Chapter twenty one

୨୧┇Chapter twenty two

୨୧┇Chapter twenty three

୨୧┇Chapter twenty four

୨୧┇Chapter twenty five

୨୧┇Chapter twenty six

୨୧┇Chapter twenty seven

୨୧┇Chapter twenty eight

୨୧┇Chapter twenty nine

୨୧┇Chapter thirty

୨୧┇Chapter thirty one FINAL!!

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ Antinous and Y/N sibling stuff:

Talking about their relationship/past

Scenarios from when they were younger

More scenarios from when they’re younger but antinous is shittier

Reader is injured

Antinous being a shitty brother (and character designs)

Antinous walks in on his sister smooching Tele

Antinous dying during hold them down

Reader having a breakdown during chapter 19

Chapter 20 scenario that anti talked about

A brother’s plea

Readers dead

Kid reader is drunk

Emotional manipulation.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ Extra:

Ithaca saga scenario

Ithaca saga scenario pt2

Bad ending (not cannon)

The cast as cats

Reader is dead again

Eurymachus’s first time meeting reader

Early palace scenarios

Reverse au

Younger reader and Tele

Pillows….

Caught in the act

Odyssey!Tele meets reader

More early palace

College au Drabble

How would odyssey!telemachus deal w this

Early palace pt3

Antinous’s bad babysitting

Telemachus fearing for his life

Early palace pt4

Early palace p5

Odyssues finding out of readers past

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ SEQUEL

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ COMMENT TO BE ON TAGLIST

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress @f3r4lfr0gg3r @permanently-nothere @eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches @sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy @0anodite0 @cocosparkel @tati-the-fangirl @dazedemery @tsmaruchan @xo-cuteplosion-xo @galaxygurlll @pjopinkk @h0ne4bee @minteaspoon @zendoesstuff @yuvany @i-liketoast @dorkyfangirl24

#epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #epic telemachus #telemachus #telemachus x reader #antinous #aphrodites gamble

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nereidprinc3ss · 7 months ago

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candied pecans

in which uni!reader has to wake up early for a final, and spencer reid is determined to let you get as much rest as possible

fluff (18+ for mildly suggestive remarks) wc <800 warnings/tags: Spencer being a sweetheart, basically sex jokes, he makes you breakfast, gnreader a/n: I MISSED THEM BADDDD!!! this is v v short and based on a dream I had where he brought me breakfast so I could sleep in and I asked him to stay in bed while I was gone LOL

Your alarm goes off and your brow furrows like even in sleep, you’d been bracing for it. Every dream had been sterile—and worse—or potentially better—you’d dreamed about your study material.

Quickly as it started, the robotic blaring ceases. You almost slip back into sleep, but fight tooth and nail for consciousness, propping up on an elbow and rubbing your eyes in the dark grey of the early morning. Already there’s a warm hand on your chest, exerting what is more a suggestion of pressure rather than any actual force. Spencer’s voice is grainy.

“Hey. Go back to sleep.”

“I have a final,” you slur.

“In two hours. You can get at least another half hour of sleep.”

“But then I can’t—”

“I know, you can’t use that time to scroll on your phone. I’m terrible for even suggesting it. You were up late, honey. Come back and sleep longer and you’ll do better on your final.”

You’re already falling down. The bed is so warm, and your lids are so heavy.

“Okay,” you mumble, eyes shut before you even hit the pillow.

You wake up to fingers in your hair. He’s always so unbelievably gentle with you. Just as effective as an alarm clock—far more pleasant.

“Good morning,” he says, and there’s no sleep in his voice like there was the last time you woke up. You curl into him where he sits on the side of the mattress and he cups your cheek with a warm hand.

“Time?”

“Don’t get mad at me.”

That really wakes you up.

“What did you do?”

“I let you sleep for a half hour!” he defends. Your brow furrows and you rub an eye, squinting up at him. That sheepish look on his face is concerning. “… Twice.”

“It’s seven?” You half yell, rocketing upward. He laughs and catches you against his chest. In your half-awake state, you can’t defend yourself, so you end up with your head cradled to his chest. But you’re not as happy about it as you’d normally be.

“All I did was cut into your phone time, which we came to a consensus on, and your breakfast time. So I made you breakfast.”

You turn your head so you can look up at him from against his chest.

“… Oh. You did?”

“Yes,” he says simply, picking up the plate you’d missed on the bedside table and presenting it to you.

Two pieces of toast, each with butter and a different kind of jam because he knows you can never pick. Apple slices. Eggs, exactly the way you like them. Candied pecans, which are supposed to be for salads, and which you sneak handfuls of anyway.

“Oh,” you murmur again.

“There’s green tea in the mug, too. Caffeinated, obviously.”

You sit up straighter and take the plate into your lap over the blanket, nibbling on a slice of toast before kissing him.

“Thank you,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder and studying the frosty day beyond the window, deciding how to dress for the weather as you chew.

He slips his hand under your shirt to rub circles on your back.

“Of course. I was actually excited to make you breakfast. How often is it that you’re running out the door and I don’t have anywhere to be?”

“How often is it that you get so badly injured Hotch makes you stay home?”

Too often, is the punchline.

“He’s being anal,” Spencer scoffs, mood suddenly a wink soured. “A sprained ankle is hardly an injury.”

“Mm,” you hum around another bite of toast. “I’d say a fractured bone is pretty injurious.”

“He’s on your payroll, and you want me home. It’s a plot.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t pay him. He’s just scared of me.”

“It is pretty suspicious I got the week off just as we’re heading into your winter break.”

“Mhm. I’m gonna keep you here,” you say earnestly, snapping off half an apple slice with your teeth and offering the rest to him. “And make you watch movies and have sex all week.”

He crunches on the fruit and laughs.

“Ambitious. I’m pretty sure it’s more likely that we watch movies and sleep all week.”

You look up at him with big eyes.

“That’s still fun.”

“Oh, that’s exactly my idea of fun,” he says, and while those who don’t know Spencer quite as well as you do would perhaps mistake it for sarcasm, you know better. You settle back on his shoulder.

“I think you should stay in bed, ’cause I’ll be home by 10:00. And then I’ll get here and you’ll already be all warm and cozy so we can cuddle all day.”

“Or we could have sex,” he says hopefully.

You throw a pecan at him.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer Reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

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She Wasn’t a Secret

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: When Oscar casually mentions his wife during a fan Q&A, Lando Norris combusts on stage, the internet loses its mind, Nicole Piastri wonders why her son can’t tell people basic facts about his life—like the fact he’s been married for five years and Mark Webber is quietly regretting his life choices.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started with a ping.

Nicole Piastri was elbow-deep in a tray of Lamingtons when her phone buzzed across the counter. Then again. Then again. Then seven more times.

She wiped her hands, checked the screen, and frowned.

17 notifications. 5 mentions. 2 DMs. One group chat blowing up.

And all of them pointed to the same thing: A tagged video. Captioned: “Lando Norris finding out Oscar Piastri has been married for five years. In real-time. On stage. Live. Absolute scenes.”

Nicole clicked the video, already sighing.

It was exactly what she expected—and somehow so much worse.

Oscar, calm and collected, casually admitting he was married. Lando Norris having an actual breakdown beside him. The interviewer making it her life’s mission to extract every crumb of intel. And Oscar? Completely unbothered. Like he was discussing a weather forecast.

Nicole watched Lando choke, scream, stand up, flail, and nearly combust.

And Oscar? “I thought you knew.” Nicole actually laughed out loud. It was either that or cry.

From the kitchen doorway, Edie poked his head in. “Why do I hear cackling?”

Nicole turned the volume up and played the “I thought you knew” line again.

Edie winced. “Oh. That’s going viral, isn’t it.”

Oscar. Her darling, chronically-understated son. Calm as ever. Dry as toast. Casually dropping “Well, I already did one of those things,” in response to a marriage or tattoo question. Watching poor Lando Norris implode on stage like a wet firework.

Nicole paused the video on Lando’s face in real-time breakdown.

Then sighed.

Deeply.

Because this? This wasn’t even surprising.

The real kicker wasn’t that the media didn’t know.

It was that Lando didn’t know.

Nicole had assumed at the very least Lando was in the loop. He and Oscar were joined at the hip during race weeks. Surely a small, minor detail like, say, being legally wed for half a decade would’ve come up between sim sessions.

But no.

Apparently not.

Because her son, in his infinite, baffling wisdom, had once again forgotten to share anything important about his personal life with anyone outside of a 20-meter radius of his home and maybe Mark Webber.

She muttered to herself as she scrolled through replies.

“Didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend… Didn’t tell me they got married… Didn’t tell me they were having a baby until she was three months pregnant and then only on accident…”

Now the whole world was catching up five years late.

She set her tea down. Reached for her reading glasses. Opened Twitter.

And, with the calm authority of a woman who had lived through every one of her son’s emotional plot twists, typed:

@nicolepiastri: I see the internet is discovering my son is married. Welcome to the club. I, too, found out after the fact 5 years ago. 👍

She hit “post.”

The post went instantly viral.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: Oscar. Darling. You forgot to mention you had a WIFE?

Chris: Bold strategy, son. Just casually let the global media find out you’ve been married for five years via a “would you rather get married or get a tattoo?” question. Stunning PR planning.

Edie: To be fair, he also forgot to mention it to Lando. Who he is teammates with. Who he shares planes with. Who he trains with. Who he considers a “close friend.” So. Not just the media.

Oscar: I didn’t forget. I just didn’t think it was news???

Hattie: YOU’RE A CELEBRITY. EVERYTHING IS NEWS. My friends thought I was lying when I said you were married. They thought I made it up. I had to show them our family group chat as proof.

Edie: You’re lucky Felicity’s cool. If I was married to you and you never told the world, I would’ve changed the locks 💅 AND I would’ve posted a dramatic black-and-white photo with a Taylor Swift lyric as the caption.

Mae: Can I be flower girl for your next wedding? (Only if it’s to Felicity again. Otherwise I’m not coming.)

Oscar: …I’m not having another wedding, Mae. Still married to the same wife. Still in love with her. Still feeding her sourdough obsession.

Nicole: Honestly, this is so you. I shouldn’t even be surprised. You didn’t even tell us you had a girlfriend.

Chris: Let’s not forget the registry office call: “Hey, we got married.” So romantic. Really moved me to tears.

Nicole: YEAH, let’s not forget that you got MARRIED WITHOUT TELLING YOUR FAMILY!

Oscar: Everyone’s being very dramatic about this.

Hattie: BRO. YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE. YEARS. AND LANDO JUST FOUND OUT. LIVE. IN FRONT OF CAMERAS. HE SPIT WATER.

Edie: I’ve watched the video 19 times now. It lives in my brain like a Shakespearean tragedy. The betrayal. The disbelief. The squeaky voice crack. Art.

Mae: He screamed so loud a kid in the front row CRIED.

Nicole: Also… since we’re all here… When are you going to mention the other secret? 😏

Oscar: …What secret?

Nicole: Oscar.

Chris: We mean the tiny human one, son.

Mae: BEE!!!! 🐝💛

Oscar: Bee is not a secret.

Hattie: She’s not a secret, no. But she’s also not in your driver bio, not on your Instagram, and not in any single interview you’ve ever done.

Edie: You talk about tire degradation more than your own child. Let that sink in.

Oscar: She’s our daughter. Not a marketing tool.

Nicole: We love that you’re private, sweetheart. But maybe next time you could… I don’t know… mention that you have a wife and daughter?

Chris: Not asking for a billboard, Oscar. Just a family Christmas card. Or, I don’t know, ONE social post that doesn’t feature suspension settings or protein shakes.

Hattie: Just wait till Lando finds out about Bee. You are going to have to physically restrain him.

Edie: His brain barely survived the “I’m married” part. He’s going to go into full reboot mode.

Nicole: He’s going to walk around muttering “He has a wife AND a child?!” for days.

Mae: We should film it. Make a documentary. “Lando Finds Out: The Sequel.”

Oscar: I would like to go one day without a Norris-induced disaster, please.

Chris:

Can’t wait for the Netflix edit. Drive to Survive, Season 7, Episode 3: The Secret Wife (and Daughter???) of Oscar Piastri

Oscar: …Traitors. All of you.

Nicole: No, darling. Just a family who loves you enough to roast you mercilessly.

Hattie: And maybe gently suggest that your entire online presence looks like a robot who eats chicken breast and drives fast.

Edie: We just want the world to know you’re more than carbon fiber and rehydration tablets. You have chickens. A wife. A kid. And still somehow come across as the most emotionally neutral man on the grid.

Mae: You’re like a secret cinnamon roll. With downforce.

Hattie: Oscar Piastri: Calm. Composed. Married with poultry.

Nicole: We love you, darling. But maybe consider letting people in a little next time?

Oscar: …Noted.

***

Mark Webber’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then five more times in the span of a minute.

He looked at the screen, saw the names of three journalists he hadn’t spoken to in months, and immediately thought: What did Oscar do.

He hadn’t crashed. There hadn’t been any mid-race scandals. No random DNS. No sudden tire blowouts.

So Mark did the rational thing.

He ignored the calls and opened Twitter.

The first thing he saw was a video clip with the caption: “OSCAR PIASTRI DROPS MARRIAGE BOMBSHELL. LANDO NORRIS DIES LIVE ON STAGE.”

Mark blinked. Pressed play.

Thirty seconds in, he was already groaning.

By the time Oscar casually said, “We got married when I was eighteen,” Mark had his face in his hands.

And by the time Lando screamed “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!” in what could only be described as an operatic shriek, Mark was laughing. Because of course.

Of course Oscar had managed to soft-launch a five-year marriage via fan Q&A and thought that was completely normal.

He hadn’t even texted Mark to give him a heads-up. Typical.

Mark took a long sip of his coffee and shook his head with fond exasperation. Then his phone rang again. Another journalist. This one he had to answer.

“Yeah?” Mark said, not bothering with a hello.

“Did you know Oscar was married?” came the breathless voice on the other end. “Like—legally? For five years? Who is she?”

Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I knew.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“You did?!”

Mark leaned back in his chair. “Her name’s Felicity. She’s smarter than all of us combined and makes a lemon slice that could end wars, and rebuilt an engine while eight months pregnant. What else do you want to know?”

“Wait—rebuilt an engine?!”

Mark grinned. “Yeah.”

“But she’s not on his social media! She’s not even in interviews!”

“She doesn’t want to be,” Mark said simply. “She’s his wife, not his brand.”

The journalist let out a choked laugh. “God. She’s going to be a nightmare to research.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mark said.

***

Text Messages – Mark Webber & Oscar Piastri

Mark: Mate. You broke the internet.

Mark: Also. You made Lando scream on stage. Twice.

Mark: I’ve had three different journalists call me asking if I “always knew.”

Oscar: I didn’t think it would be a big deal??

Mark: You are insanely lucky that Felicity is brilliant and terrifying and the entire internet is now in love with her. Otherwise, PR would’ve had you doing apology interviews until Abu Dhabi.

Oscar: She is brilliant. And terrifying. In the best way.

Also, I didn’t hide her.

Mark: No, you just forgot to mention her to your employer, your teammate, the media, and most of the paddock. Tiny oversight.

Oscar: I thought it was obvious.

Mark: She hasn’t been on your socials once. You don’t even post photos of her shoes in the background like a normal soft-launching F1 driver.

Oscar: Didn’t realize I needed to soft launch my marriage.

Mark: I’ve also had three different journalists lose their minds when I told them I’ve met your wife.

I told them that she’s smarter than all of us combined and makes a mean lemon slice.

You married up.

Oscar: I know.

Mark: You really are whipped, huh?

Oscar: Didn’t you know that already?

Mark: Yes, but it’s nice to see it confirmed in front of millions.

Oscar: I’m still not sure how Zak knew though.

Mark: Because I told him. After you signed your contract. He wanted to poach your lawyer. I told him that your “lawyer” was your very smart, very spite driven wife. You should probably tell people things yourself from now on.

Oscar: Noted.

Mark: Anyway. Tell Felicity we owe her a thank-you for soft-launching you into public affection. You’re officially not just “the calm one.” You’re “the poetic husband who tucks love notes into his racing gloves and married his high school sweetheart.”

Oscar: …That’s better than “emotionless robot,” I guess.

Mark: Way better. And hey— Proud of you, kid. Even if you forgot to tell the entire grid you had a wife.

Oscar: Thanks, Mark. Means a lot.

Mark: …you should probably tell people about Bee one of these days though.

Oscar: Will do.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridinvestigator: 🚨 THREAD: What we (the internet) know about the elusive, brilliant, chaotic Felicity Piastri , aka the Mysterious Mrs. Piastri, aka Oscar Piastri’s wife, aka the woman who accidentally became a legend overnight. 🧵👇

@/gridinvestigator: 1. First of all, yes—Oscar Piastri has been married for FIVE YEARS. No one knew. Not Lando. Not McLaren. Not us. He dropped it during a “Would you rather get married or get a tattoo?” question. He said: “Well, I already did one of those.”

Cue the meltdown.

@/gridinvestigator: 2. We then found out he married his high school sweetheart three weeks after graduation. Her name is Felicity. They met when they were 14. She let him borrow her pen. He never recovered. A literal Wattpad story.

@/gridinvestigator: 3. Oscar described her as “his best friend,” and “10/10, would always marry her again.” Meanwhile, Felicity said, “We were inevitable.” Honestly? Nicholas Sparks is shaking.

@/gridinvestigator: 4. Felicity Piastri didn’t soft-launch herself. She hard-launched via complete internet domination. Her Instagram is a mix of: 🧠 Academic papers 🛠️ Vintage car rebuilds 🍞 Artisan bread 🐔 Chickens in tiny sweaters 🔧 Engine grease 📐 Chaos

@/gridinvestigator: 5. Now. Here’s where things get ✨interesting✨ You know that quote Oscar made about “meeting her in school”? I FOUND THE YEARBOOK. Yep. Their boarding school published the 2019 edition online.

Sidenote: I think they both graduated a year early in 2019 and not 2020?!

@/gridinvestigator: 6. I clearly have too much time, because I went through both the 2020 and the 2019 Year Books until I found a girl named Felicity: Felicity Leong - Dance, Science Club President, Mandarin Club, Technology Club and concertmaster aka first violin in the orchestra.

@/gridinvestigator: 7. Oh and if that aren’t enough extra curriculars activities: Guess who took 17 GCSEs (10 +/- are considered “normal”) and cleared them all with a 9, which is the highest grade you can get? Felicity. She also had the highest A- Level grades of the whole school in the maximum of 5 subjects you are allowed to take one year later.

@/gridinvestigator: 8. The yearbook also mentions her getting a perfect math score and winning a physics prize

@/gridinvestigator: 9. She graduated 2 (?!) years later in 2021 with a Master in Mechanical Engineering from Imperial College London. Don’t ask me how in the world she did that.

@/gridinvestigator: 10. Felicity is basically the anti-WAG. No brand deals. No champagne yacht pics. Just her, an angle grinder, a loaf of bread, and a whiteboard full of math.

And somehow Oscar managed to keep this whole goddess-level woman a secret for five YEARS.

@/gridinvestigator: 12. TLDR: – Her name is Felicity Leong – She was Oscar’s classmate

– She’s terrifyingly smart – They eloped at 18 and told no one – She is now the internet’s most beloved mystery wife – Oscar is obsessed with her

– she restores vintage cars, bakes like a god and solves equations for fun

***

The chickens were louder than usual this morning.

Felicity didn’t blame them. She felt a little off-kilter herself—though not because the global internet had decided to collectively lose its mind over the fact that she was married to a Formula 1 driver.

(Okay. Fine. That was probably part of it.)

She stepped into the coop in gumboots and a hoodie stolen from Oscar, hair still in a haphazard braid Bee had done the night before. She was met with indignant clucks and flapping wings.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, scattering feed like a benevolent rural god. “You’re dramatic. We get it.”

Rosie, the scraggly rescue hen who thought she was a rooster, pecked at her ankle with all the fury of someone deeply offended by late breakfast.

“Take it up with the PR team,” Felicity muttered.

She dropped Bee off at kindergarten wearing old jeans with a patch on the knee and a t-shirt that said Math is not a spectator sport. One of the other mums stared a little too long at her before whispering something to a friend.

Felicity smiled and waved.

Felicity wasn’t surprised by the chaos. She had told Oscar it would happen eventually. Told him people would find out. That one day, he’d make some offhanded comment and the fandom would explode like Mentos in Coke.

What she hadn’t expected was for it to be over a “Would you rather” question. Or for it to involve Lando Norris nearly choking on his own spit on stage.

She’d watched the clip exactly once. With toast. And coffee.

Then she opened the garage.

Her current project sat like a sleeping beast under the suspended work lights: a 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider, stripped down to its bones. Half-sanded, one door missing, the kind of restoration that most people would call madness.

She called it Monday.

She put on her gloves, tied her hair back, and picked up the angle grinder.

Around noon, she stopped for coffee and opened Instagram. Her notifications were, unsurprisingly, a mess.

There was a fan edit of her baking sourdough while wielding a torque wrench. Someone had made a Twitter thread comparing her to various Marvel characters (Shuri with a sourdough starter was trending). Another post showed a blurry screenshot of her academic transcript with the caption “Oscar Piastri’s wife could do your homework, restore your car, out-bake your grandma and defeat you in hand-to-hand combat”.

She took a sip of coffee and muttered, “Dramatic.”

At 2:30 p.m., she washed the grease off her hands, swapped the engine oil scent for something vaguely lavender, and went to pick up Bee.

Bee ran out clutching a glittery rock and a half-drawn picture of Oscar holding a steering wheel and a loaf of bread. Felicity accepted both like priceless relics.

“Mama, can we bake today?” Bee asked as they walked to the car.

“Only if you promise not to eat half the cookie dough before we’re done.”

Bee grinned. “No promises.”

By 5 p.m., the kitchen smelled like vanilla and warm sugar. Bee was elbow-deep in flour. Senna had wandered inside again. Felicity didn’t bother kicking her out.

She kneaded the dough slowly, rhythmically. Felt the tension leave her shoulders.

Fame was fine. Chaos was familiar.

But this—flour under her nails, Bee humming beside her, a project waiting in the garage and a husband texting her to say he loved her between media obligations—this was the life she chose.

That night, after Bee was asleep—cuddled up with Button the frog and a bedtime story half-finished—Felicity sat on the back porch with a cup of tea and looked up at the sky.

So, the internet knew now. Fine.

She hadn’t done any of it for them.

She had fallen in love with a boy who drove like silence and calm, and kissed like he already knew how the future would feel. They’d built a life in soft corners and early mornings, in engine grease and sourdough, in whispered bedtime promises and braids and “Every lap”.

Let the world look.

This part wasn’t theirs anyway.

It was hers.

***

Transcript: Post-Race Media Pen – Chinese Grand Prix

Journalist: Oscar, first of all—great drive today. P8 in tricky conditions, well done.

Oscar: Thanks. Yeah, it was a bit chaotic out there, but we managed it well. Happy with the result.

Journalist: Okay, we have to ask—your name has been trending non-stop since last weekend. Not because of your race… but because of your wife. The internet’s gone absolutely feral.

Oscar: (blinks slowly) Right.

Journalist #2: Felicity. Married five years. High school sweetheart. Literally no one knew. You didn’t mention her until a fan Q&A. Everyone’s calling it “the soft launch of the century.” Any comment?

Oscar: (shrugs slightly) She wasn’t a secret.

Journalist: (incredulous) But you never posted about her! Never talked about her! Lando said he didn’t know!

Oscar: I mean… I didn’t realize it was something I had to announce. We’ve been married for five years. It’s not new.

Journalist: So why didn’t you ever bring her up?

Oscar: My wife’s just… mine. She’s been there since before Formula 1, before most of this. We weren’t hiding anything. We just didn’t post about it. That’s all.

Journalist: So no regrets about how it came out?

Oscar: Not really. People know now. That doesn’t change anything. She’s still my best friend. Still the smartest person I’ve ever met. Still the reason I’m able to do what I do and come home happy.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/formulafemmes “My wife’s just… mine.” Oscar Piastri said that with his whole chest. Softly. Calmly. Casually. And now I’m lying face down on the kitchen floor.

@/gridgossip the way oscar said “she’s still my best friend” with zero hesitation??? sir. we’re just trying to survive here. you didn’t have to be poetic at a media pen.

@/wifeloversanonymous “we weren’t hiding anything. we just didn’t post about it.” that’s the most mature, emotionally grounded response I’ve ever heard. I am so sorry for calling you a robot for three seasons.

@/felicitynation the way he said “she’s been there since before Formula 1” like she’s his origin story and not just his spouse. I’m not crying, you’re crying.

@/lan_doughnut Lando finding out Oscar has a wife: 😱😱😱 Oscar, two days later, sipping water like it’s no big deal: “she wasn’t a secret.” this man is unshakable.

@/piastrirealupdates “Still the reason I’m able to do what I do and come home happy.” Oscar Piastri you have exactly 2 seconds to stop or I will start writing poetry about you and your wife and your chickens.

@/drive_to_thirst oscar: “she’s mine. not mclaren’s. not the internet’s.” me: 💍🥺🥖🛐🧪🧡📐 (this is now the official felicity piastri emoji combo, don’t @ me)

@/chaoticwagtracker imagine being felicity piastri. you’re just out here baking bread, rebuilding carburetors, feeding chickens, and your husband is on global TV being like “she’s mine. she makes me happy. she’s my best friend.” like WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THAT???

@/softpitstops someone check on every F1 PR manager. because oscar just made 90% of the grid look emotionally underdeveloped in 20 seconds.

@/felicityfanaccount it’s the shrug. it’s the “she wasn’t a secret” shrug. like he genuinely didn’t think we’d care. like he genuinely thought this was normal. the bar is now in another galaxy.

@/oscarupdates “my wife’s just… mine.” Sir?? You can’t just say that and walk off like you didn’t emotionally rupture 2 million people??

@/felicitybrainrot oscar calling felicity “his best friend” and “the reason he comes home happy” after casually revealing she’s smarter than him??? i am lying face down on the floor. do not disturb.

@/gridchaosadmin “we weren’t hiding anything, we just didn’t post about it” is SO MUCH more romantic than any soft-launch story I’ve ever heard. he didn’t even try to curate it. he just lived it.

@/burners4felicity oscar: she’s mine. me: i am normal. i am rational. i am going feral in the parking lot. i am

@/lan_doughnut lando: “he never even mentioned her!” oscar: “she’s still the reason i’m able to do what i do and come home happy.” we are living through a modern shakespearean drama and its name is “The Piastri Marriage Reveal”

@/formula1romance he said “she’s still my best friend” and i felt that in my bloodstream. like. she’s not his aesthetic. she’s not his PR move. she’s his person. i’m crying and baking bread in her honor.

@/piastriwifeupdates “my wife’s just mine” is the kind of phrase that gets etched into a wedding ring or tattooed in tiny script on someone's ribs. you don’t recover from that.

@/felicitypiastrifanclub “we didn’t post about it, that’s all.” you’re telling me these two eloped at 18, never once posted each other, built a life with chickens and vintage cars, and just EXISTED while being soulmates?????@/drivetosurvivepls Netflix watching Oscar Piastri go viral for being emotionally devastating in 8 words or less and frantically rewriting their entire season outline

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