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[zinaanqar16]

Today, the Palestine tag is trending on Tumblr — and among the posts is a photo of my daughter, Ronza. A fragile little girl suffering from severe malnutrition, whose story I shared, pleading for help. Her image is now reaching millions of people... but sadly, only a few have responded.

We are not okay. We are not safe. We are living in unimaginable conditions — and tomorrow is Eid al-Adha, a holiday that should bring joy, new clothes, laughter, and celebration to children. But how can my children celebrate when there is no food, no water, no medicine? How can they smile in new clothes when their weak bodies can barely stand?

We are in Gaza — trapped, starving, broken. Every day is a battle for survival.

I am begging you, before it’s too late —Please donate to help Ronza. Her life depends on it. Every contribution, no matter how small, can make the difference between life and death.

Please share this message. Let Ronza’s face be more than just a trending image — let it be a call to action. A reason to save a life.

I would like to inform you that my campaign is documented and approved.

Gazavetters #213 , el-shab-hussein&nabulsi # 264

Eid al-Adha

[rafesangelita]

♡ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met

warnings: suggestive language

a/n: inspired by this gif — it’s soooo dilf!rafe and bunny coded, i just had to include it in so y’all could get my visual.. and also feel free to read more about dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader here ! leave req’s or discussion posts about them in my ask box, these two are one of my fav au’s to write for!!

sipping on an ice water, you hummed sweetly as the breeze from your little handheld fan blew gently through your hair, the chilly air providing you with some form of relief against the blazing outer banks sun. you had been out here on the golf course for about three hours now, the fanny pack hugging your hips already filled with crispy blue hundreds from the wealthy patrons of the country club. having met your money goal for the day, you decided a break was deemed necessary, considering you still had a few hours left until you were able to clock out.

it wasn’t until you spotted a group of men swinging their golf clubs far off in the distance, that you decided to make your way over there, plastering on your pretty smile that never failed to make the men empty their wallets to you. one of the men had turned around at the sound of the soft hum of the golf cart engine, the other two following suit as you stepped off, the zipper of your baby pink lululemon jacket zipped down just far enough to expose your cleavage and the dainty little tiffany and co. heart pendant on your necklace. “hi, there!” you chirped, “my goodness, everyone here looks like they can use a drink..”

at your flirtatious tone, the guys exchanged suggestive looks with each other before a certain one with cerulean eyes caught your attention. he gave you a once over, his jaw clenching as you bent over to grab the flavored liqueurs you had in stock. he was so tall, his broad shoulders alone made your imagination run wild as you pictured your nails digging into his flesh, his sharp facial features causing an influx of butterflies to flutter in your tummy. “you’re a lifesaver, bunny.” topper, the man you recognized from yesterday, was quick to give you his drink order, both of you making small talk as rafe watched you intently.

he waited until kelce and topper disappeared back to their original spots before finally towering over you, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the man you shamelessly imagined yourself getting fucked by. “i’ve never seen you around here before.” his voice was low as he spoke, almost as if he knew what you were thinking and he was teasing you for it. “this is my second day on the course..” you trailed off, your cheeks heating as the space between you two lessened. rafe loved seeing how nervous you grew under his stare, a smug grin gracing his lips as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“how’s it going?” he adjusted the cap on his head, the gold ring on his index finger glinting underneath the sunlight. despite making really good money at the country club, you knew this job wasn’t something you could see yourself doing long term. “it’s alright.. it wasn’t my first choice but it’s funding my shopping sprees so far, sooo.. good enough!” at the mention of shopping sprees, rafe cleared his throat. “what was your first choice?” he asked, taking a sip from the alcohol in his cup as you started twirling the ends of your hair. “well, i was nannying on the mainland, so i was hoping to do the same thing when i decided to move here, but i just haven’t had much luck..”

it was like a lightbulb went off in rafe’s head, his eyes flickering down to your glossy lips. “no, shit? you know your way around a house?” you nodded, your lashes fluttering up at him as he decided right then and there that you were going to go home with him. “my son is actually out of the house right now for school, but i would love to have someone there to maintain things for me.. maybe even meal prep or just have dinner ready for me when i get home from work?” you smiled sweetly, looking past him to see topper and kelce already packing up their equipment. “i would love to do that for you.” that statement was like music to rafe’s ears.

“yeah? can you start right now?” you gasped when rafe took your wrist, spinning you around so his frontside was completely flushed against your ass. making sure the guys were gone, and there was no one else around to see you two in this compromising position, rafe rested his chin in the curve of your neck before whispering in your ear. “you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.” his hand snaked around your waist, a shiver running down your spine as he slipped his fingers underneath your skirt and cupped you just in time for you to reach back and palm him through his pants.

“let’s get out of here, i’ll give you a house tour once i’m done breaking you in.”

[anglbunny]

SIT ON IT

♡. multi, smut mdni, face sitting

You're straddling his stomach, thighs shaking from how much teasing he’s been doing. You’re already soaked — just from his words alone. He keeps glancing up at you, lips parted, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Please, baby,” he groans, voice husky, “just sit on my face.”

Your face burns. “I… I can’t. I—what if I hurt you?”

He laughs — like you're the crazy one — and grabs your hips tighter, guiding you up his chest toward his mouth.

“Then let me fucking suffocate.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh, biting gently, looking up at you like you’re the only god he believes in.

“I want your thighs around my head. I want that cute pussy smothering me until you forget your own name.”

You hesitate.

He groans. “Baby. Please.” His voice cracks, breath hot against your skin. “I need to taste you. Let me, please.”

You finally give in, trembling as you lower yourself over his mouth. And the second his tongue touches you—

He moans like he’s starved. Hands locking around your thighs, pulling you down so you can't escape. He eats like he’s trying to live off you. You try to pull away—too sensitive—but he holds you tighter.

“Uh-uh. Don’t run now, doll,” he pants between licks. “You’re staying right here until I’ve had my fill.”

You come so hard you nearly black out — and he's still whining, still licking, still begging for more.

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @shezuannn @greekyoghurtwithberries @snowsilver2000 @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @ravenbc @mihyas-dieehefrau

A/n: i think when im ovulating, i have a thing for men begging

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ 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 give him your hand.

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 wash 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!

[emisluvr]

catching sunghoon jerking off in the bathroom while hes showering and moaning your name 😃

well.. yes !! anon you're so big brain for this </3

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), masturbation, shower + unprotected sex, explicit language

you had only intended to grab your hair brush that you forgot in the shower. you knew sunghoon was in there, but you were just gonna quickly get it and leave.

you weren’t expecting to walk into anything more..

you slightly push the bathroom door open, the humidity of the warm water clinging to your face. that’s when you hear low, breathy moans of your name.

"fuck.. y/n.."

the shower’s still running, but you can see him through the glass. sunghoon, leaning back against the tile, his head tipped back against the wall, chest rising and falling while his hand pumps his cock—pace quickening as he feels his release inching closer.

"y/n.." he moans again, louder and deeper this time.

you freeze, eyes refusing to blink, lips parted, your whole body tense as you watch his pretty hands stroke his cock.. all while thinking about you.

his hand pauses for a second before he looks up, heavy-lidded eyes locking with yours.

"shit," he mutters under his breath, cheeks flushed pink. "you weren’t supposed to hear that."

he resumes stroking, his hand running up and down his length, wet from the water droplets falling onto it—his eyes still locked on yours through the foggy glass.

"but now that you have.." he breathes out, voice laced with tease, "you gonna help me, baby? or just watch?"

you’re already slipping off your shorts and crop top, your core pooling with wetness as you step into the shower.

not even five minutes later, you’re pressed against the glass door, water dripping down both your bodies as his cock relentlessly slides in and out of your pussy—like it’s been waiting for you. and it has.

"f-fuck," you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as sweat beads form on your face from the heat of the water, the warmth of his body, and the way his cock stretches your walls so perfectly.

"should’ve walked in sooner," he groans against your neck, fingers pressing into your hips as he snaps his hips into yours. "been thinking about this all week."

you can barely breathe, let alone speak. every thrust brushing against your sweet spot, the sound of skin slapping mixing with soft moans, deep groans, and the water pouring down around you.

"next time," he mutters, "i’ll be even louder, hm?"

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[mejaemin]

choi seungcheol’s fav kiss ❀⋆.ೃ࿔

wc: 0.4k warnings: lowkey suggestive, choking but not rlly? its more like jst resting his hand on ur neck, this gives daddy cheol but w/o the sexytime an: so i caught myself resting w my hand on my neck today and i was like huh.. i want cheol to do that to me. so here we are. anyways vernon is up next in the series so stay tuned !!! fav kisses mlist !!

seungcheol wouldn’t really consider himself bossy. you’re independent, you do what you want, and he accepts it.

..however, he does sometimes like to, how should he say it, guide you around.

sometimes it’s with his words, asking you to do something for him, or telling you what he thinks you should do. other times it’s with his body, large palm resting against your waist or the back of your neck to help lead you through crowds or through the store on a shopping trip he’s paying for.

more particularly, he likes to place his hands on the most beautiful part of your body, at least to him; your neck.

he didn’t know how much he liked it at first.. he noticed you, always sitting idle with a hand, or some sort of weight on your neck, and when he asked, you were surprised. you didn’t even notice the habit. it’s just something that felt.. grounding in a way. it helped you relax, and even helped you focus at times.

eventually, he started doing it for you. during cuddle sessions, his hand would find its way around your neck, not squeezing but laying there. it makes you feel safe. when sleeping, he’ll keep an arm around your waist, the other wrapped around your neck. it’s comfortable, and you always fall asleep so warm and comfy when he does it for you.

he’s definitely not trying to control you, never! there’s just something about the way you let him hold you like that, how you allow yourself to be so vulnerable, that makes him want to boss you around. take care of you.

his love for your neck turned into something a little bigger upon learning what it could do to you. your brain turns so fuzzy the moment you feel his hands against your neck, and you turn from miss independent to cheollie’s baby girl, smiling up at him and letting him do everything for you.

whenever you let him treat you, he’s so elated that he gratefully kisses you on your neck, his favorite place. you finally let him pay for your things? thank you baby, he’ll say, even though you should be the one doing the thanking, showing his gratitude by letting his lips graze your neck. you let him hold your bags? you’ll hear a good girl, followed by the warmth of his hand on your nape and his lips right above your clavicle.

it’s the perfect way to ease his possessiveness, calm that little spark in him that arises when you won’t rely on him. all it takes is grazing against that sweet, sensitive spot, and you’re like putty in his hands. his lips could stay there all day, and they do. at any time he’ll pull you into him and just hold his lips there, resting against your pulse point. it’s starting to become grounding for him too, feeling your heartbeat against his mouth, reminding him that you’re his.

svt 🏷️ @yutamicakes @prettymoles @polarisjisung @ikozen

[petalbcrnes]

❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐀𝐘﹒∿

⤷   🥝 ﹒ the bat-boys taking care of you when you’re sick !!

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈ #directory #rules .

　　┊   ♡   ﹒  my throat hurt this morning and all i wanted to do was curl up in small ball and sleep all day,,, but alas i have exams :⁠-⁠( i managed to write general hcs for the bat-boys today <3 i use medicine jargon here, i’m not sure it’s correct so don’t get mad at me </3 i tried to use as many sources as i could.

↦   ⟡   ∬ incl  ﹒  jason, dick, damian, tim & duke.

❛   ꜝ   ┈   ✺ cw  ﹒  sfw all the way. of course there is being sick described and also some prescriptions + meds.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀You’re sick with a nasty cold that’s left you feeling miserable and exhausted. What started as a scratchy throat yesterday has turned into full-blown congestion, aches, and that foggy-headed feeling that makes even watching TV seem like too much effort. You’ve been trying to tough it out, but when your boyfriend finds out you’re unwell, he immediately springs into action. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

Panics internally but tries to play it cool externally. Jason’s top priority is you and your comfort. The moment he hears your sniffles and coughs a switch is flipped in his brain. Getting sick is not something to freak out about— he knows that, but he just can’t help but worry so much.

Googles your symptoms obsessively and convinces himself you’re dying three separate times. He’s surfing the web for any kind of information to make you feel better. He mjght freak himself out a little by the information he finds, but for you he tells himself to get jt together.

Shows up with comfort food from your favorite places instead of medicine. Not that he doesn’t understand the importance of taking the correct medication. He just wants you to feel comfortable while recovering.

┄　🗨️　So I got your favorite soup, some of those crackers you like, and—... okay, I may have bought out the entire bakery section because I didn’t know what you’d want.

Reads to you in his deep, soothing voice until you fall asleep. You might have mentioned how his voice helps you relax. He remembers everything you tell him so he tries to use every way to soothe you— one of them being his voice. He’ll have his hand softly caressing you to bring you comfort as well.

Hovers awkwardly because he wants to help but doesn't want to overwhelm you. He’s trying. He really is. To Jason, all of this is fairly new— the domestic feeling of making someone tea to warm them up, tucking them in bed and checking their temperature. It’s new territory in the relationship.

Makes surprisingly good tea because Alfred taught all the boys basic care skills. Even if Jason might lack skill in making more detailed and harder dishes, simple tea he can do.

He gets in contact with Alfred. Jason asks him for advice— which blend of tea should he use? Any particular medicine he should buy? Alfred indulges him. It’s all very soft.

Jason gets genuinely upset that he can’t fight your illness for you. He’s used to dealing with his problems quickly and efficiently. Now he needs patience. It’s all different with you. He cant afford to have you in any more discomfort.

┄　🗨️　I just—... I hate that you’re hurting and I can’t do anything about it. I can fight criminals but I can’t punch a virus.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

Goes full mother hen mode and calls in sick to work immediately. Detective Grayson? Oh, he’s not available. Nightwing? He’s getting someone else to protect Blüdhaven tonight. You need him right now and he’s not leaving.

Shows up with half of CVS pharmacy because he wasn’t sure what kind of sick you were. He’s making sure he has all the medicine you need. He buys all sorts of medicinal tea blends— even though those test awful, he’s reminding you how much you need it and how it’ll help you recover.

┄　🗨️　Okay, I got DayQuil, NyQuil, regular Tylenol, extra strength Tylenol, throat lozenges, and—... wait, do you think you need a humidifier?

Attempts to make chicken soup from scratch despite never cooking anything more complex than cereal. Listen, he’s trying. Trying so hard for you.

┄　🗨️　The recipe says 'simmer gently' but I don't know what that means so I just... made it really hot? Why is it bubbling like that?

Keeps checking your temperature every twenty minutes “just to be sure.” He’s always near you, hovering over you and watching every twitch and move.

Insists on helping you move or just straight up carrying you everywhere, even just to the bathroom, because “you need to conserve energy.”

┄　🗨️　No, no, don’t get up! I’ll carry you. What if you get dizzy? What if you fall? I’m not risking it.

Puts on your favorite comfort movies but talks through all of them because he’s worried about you. He wants you to distract yourself from the sickness. At the same time his anxiety is through the roof. To calm down he talks to you.

Tucks you in so tightly you can barely move, claiming it's “maximum comfort optimization.” You’ll look like those blanket burritos after he’s done.

Texts the family group chat asking for medical advice and gets 47 different contradictory responses. Gives up and just calls Alfred or Bruce.

Falls asleep sitting up in a chair next to your bed because he refuses to leave your side.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 ︶︶

Damian might be more reserved when it comes to freely showing his feelings, but in this situation he’s not afraid to show how much he cares. It all comes naturally to him— he knows every step he needs to take to make sure you are recovering.

Brings you homemade remedies that are actually surprisingly effective. He made them himself. His knowledge of medicine might surprise you a little.

┄　🗨️　This is a traditional remedy. Not only does it taste good, it is affective as well. No, you don’t get to refuse it.

Sits stiffly in a chair nearby, claiming he’s “just reading” but clearly watching you. You feel his gaze. It’s like a comforting blanket.

┄　🗨️　I’m not ‘hovering,’ I’m simply ensuring you follow proper recovery steps. There’s a difference

Alfred the cat somehow ends up curled up with you because Damian thinks pets are therapeutic. He’d let Titus join in too, but the bed’s getting a little crowded. He leaves Titus with you, trusting him to be on alert.

Makes you traditional healing teas his mother taught him about. For example: Chamomile (bābūnaj) for reducing stress and anxiety, alleviating pain and discomfort, and also improving sleep and insomnia; Cardamom (hāl) is said to help digestion and increase saliva flow. Pretty expensive as well. But only the best for you.

He makes you get-well cards but leaves them on your nightstand without saying anything. Listen, he’s showing you his affection for you in everyway. Plus, the cards are beautifully done.

Insists you follow his very specific recovery regimen because “I know what's best.” He’s well versed in this type of situation and knows how to help best.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐓𝐈𝐌 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐄 ︶︶

Creates a detailed spreadsheet of your symptoms, medications, and recovery timeline. He has everything planned out. A little overboard, but still collected about it all.

┄　🗨️　Your fever peaked at 38.6°C at 3:47 AM but it’s down to 38.1°C now, which suggests the acetaminophen is working effectively.

Sets seventeen different alarms to remind you to take medicine, drink water, eat, etc. He understands if you feel to tired for it all, but he still reminds you the importance of it all and is right next to you everytime you take your medication.

Researches your illness so thoroughly he could write a medical paper about it. Tim is already smart. He’s even more invested in this topic because it concerns you.

┄　🗨️　So, I’ve cross-referenced your symptoms with twelve medical databases and created an optimal recovery schedule. Medicine every four hours, fluids every thirty minutes. Seems easy enough.

Brings his laptop to work from your bedside so he can monitor you constantly. He’ll work while keeping an eye on you.

Orders everything you could possibly need online for same-day delivery. He’s making sure you two have everything. Nothing is overlooked.

Makes you the perfect cup of tea/coffee because he’s memorized exactly how you like it.

Tries to stays up all night watching you sleep to make sure you’re breathing okay. He does fall asleep, of course. It’s endearing, but it worries you because he might not be getting enough sleep. He relents after you ask him to rest.

Documents everything “for future reference” in case you get sick again. He’s making sure the two of you are 100% ready to take care of eachother if any of you get sick again.

┄　🗨️　what if I miss something important? What if you get worse because I wasn’t paying attention?

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐒 ︶︶

Brings sunshine energy to your sick day, literally and figuratively. He’s probably the most collected bat-boy in this situation alongside Damian. He’s not freaking out. He knows you need him right now.

Shows up with your favorite comfort snacks and a playlist of feel-good movies. Your comfort is number one on his list of his so called ‘very affective recovery plan.’

┄　🗨️　I brought comedies, but also some documentaries in case you want something low-key. And snacks! Lots of snacks.

Uses his light powers to create soft, warm lighting that doesn’t hurt your head. His light feels so warm and soft. It isn’t too much. It’s just the right amount.

┄　🗨️　I can adjust the lighting if it’s too bright. Perks of dating someone with light powers, right?

Tells you funny stories and jokes to keep your spirits up. Makes you laugh even when you feel terrible, which somehow makes you feel better.

┄　🗨️　You laughed! That’s the first time you've smiled all day. See? Laughter really is the best medicine.

Brings you flowers or plants because “they brighten up the room.” In reality he’s the one lighting up the room.

Checks in via text constantly when he can’t be there in person. Feels a little guilty he can’t be with you all the time. The check-ins soothe his worry abit.

Makes sure you’re getting enough vitamin D by opening all the curtains. He’s making sure you’re getting some clean air as well. There’s fresh water by your bedside table all the time.

His genuine concern and sweet nature makes being sick almost worth it. Celebrates with you when you start feeling better like you've won a major victory.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

﹒   ♪   ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[cherrygirlfriend]

── SHARING HOODIES ♡

♡ pairing: nerd!rafe x pervert!reader

♡ summary: rafe comes to get you from a party.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff! somewhat nsfw, nudity, annoying m*n.

♡ author's note: inspired by @tinythebunni ‘s request for a reader who wears something skimpy and needs to borrow rafe’s clothes. i hope you like this!! <3 check this if you want to see what she’d wear to a party!

PERV MASTERLIST ♡ RAFE MASTERLIST

"aw, come on rafe!" elijah's voice groaned in rafe's headset, "you suck ass tonight, man. what's the problem?" rafe rolled his eyes as he queued his group for another game, "it's cause his little girlfriend isn't there to support him under the desk." josh snickered.

"shut the hell up, josh." rafe spoke with slight irritation, "at least i have a girlfriend. your longest relationship has been with your right hand." "that's where you're wrong, buddy. i'm a leftie."

they soon started a new game, but when they were halfway through the second round, rafe saw his phone screen start to flash on his desk with an incoming call, the screen displaying your name and a heart after it. rafe was quick to mute his mic and place his headset onto the desk, pressing the green button and putting you on speakerphone as he continued playing. "everything alright?"

"hiiii pumpkin pieeee!" you giggled on the phone, music blasting in the background along with the chatter of other people. rafe chuckled softly; he had known that you'd be going to a party tonight; after all, you'd gotten ready in his room and had tried to convince him to come with you.

"hey, lovebug. i take it you're drunk?" "nooo, i'm just a liiiittle tipsy." you said, and rafe could hear you slurp up a drink and swallow after finishing your sentence, "i'm sure, i'm sure."

"can you come n get me?" you slurred, "'m tired n can't... can't, uh, remember where my dorm is..." "yeah, of course. you're at sigma nu, right?" "mmhm..." "okay, i'll be there in fifteen. go find some water and one of your friends. got it?" "yessir." you snorted, and he hung up the phone and put his headset back on, unmuting himself.

"listen, guys, i'm gonna have to quit." rafe explained as he closed the game mid-match. "what? why the hell?" elijah questioned, "my girl called and asked me to come get her from a party." "damn, i thought it was bros before hoes." josh snarked.

"yeah, well, we're not fifteen anymore. and she's not a hoe, she's my girlfriend. i'll message you guys later." rafe didn't even wait for them to reply, getting off the call and turning off his computer before either boy could utter a syllable. the boy grabbed his things and pulled on his hoodie, quickly rushing out of his dorm.

as soon rafe was outside, he dialed your number, his shoes crunching against the gravel as he walked towards the location of the fraternity you'd told him you were at, but no matter how many rings he waited, you didn't answer.

rafe ran a hand through his sandy hair, hanging up and calling you again. ring, ring, ring, ring, ring... once again, no answer. he bit the inside of his cheek, picking up his pace as he once again tried calling you, to no avail.

once the fraternity house came to view, rafe pocketed his phone, the boom of the bass piercing through his eardrums as soon as he entered the building.

rafe wasn't like you. while you thrived in these environments, huge parties where there were people every corner you turned, floors sticky with booze and other liquids, one sweaty young adult pressing against another, smoke that smelled like cotton candy, music so loud it'd damage anyone's hearing in the long term… rafe had always hated parties.

however rafe's height was an advantage; at 6'2, he was among the tallest at the party, and he hoped it wouldn't be too hard to spot you, his heart beginning to race from worry; what if something had happened to you?

he walked around the living room and even tried calling out your name, but the music booming in the stereos obviously was loud enough to drown out every squeak of his voice, but as he looked around, he didn't seem to spot you.

rafe pulled out his phone and dialed your number once again and kept searching through the living room for anyone who looked familiar, almost unable to hear the rings that signified an outgoing call over the noise of the TOP 50 playlist currently playing.

he went back into the lobby, but just as rafe was about to start really panicking, he saw a familiar figure through the wide archway leading to the kitchen, wearing the same outfit you'd shown off for him in an attempt to convince him to come with you. but his relief was shortlived when he saw the way you were swaying on your feet, the glassiness in your eyes made more pronounced by the fluorescent light above you, rafe's jaw clenching almost out of reflex when he saw the guy chatting you up, his hand on your bare arm. rafe took a deep breath as he made his way to the kitchen, beelining straight to you.

"are you okay?" rafe leaned down slightly to look into your glassy eyes, tugging the stranger's hand off you in a less-than friendly manner. "hey dude, i was here first. go find some other chick." the stranger scoffed, making rafe straighten up and look at him in irritation, narrowing his eyes at the other boy.

"hey dude, keep your hands off girls who are too drunk to even stand properly. this is my girlfriend." "that's your girlfriend?" the stranger let out something between an incredulous scoff and a snort, while rafe simply ignored him, more worried about you. "buggy, are you okay?" he asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"you came." you smiled up at him softly, letting yourself practically crash into your boyfriend's side, "this douche is bothering me..." you mumbled, making rafe chuckle softly as he snaked his arm around you. the other guy simply rolled his eyes and mumbled some insult under his breath as he started walking away. "let's get you home, yeah?" rafe wasn't even sure if you heard what he was saying, but you simply smiled and nodded nonetheless.

rafe's arm was tightly wrapped around you as he led you out of the loud frat house and into the cool night air, starting to walk back towards the dormitories. he was too focused on trying to get you back to the dorms to notice the way your teeth were starting to chatter and the way your skin was forming goosebumps until you let out a quiet mumble, "rafeyyy... 'm cold..."

his eyes widened as he looked down at you, clad only in a top and a miniskirt. rafe sighed as he detached from you, a childish whine leaving your lips, thinking he did it because he didn't want to hold onto you anymore. rafe's t-shirt rode up slightly and his hair got messed up when he took off his snoopy-themed hoodie, turning to you, "lift your arms up, buggy."

you did as he said, and your boyfriend pulled the hoodie onto you, basically having to guide your arms into the arm holes of the hoodie, but when you finally had the hoodie on, rafe let out a small chuckle as he looked you up and down. for some reason, seeing you wearing his clothes always managed to make your boyfriend's heart race like crazy, even if it was something as silly as a snoopy hoodie.

"what's so funny?" you pouted, the hood still over your head, "nothing." he shrugged, wrapping his arm around you once again and starting to lead you towards the dorms, "it's just that... the hoodie is longer than your skirt."

"it's your fault for being freakishly tall, you damn beanstalk." you mumbled as you leaned into him. "or your skirts are freakishly short..." "prude." you stuck your tongue out at him, "acting like you weren't admiring the way i looked in this before i left." rafe felt his cheeks warm at your words, letting out an incredulous scoff as you simply giggled as he continued leading you towards the dormitory.

after about ten minutes of you wobbling and putting most of your weight on the side that was pressed against rafe, the two of you finally arrived at the boys' dormitory, "alright, try and be quiet." rafe said to you, rubbing his hand up and down your hoodie-clad arm. you simply responded by bringing your pointer finger to your lips and hushing, rafe unable to help the small smile on his face from how adorable he found it.

once you got to rafe's room, your boyfriend helped you to his bed where you immediately collapsed onto the mattress, letting out a moan of relief, making rafe feel slightly ashamed for the stirring he felt in his pants. he cleared his throat as he walked to the bed, "baby, you should take your clothes off first." "can't you do it…?" you mumbled, "are you sure?" "'s not the first time you've seen me naked, rafe."

rafe started with your heels, carefully peeling them from your feet, pressing a few kisses on each leg as he removed them. then he moved up onto the bed, lifting the hem of the hoodie as his long fingers slowly pulled down the zipper on your skirt, shimmying the fabric off, slight indents left on your stomach. rafe pressed soft kisses on each of your thighs, soft hums leaving your lips. "lift your arms up, love." he mumbled softly, and you did as he said; at once rafe pulled the hoodie off along with your top, throwing them onto the floor.

rafe trailed warm kisses leading from the waistband of your panties up to the underwire of your bra, before pulling back, "can i take this off?" he asked softly, and you nodded. rafe's hands slowly slid from the front of your bra to the back, until he found the clasp. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding when you felt the clasp come free, allowing rafe to slide the straps down your arms and discard your bra.

rafe's hands softly massaged the indents of the underwire, pulling a sigh of relief from you, "do you want to borrow a shirt from me to sleep in?" he asked softly, but you shook your head and spoke softly, "can we just sleep like this? both of us?"

rafe's cheeks reddened slightly, but he nodded and tugged his shirt off, throwing it amongst your clothing. he then continued on to pull down the waistband of his sweats, kicking them off onto the floor and settling into bed.

you pulled the covers over both your heads with a quiet, mischievous chuckle, looking into his eyes, "does my breath stink?" "like a brewery." rafe said softly, and despite his words, he still brought his lips to yours, your bare chest pressed against his, rafe's hand sliding down to your back.

as he pulled away from the kiss, rafe trailed his finger up and down your spine, goosebumps forming on your sensitive skin. you nuzzled closer to him, feeling the warmth of his chest on your face, the two of you whispering sweet nothings to one another under the blanket, soft, drunken giggles escaping the little bubble you'd created.

"rafe...?" you mumbled quietly, your eyelids feeling heavier by the second, "yeah?" he answered, his fingertips still tracing your spine, "thank you for coming to get me..." at your words, rafe let out a quiet huff of a laughter against your shoulder.

"you never need to thank me for something like that. if you call me, i'll come."

TAGLIST: @raahosh @nemesyaaa @purpleplumpudding @littlelamy @dollyfiles @esotericcangel @mattyskies @bakugouswaif @nonietosay @my-name-is-baby @tinythebunni @fratbrochrisgf @ariieeesworld @izumis-salty-penis @cameronsbabydoll

join my taglist here ♡

[millers-angel]

wait, i need one where joel spanks the reader 🙏 yk for… Educational purposes

the belt ୨୧ joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel loves to teach you a lesson with his belt. warnings: spanks, explicit gif ahead (the one from the first pic lol), fingering, size difference, kind of rough joel ig, and fluff

you hear the truck pull in just as you’re placing the last warm bun on the plate. the air still smells like cinnamon and sugar, sweet and homey, and you’re wearing that little dress—thin straps, soft fabric, barely brushing your thighs. it’s his favorite. you know it.

you don’t run to the door. you wait.

when it opens, he steps in slow. boots heavy, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the sun. he looks tired. tense. but more than that—there’s something dark behind his eyes when he sees you.

“hey,” you say, soft, like honey. “i saved you the last ones. they were still warm when i left the bakery.”

you hold up the plate like a peace offering. like innocence. like you don’t know exactly what you’ve done.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just stares. his jaw tight. brow furrowed.

“you been waitin’ for me dressed like that?” he asks, voice low.

you smile. tilt your head. “don't you like it?”

his eyes drop to your legs. you shift your weight a little, just enough for the hem of the dress to rise. pretend like it’s nothing. like you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“i missed you today,” you add, soft again. too soft. like a little apology hiding behind sugar and flour. “wanted to make you something sweet.”

he steps closer. doesn’t touch you. not yet. just looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or scold you.

you hold his gaze and bite your lip.

you know why he looks like that. you know you didn’t wear panties. you know he’s gonna find out when he gets close enough.

and still, you just smile. like you’re not doing exactly what you’re doing.

he glances at the plate in your hands, then back at you. "you went to work dressed like that?"

you blink, tilting your head like you didn’t hear him right. "like what?"

joel huffs, slow and deep, like he's trying real hard not to lose it. "don’t play dumb with me."

you just smile. give him that little look—the one that always softens him. "it’s my favorite dress," you say, like that explains everything.

you spin, slow, playful. let the fabric flutter just enough. when you face him again, he’s not smiling. his eyes are darker now. he sets his hands on his hips. voice low. steady.

"why aren’t you wearin’ any panties?"

you hesitate. just a second. then that smile creeps back in, slower this time. "i didn’t wanna get 'em messy... from the cinnamon rolls." you hold the plate up again like it’s a shield. or an excuse. "i was thinking of you all morning."

he sets the plate down on the table, a little too hard. doesn’t even look at the buns.

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, stepping closer. "walkin’ around town like that. dress ridin’ up. no panties. what the hell were you thinkin’, huh?"

you try to bite back the smile but it wins anyway. "what the fuck were you thinking, huh? thought you've learned your lesson this morning."

the way he’s looking at you—stern, jaw tight, eyes burning—you love it. so you laugh. soft. careless. like you’re not standing on the edge of a storm.

he freezes.

"you’re laughin’?" his voice drops even lower now. there’s a warning in it. "you want me to give you something to laugh about?"

you tilt your head, still smiling. "why are you so mad anyways?"

he takes a step closer. you don’t back away. "because you went out there showin’ everybody what’s mine. dress barely coverin’ a damn thing, no panties—" his jaw clenches. "you really think i’m just gonna be fine with that?"

you shrug, still acting innocent. "no one knew. i mean… it’s not like anyone saw anything."

his face hardens.

"and what if they did?" his voice is sharp now, laced with something darker. "what if some bastard looked a second too long? what if they noticed?"

he’s imagining it now. some guy standing behind you at the counter, letting his eyes stay on you, his blood runs hot even if they didn't really see anything more than just your legs. the thought hits him like a punch to the gut.

his fists clench at his sides.

you notice. and of course, you laugh again—soft, teasing, deadly.

"i thought you were proud of me bein’ yours." you make a spin, letting him see enough. your mound, your bare butt.

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he moves.

quick, rough, effortless—his hands grip your waist and suddenly you’re off the ground, tossed over his shoulder. your breath catches in your throat, a small yelp escaping as your hands press against his back.

"joel!"

"you think this is funny?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous near your thigh. "i’ll show you just how proud i am, darlin’. don’t worry."

he walks through the house like this is nothing new—like carrying you over his shoulder is routine. your fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. only his grip tightens when you squirm, and you feel the heat of his palm pressing into your thigh and the breeze hitting your bare slit.

he kicks the bedroom door open, strides in without slowing down, and drops you gently onto the bed—just enough force to remind you who’s in charge, but still careful. you bounce a little, settling on the edge, knees together, looking up at him.

he stands in front of you, hands on his hips now, chest rising slow. his eyes roam over you like he’s deciding what to do even if you both know the answer. his fingers stay too long on his belt.

he unbuckles his belt—painfully slow. "i'm gonna give you five with the belt and five with my hand. understood?"

you squeeze your thighs together, because even if this is what you wanted… you didn’t think he’d actually use the belt again. "b-but—"

"no buts. no nothin’." he rasps. "five with the belt. five with my hand. and you're gonna count every single one."

he sits down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. then, without saying anything, he pulls you gently forward and settles you across his lap, belly down.

his arm wraps around your waist, steady and warm, and his other hand rests on the back of your thigh.

you’re laid out over him, your hair spilling across the sheets, and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

once you're secured beneath him, you can only feel how his hand shifts to the side, grabbing the belt while the other hand finally pulled the hem of your dress up, til your waist, revealing your bare butt, all pumped and ready for him.

"this is what you wanted, didn't you?"

his voice is low, rough around the edges. you feel the belt shift in his grip, the leather folding over itself. your breath stutters before the first strike even lands.

you jolt forward slightly, the sting blooming across your skin.

"count."

"one," you whisper, voice already shaky.

his hand rests on your lower back, steadying you. not gentle. just firm enough to keep you in place.

second one.

sharper this time. it makes your toes curl and he's delighted to see.

"two."

"keep count," he mutters. like he doesn’t trust you to.

the third comes with no warning. you bite back a sound, clutching the blanket beneath your hands.

"three."

he pauses—only for a second. maybe to let you feel the heat he’s left behind.

then, another one.

"four," you gasp. your thighs squeeze together, instinctively. maybe to hide, maybe to feel something more.

the last one with the belt hits a little lower.

"five."

you’re trembling now. you don’t even realize he’s dropped the belt until you hear it land on the floor. then his palm replaces it—warm and broad.

"halfway there, sweetheart."

the way he says it makes your stomach twist. you hate how much you love hearing it.

before anything, he took a second to stroke your already sore butt. feeling how warm your skin was, how it practically radiated heat beneath his touch — flushed and tender, like it still remembered every strike. his palm dragged slowly, as if he was checking his own work. "look what you made me do," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you were still trembling a little, your breath uneven, skin hot and hypersensitive under his palm. your thighs pressed together instinctively, but there was nowhere to hide — not with you draped across his lap like that. you were at his will.

your fingers twisted in the bedsheets, knuckles white, as if grounding yourself in something. you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the way your body reacted spoke loud enough.

"alright, love. five more, yeah?" he said now a little more soft. "you think you can do that for me?"

"mhm," you nodded, pumping your butt to him.

he could catch a glimpse of that perfect little thing that belonged to him. your pussy was all his... and you've been wearing this dress at work with no panties. his gaze darkened again, this time, he will have no mercy.

his hand lifts and hit against your ass.

"ouch!" you whimper.

"that's not a number," he said and the next thing you feel is his palm against your butt again.

"six!" you squeaked, trying squirming for how though he had been.

you tried to change your position, trying to make him go softer, but he catched you and locked you even tighter against his lap.

"where do you think you're goin'?" ♡

he smacked his hand one more time, with no warning. the sound was so loud it made the whole room feel even quieter.

you muffled a whimper. "seven," it was barely above a whisper.

"attagirl."

he stopped for a second to take a look.

he could see his own handshape on your butt. it was more flushed, he was sure it would leave a bruise. but then... he spread your cheeks and found out his girl was naughtier than he thought.

"aren't you a sweet thing, mh?" he murmured. "gettin' all wet from spanks,"

you bit your lip and thank god he's not facing you cause your cheeks are burning red. you feel one of his fingers teasing your folds. feeling how slick your flesh was.

"you like the belt, hm?"

"m-maybe,"

he huffed and spreaded your knees enough to have better access down there. you barely gasped before you felt his palm hitting hard against your pussy.

"ah, fuck," you moaned.

"that's. not. a. number." each word was punctuated by the sharp smack of his hand, perfectly timed — one strike for every syllable, like he was making sure you felt each one sink in.

your pussy was responding to it, and so was your whole body, you felt yourself getting more wet, pussy throbbing, and joel… joel was enjoying it as much as you were, seeing how swelled it got, seeing how it turned out flushed by his struck.

he couldn’t help himself and caressed your folds carefully, feeling, teasing, until his finger found your nub. you hissed once he started drawing lazy circles, he loved how sensitive your skin was, how your body responded to his touch.

he swirled his finger around it, pressing, giving you pleasure. you could only moan softly, breathing heavily, feeling how your legs trembled, maybe because of pleasure, maybe because of the spanks.

his other hand came to your entrance, fingers teasing, eyes locked on your tiny little thing. he danced his fingers around it, just watching how you wiggled your hips for him, to let you him know you were ready to take him.

he slowly sank two of his fingers in you. getting a tiny whimper from your mouth. "that it," he rasped.

the view was obsecene even. his fingers—his whole hand looked so big for you. the very first time he was afraid he'd hurt you... but you, looked at him so needy, you'd beg him to fuck you, and he couldn't resist, not when you started rubbing your face on his scruffy beard, not when your hand caressed his cheek and tell him that you wanted him.

his fingers stretched you out. worked on you until all you could do was squirm, beg for more and moan his name.

you felt the orgasm forming in your belly at the same time you could hear your own juices when you pulled his fingers in and out.

he knew.

he knew you were close, knew that his girl was in a bliss, specially when he felt your falls throbbing, when he felt how you were clutching your cunt.

but he wasn't done yet. there were three spanks missing for you to count.

he pulled out his fingers all of the sudden, making you whine. "joel, please—"

"i'm not done," he said parting your knees again, and hitting your now sensitive skin.

you cried out, not sure if pain or pleasure. "eight."

he licked his lips at the view. all pounded, all flushed, all his.

"this what you get for wearing this damn dress with no panties," he growled and hit his hand against your pussy once more. "this is goddamn mine."

"nine," you whimpered.

his finger worked on your clit. you clenched your cunt, squeezed your thighs together, trying to find release, trying to come. but he wouldn't let you, he wanted your orgasm to be caused by him, by his hand hitting on your cunt.

so he just saw you falling apart, begging until he knew you were too weak, too eager.

he smacked his hand one last time, sending you to a total bliss. "ten," you whispered as you came, as you felt your legs weak, trembling.

he knew you were done by the way your body was spasming. you were a mess.

his hand, the same one that had been so firm minutes ago, softened now as it glided over your sore skin. slow, careful strokes — not to tease, just to soothe. your skin was flushed, warm and a little swollen beneath his palm, and he took a second to just be still with you.

then, gently, he shifted your weight. one arm hooked under your legs, the other cradling your back, and he turned you over. he brought you to his chest, settling you against him, your cheek resting right above his heartbeat.

you were still trembling a little, but he just held you there, his thumb tracing light circles over the small of your back.

"you were brave, i'm proud of you," he said softly, pressing his lips on your forehead.

“joel?” your voice was small, muffled against his chest. soft as a breath. “are you still mad at me?”

he let out a quiet sigh, more exhale than sound, and his thumb kept stroking slow circles against your spine. “no, angel,” he said, his voice soft. “you learned your lesson… right?”

you smiled, just a little — that playful smile that always made him raise an eyebrow. “mmhm,” you hummed, lifting your face to kiss him softly. “i did.”

he rolled his eyes like he didn’t believe you for a second, but he was smiling too. the kind of smile only you ever got from him. his hand reached up to tuck your hair gently behind your ear, fingers lingering there like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“i know it won’t be the last time,” he muttered. “i know what’s mine like the back of my damn hand.”

you let out a quiet laugh, your nose brushing against his jaw, and then you nuzzled into his beard, smiling like it was your favorite place in the world — because it was. you loved the scratch of it against your skin, the way it smelled like him, like sweat and his cologne.

he had no idea what it did to you, how warm it made you feel, how safe. and he was right — it wouldn’t be the last time. because you loved it when he got like that. when his voice was low, when his hands got firm, when he stopped being soft and reminded you who he was.

there was something about the way he held himself — calm, steady, but strong. like even when he didn’t raise his voice, you felt it. and when you pushed too far, when you acted up just to see how far he’d let you go… he always knew how to stop you. how to bring you back down. you loved that. loved the way he could quiet you without needing to say much — just his presence, just his hands, just him being him.

you loved feeling the strength in him, the way he could hold you still with just one look. his big hands on you, setting you in place like you were something breakable and his all at once. you loved how serious he got — that controlled power that lived in his chest, that wrapped around you when you got too bold.

“i know you love the belt,” he added, low in your ear.

𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

masterlist♡

[cameronsbabydoll]

scc!reader waking up to (retired?) scc!rafe's face in her tits and she's trying to wake him up but he does not BUDGE and he just stays like that for the next 20 minutes bc obviously he's a tits guy!

retired!scc!rafe being obsessed with scc!readers tits

you wake up to the weight of him before you even open your eyes.

his arm thrown heavy over your waist, leg slotted between yours, and—of course—his face nuzzled deep in your chest. like he’s paying rent.

you blink up at the ceiling, your voice still scratchy when you mumble,

“rafe…. you’re smothering me.”

no answer. just the faintest groan against your skin, his fingers digging in a little tighter like you’re his pillow. you squirm gently, not really trying to move him—but enough to test if he’ll get up.

nope. still no budge.

in fact, he only shifts lower, arms tightening around your waist, nose tucked into the dip of your sternum now, face rough against your skin.

“rafe—” you whisper, laughing softly, trying to poke at his shoulder. “you’re gonna suffocate.”

his voice is muffled, still half-asleep:

“worth it.”

he doesn’t even open his eyes. just sighs like this is the most peaceful he’s ever been in his life. and it probably is. thirty minutes into retirement and he’s got you wrapped up, warm, soft, and braless.

you give up after a while, brushing your fingers through his hair, cheeks flushed warm.

“you’re obsessed,” you murmur.

and even though he’s practically purring into your chest, he still manages to smirk.

“took me decades to retire, angel. let me live.”

and so you do. 20 more minutes of your clingy, sleepy husband using your tits as his final resting place. who could blame him.

[rafesangelita]

♡ #471 ‘gimlet’ - position request

warnings: mean!rafe x bitchy!pogue!reader , teasing, unprotected sex, rough sex, degradation, name calling, slapping, hair pulling, crying, oral (m. receiving), rafe makes reader swallow

“fuck— yeah, hold your legs up just like that.” rafe pressed a hand against the back of your thigh, your mouth falling open as he drilled into you hard and deep, the force of his thrusts making you hiccup each time his hips slammed into yours. you felt so utterly helpless and fucked out, you couldn’t even think straight with him knocking at your cervix with the tip of his cock, your body trembling at the overwhelming pressure building up in your tummy. “please—!” you heaved, your acrylics digging into your skin, “please just let me cum!” you squealed, your hand shooting down to take hold of his wrist.

rafe shook his head, his eyebrows knitting together as he shrugged you off. “fuck, no. you wanna act like a spoiled brat who gets everything she wants, right? ‘cussing me out because i didn’t get you exactly what you asked for? i’ll give you a fucking reason to bitch about something now.” you cried out, recalling the way you shouted at him on the way home because he surprised you with a pair of heels you already had coming in the mail. “such an ungrateful little slut, it seems you forgot i’m the one who supports your ridiculous shopping habits.” he groped your ass before landing a harsh smack to your flesh, the stinging sensation making you squirm.

“all i do is buy you whatever the fuck you want. you want some pretty diamond earrings? i buy them. you want those slutty micro-skirts? i buy them. you want your hair and your nails and all your other shit done? i fucking pay for all of it. don’t forget i’m the one who runs shit here.” he said through gritted teeth, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of your hair. his voice sounded muffled in your ears, your eyes rolling back as he fucked you to literal tears, your cheeks damp from your hysterics. “i-i’m sorry! i love everything you spoil me w-with!” rafe’s hips stuttered when he felt you clenching around him, his jaw falling slack before he pulled out and started stroking himself feverishly.

“get down here and take this cum in your throat.” you whimpered at the empty feeling in your needy cunt, your mouth falling open as rafe pulled you down until you were head level with his cock. without warning, he shoved his length between your lips, forcing you to take him in until the tip of your nose met his pubic bone. “ahh, shit!” he hissed, holding you tightly against him, “you’re gonna swallow every last drop like the fucking cum whore you are, you got that?” you replied with a garbled sound, your lashes fluttering up at the man above you as he spilled into you with a deep groan.

“see if you can act like a prissy bitch with your mouth stuffed full like this.”

submit your own req from here ! ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[anglbunny]

LITTLE SECRET

♡. mean plug!nagi, smut mdni, based on this request

Everyone thinks Nagi’s soft. Not soft like sweet but calm, doesn't say anything, which isn't exactly wrong.

Nice when he needs to be. calm. Quietly passing out his overpriced “study guides,” letting people bum lighters off him, showing up to class just enough to ace the midterm.

You know better.

You know the real Nagi — the one who keeps a burner phone in his desk drawer and a Glock under his flimsy dorm mattress. The one who deals out of the library basement and pays someone to write his papers while he plays Apex.

The one who’s currently got your legs spread wide in his desk chair, his hand around your throat, and that same blank expression on his face like this doesn’t even take effort. Your sitting on the chair, back pressed to the soft cushion-y backrest, legs spread open, like you're on display for him. face red, barely able to look at him due to the compromising position.

“Thought you said you could handle it,” he murmurs, pushing deeper. You choke on a moan, nails digging into his forearm. He doesn’t stop.

“C’mon,” he drawls, low and dangerous now. “You wanna be my little secret, you gotta learn to take it.”

He’s so deep it hurts, stretching you open, thick and slow like he knows you can’t take all of him — and doing it anyway, you swear you can feel his tip in your stomach. No warning, no prep. Just fingers in your mouth and his cock forcing its way in like he owns your body.

“You cryin’?” he smirks, dragging his thumb across your cheek, catching a stray tear. “Cute.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you — one hand gripping your jaw so you have no choice but to look at him while he rocks into you hard enough to shake the chair.

“Always act so sweet on campus,” he mutters, biting down on your shoulder. “But here you are, letting the plug fuck you dumb behind a locked door.”

Your legs shake. Your throat burns from how loud you’ve been. His name slips out over and over — broken, gasping, slurred.

“You gonna come?” he breathes against your ear. “Beg.”

You whimper. “Nagi—please, I—I need—”

“That’s not begging.”

His hand slides between your thighs, two fingers rubbing tight, fast circles on your throbbing clit, he can feel you trembling beneath him while he pounds into you harder.

“Beg, baby,” he whispers, mean and slow now. “Or I’ll leave you like this.”

You sob his name. You beg. You promise anything. "please! nagi.. I— I'll do whatever you want! I just.. please.. jus' wanna cum" you sob, voice shaking,

And when you finally come — back arching, nails clawing his shirt, mouth wide and silent — he groans like he felt it, too. He pulls out just in time to paint your pretty pussy all white and sticky, purposely smearing the cum all over, especially over your fluttering entrance, with his pink tip.

After, he kisses your shoulder like he didn’t just fuck you like a monster. Pulls your panties back in place, not bothering to clean the cum. Fixes your hair.

By the time someone knocks at his door, he’s back to being everyone’s favorite plug — mellow and soft-spoken, hoodie up, eyes lidded.

You’re the only one who knows what he’s really like.

And you can’t stop coming back.

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @greekyoghurtwithberries

A/n: ahhh i love him sm

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[petaltexturedskies]

Sylvia Plath, in a diary entry dated 20 June 1959, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[emisluvr]

Ughhh can you do one abt jake fingering or eating out 😫

yes yess anon i'll go with fingering for this one since i haven't written much of it yet! ><

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), fingering, pet names, praise

jake finds warmth and comfort in having his fingers buried deep inside your core, he seriously can’t get enough.

your head rests on his chest, warm skin to warm skin, your back pressed against him. his legs are spread under yours, keeping you open for him, one of his arms looped tight around your waist, holding you close and still.

"nghh.. jakey," you whine, feeling the way his fingers curl deep inside you, hitting that spot he knows too well by now. your thighs twitch every time he does it, soft moans spilling from your lips.

"feel good, baby?" he tuts, whispering against your ear as he presses slow kisses to the back of your head.

you nod, hands clutching at his forearm as his digits slide into your pussy again, curling into your sweet spot before pulling out halfway—then repeating, over and over. your back arches into him, a soft whimper falling from your lips.

he smiles at your vulnerable reaction.

"can’t even talk, huh?" he murmurs, fingers still pumping in and out of your now dripping core. "that pretty little brain’s all fogged up already?"

his arm that was once wrapped around your waist drifts down to your stomach, holding you still as his fingers fuck you slow.. but so good. your legs try to close on instinct as you feel your release inching closer, but he gently nudges your knees wider.

"nuh-uh," he whispers. "keep them open f’me. just like that, angel."

you obey, breathless and dazed, the only thing you can manage being a soft little mewl of his name.

he hums, curling his fingers up again—and just like that, you’re cumming. your pretty, milky release coats his fingers as he slowly pulls them out, letting them rest on your thigh.

"so good, baby," he whispers. "did so good f’me."

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[gojoest]

the moment you introduce satoru to your mom, it’s over for you. literally. your vent hotline is disconnected. your safe space to complain when he’s being insufferable is gone. your mother, the woman who raised you, who you thought would always be on your side, has been completely and irrevocably won over by your boyfriend gojo satoru who doesn’t just show up to meet your mom, he’s there to conquer her.

he shows up with flowers. two bouquets. one for you, and one “for the woman who made the love of his life possible” and ofc your mom is already blushing like a teenager. he calls her by last name at first but switches to “mom” before the night is over. without asking. and she lets him. you roll your eyes because, of course, he’s putting on a whole performance. and he grins like the smug little menace he is and leans in to whisper “you should’ve known better than to introduce me to the final boss if you weren’t ready to lose”

and the most diabolical part is that he plants the seed. “mom, if she ever thinks about leaving me, you’re going to talk some sense into her, right?” — and your mom just wholeheartedly nods.

from that day forward, any time you so much as vent to her about him, your mom splashes you with a river of words in his defense. like satoru doesn’t even have to defend himself anymore. he’s got backup. this man has secured a permanent alliance with your mother just in case you ever try to break up with him. it’s not even a backup plan actually, it’s part of the main plan.

he’s out there charming the in-laws. winning the family. making sure that if you ever get mad enough to consider leaving, you’ll have to go through your own mom first. and you will lose that battle. and honestly you should’ve known better that this man was your final boss in human form all along. and he just charmed the final boss that raised you. good luck, soldier.