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sceletaflores · 20 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

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

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

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should feel like an accessory.

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

You can’t tell which is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who possibly could?

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

“I’m not even fifty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch it.”

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry doesn't answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

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

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

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

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

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

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

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

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

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

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

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

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hairy

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

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

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

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

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

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

See you at 8.

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

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

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

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

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

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

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

Maybe it’s better this way.

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

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

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

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

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

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

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

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

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

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

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

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

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

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

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

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might as well.”

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

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

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

You also play your role perfectly.

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

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

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

You clap until your palms sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give him your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry draws you in close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “It is.”

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

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

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

“Harry…”

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

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

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

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

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

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

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

Can he feel yours?

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

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

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

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

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

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

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

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

You kiss him again before he can finish.

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

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

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

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

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

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

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

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

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

The ride back to the office is a blur.

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

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

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

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

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

Two words. That’s all he says.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you wet for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

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

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

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

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

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

Still…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

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

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

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

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

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

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

That’s all he needs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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luviestarz · 3 months ago

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kim mingyu fic recs!✮

✮ hot or cold? - @jjuniehao (when looking for something on his phone, you find an email you didn’t expect…)

✮ SHAVE — kim mingyu x reader - @yikesmary (with your boyfriend’s comeback approaching, mingyu asks you to help with shaving.)

✮ TEXT ME - @blue-jisungs (just very whipped mingyu :'))

✮ give it back! | Kim mingyu - @haoboutyou (fluff, fwb!mingyu suggestive, swearing)

✮ ; protective!bf mingyu. (tw: violence) - @m1ngyuism

✮ REPETITION / RARE LOVE - @nnight-dances (it's simple enough: you and mingyu are perfect for each other. you've told him as much but after years of him avoiding the topic, you leave him alone. but when your long-time infatuation with jeonghan gets rejected, you have nothing to distract you from your desire to be with mingyu. all it takes is you making out with the wrong person and a can of beer for mingyu to come to his senses. OR: maybe you don't hate repetition as much as you claim to.)

✮ stuff to talk about | kmg - @kkaetnipjeon (angst. fluff. drunk confessions. mutual pining. idiots to lovers. minors do not interact or i will set off a decades-long revenge plot against you and enlist minghao's help to do it)

✮ lipstick remover | kim mingyu | mdni 18+ - @wonwootattoo

✮ the very first night - @fxstpace (the search for a new place to live takes a turn for the worse when the only person willing to split rent with you is your ex-boyfriend.)

✮ perv!mingyu ⟡ kmg - @suhsweet (when your roommate mingyu is a filthy, dirty pervert obsessed with you)

✮ 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗷𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗼𝘂𝘀 | k.mg - @gyubakeries (angst-fluff scenario of mingyu getting jealousy and also a bit insecure with another guy talking with the reader)

✮ second servings - @diamonddaze01 (And what better way to show you how…grateful I am than to kneel in front of you?)

✮ - 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 - @sunniques (mingyu will do anything to make sure no man takes his place in his stepsister’s life.)

✮ — debauched | ft. stepbro! mingyu - @monamipencil

✮ lost in the west | kmg -@starlightkyeom (where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating)

✮ no more wine for you - @seungcheorry

✮ what do i call you? 🕹️ k.mg [m] - @haologram (your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you.)

✮ better late than never — kmg - @seungkw1 (smut, best friends to lovers, non-idol au)

✮ BIRTHDAY BOY - @odxrilove (It’s Mingyu’s birthday party, and Hoshi lets something out under the influence of alcohol. Apparently, you have two gifts prepared for him– completely throwing out the one-gift tradition your friend group strictly follows. However, Hoshi’s a liar — and a bad one at that — but it’s already too late. Even though Mingyu knows he’s supposed to be excited about all the gifts he’s receiving tonight, he’s (not so surprisingly) only interested in everything you’re giving him.)

✮ good behavior .ᐟ.ᐟ - @ddeonghwa-s (you're riding kim mingyu and find him absolutely beautiful and perfect. and so it's so easy for good boy to slip from your lips. little do you know that's all he needs to take full control so he can truly show you how much of a good boy he really is.)

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 4 months ago

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"ONE STEP TWO STEP THREE STEP OW!"

Synopsis: Young weird Neglected black!reader can't waltz and Bruce won't dance with you but Mr. Oliver Queen can teach you a few moves

You love galas, like really, really love galas: the architecture of the buildings, which could look Roman or Victorian; the bright chandeliers that glimmer like little stars; the intricate details on every piece of furniture and wall-to-door; the gold accents and trim. It's all just perfect. It feels like you're a princess on a special stage, like you're in a musical and you're the lead star, ready to burst into song after only two lines and do a comedic dance number. The men and women dressed elegantly, with jewels and watches from their great-great-grandparents that they took for granted, replacing heirlooms like loose change. Speaking in posh accents over champagne, they talked about their trips around the world or petty politics, using big words they never used before. It just makes you giggle, but you loved nothing more than the band's music. You'd clap after every performance, and the composer would always take a bow for you. But the thing you loved most of all was the dancing—how the women's dresses would sway as they waltzed and how the men would spin the ladies around adoringly. It was like you were living in the movie Anastasia. And you wanted to dance, to move like them, but you never knew how. It's only been a couple of months since you were integrated into this aristocratic lifestyle, and yet you know every little. Alfred tried to teach you everything there was to being classy, but the old man was far too busy teaching the boys how to behave at galas, so you had to work it out on your own. Alfred taught you a few waltz steps, but not the whole thing, so when it came to dancing, you were hopeless, like a duckling with feet too big for its body. But when the announcer at the gala told the fathers to dance with their daughters, you thought this was your shot—your shot to dance with Bruce, for him to teach you the moves, for you two to bond like you were meant to. I mean, you are his little girl; he should be running to you right about now, ready to put your little feet on top of his as he guides you and teaches you how to waltz. But Bruce doesn't show up. You looked around to see that every little girl and older girl was holding her dad's hand, stepping on his toes, and twirling around like princesses, except you. Everyone had a partner except you. You pushed past the happy fathers and daughters to find him, only to see that he had picked someone else. He was doing the waltz with Cass; they were laughing as she struggled to grasp the steps. You couldn't hear what they were saying due to the chatter of the room, but you knew they were having the time of their lives. But that didn't bother you; you would just wait for your turn, like a kid on a swing set watching the other kids take their merry-old-time. You can just wait and wait and wait, staring at the two. They looked so happy and energetic. You wouldn't lie; you were a tad bit jealous. I mean, you were younger than Cass; you were his little girl; you should have had that dance, not her. But jealousy wouldn't take you anywhere; you just had to wait your turn. They almost looked related; maybe it was the dark black hair or the pale skin. You looked at yourself and began to feel like an outcast. You nervously fixed your dress, pulling at the purple frills. Almost everyone in the blow room was white. Maybe Bruce just didn't want to be seen with you; maybe he was embarrassed. You shook your head— that couldn’t be the reason. Don’t be stupid; just be patient. Yeah, that's right—patient. You can be patient. But as you watched Cass lean her head on his shoulder, it should be you. You saw Bruce place his chin on her hair, and if you weren't jealous before, you certainly were now. You waited long enough, so you walked up to them and tugged on Bruce's suit.

"Hey," you squeaked, your voice sounding like a mouse. You started to fiddle with your fingers.

"I was waiting a bit, and I wanted to know if I could dance with you," you mumbled gently. He looked down at you; blue eyes shining like bright diamonds.

"Not right now, [Name]." He dismissed you like a secretary at Wayne Enterprises.

"But it's a father-daughter dance, and I've been waiting for a while now." Your voice trembled, and you started to feel yourself get angry.

"[Name], you're starting to act childish," he whispered. When he whispered like that, he was trying to hide his anger.

"But I've been waiting for an hour; it's just not fair," You saw him glare at you and stopped talking. You felt yourself shrink, getting smaller and smaller, but you weren't shrinking; you were just getting scared.

You stormed off walking right out the gala you felt angry furious even then you felt a familiar clench in your throat it was strong so very strong it made you want to cough you knew thar feeling better then anyone else you were going to cry so sat you sat on the pearly white steps and let those baby tears flow then you felt a rough hand on your shoulder you yelped out in fear and you swiftly moved away looking up from the ground to see a tall blonde hair man with bright emerald green eyes

"Hey, I don't bite," he chuckled, standing tall in front of you. You still kept your distance and sat down on the steps.

"So why are you out here all alone while everyone's having fun?" he said with a soft smile. You wiped your face and puffed out your chest, trying to look tough, but you were just a girl, and plus, he was a stranger. You shouldn't talk to strangers, but you were lonely, and your "dad" would rather dance with Cass than you.

"I was supposed to have a daddy-daughter dance with my dad, but he's too busy dancing with my older sister," you sniffled, grumbling just a little.

"Oh, you want to dance? Don't you think it's a bit silly?" he asked, and it made you frown.

"It's not silly!" You raised your voice, then lowered it to a whisper.

"It's lovely—the music, the fancy steps. It's all just lovely, like being in a movie," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest.

"Tonight, he was going to teach me how to waltz," you huffed. You heard the blonde man chuckle. How dare he make fun of you! You were about to let out a mean quip when he spoke.

"You can't waltz?" he said, holding back a chuckle and covering his mouth with a hand that looked calloused and rough, as if he'd been hitting drywall.

"Don't laugh!" you whined, annoyed.

"I'm not; it's just super easy to do," the older man said with a smirk.

"Well, I wouldn't know; I've never done it before." You felt a pout coming, and you quickly tried to hide it.

"Wait, you've never waltzed before?" he said, looking at you confusedly. Someone of your status should at least know the basics.

"Never" you answered

"Never ever?"

"Never in history." You felt yourself wanting to cry. Then he smiled down at you and stood up.

"Come on, I'll teach you. There are no perks to being a wallflower." His hands reached out, and you saw the little scars on his hand. With nothing better to do, you took his, and he led you back into the gala. He held your hand and hip gently.

"All you have to do is step in the square," he intruded, and you followed his steps from down to side, to up, and side to down again. Then he twirled you around, making you giggle. You felt like a princess, finally, until you stepped on his foot. He winced, and it made you snort. He gave you a fake glare, the older man smirking.

"You never told me your name?"

"You never told me yours?" he said, and you glared at him.

"I'm [Name], [Name] Wayne," you answered confidently.

"A Wayne?" he said, shocked.

"What's wrong with being a Wayne?" You huffed.

"Nothing. I don't get along with Wayne very well; they tend to get on my nerves," he admitted with a sigh.

"Tell me about it," you agreed.

"Anyway, I'm Oliver Queen friends. Call me Ollie, and your dad calls me a bastard," and you laughed.

"Nice to meet you, Ollie," you smiled up at him gently. You wondered if you should switch dads like playing cards. Little did you know, Bruce was in the corner seething at the sight of Ollie making you laugh and giggle and twirling you around. He almost broke his champagne glass. He didn't want to cause a scene, but he was close to crashing out and having it be posted on Twitter. He was searching for you, ready to apologize and give you your dance, but there you were, letting someone like Oliver have the dance. He'll make sure to deal with that blonde later.

#x black reader #batfamily x neglected reader #weird!reader #yandere batboys #black!reader #yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #x neglected reader #yandere bruce wayne #black fem reader #yandere dc #dc fics #yandere dc x reader

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moonwoodhollow · 4 months ago

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Studio PBP Reimagined by Moonwoodhollow I love Del Sol Valley, it's a great world that unfortunately offers very little when it comes to the prebuilds, which is why I always steered clear of it, except for building in the less glamorous neighbourhood. When a lovely person commissioned me to rebuild Studio PBP in an Art Déco style I was a bit intimidated at first but thanks to the absolutely incredible Bioshock CC-Set (1|2|3) by @surely-sims, @doctorsimcraft and @lumenniveus I was able to recreate Studio PBP as a lounge/bar/nightclub worthy of Del Sol Valley and its celebrities. I hope you'll enjoy this build and escape to the roaring twenties with your sims!

More screenshots, info + download link under the cut!

building background

Art Déco is one of the best-known architectural styles of the first half of the 20th century and originated from Jugendstil, Cubism and a few other art and architectural styles (Wiener Secession, Avantgarde, Futurism to name a few) in the latter half of the 19th century. While it's a global architectural style, there are a few regional differences, but for Studio PBP I concentrated on mostly US-American Art Déco buildings and used a somewhat less playful style for the facade that is still very bold. Since Art Déco was also hugely influenced by Ancient Egyptian art and architecture and Mesopotamian Architecture, I added some 'Egyptian' details to the lot in the forms of columns, sphinx and statues. There's so much more to write about this multi-faceted gorgeous architectural style, but this is meant only as a small introduction and to set the mood for the build:

So what do you get?

Studio PBP Reimagined is a 40x30 lot best placed in Del Sol Valley in the Starlight Boulevard neighbourhood. The lot is currently set as a bar lot but is playtested for the lounge and nightclub lot type as well. Currently, everyone regardless of their celebrity status can visit the lounge, if you'd like to change this you'd need to change the entry doors on the first floor. The lot consists of 3 floors and a huge outdoor pool area where your sims can lounge or swim. The first floor is designed to host the Starlight Accolades, whereas the 2nd floor is the bar area of the lot, where your sims can sip cocktails, and hold clandestine business or affair meetings... I won't judge! The 3rd floor is the nightclub portion of the building and is perfect for dancing the night away!

Uses items from the following packs: looks best with almost all packs. But a tip: take a look at the build in the gallery and click on the packs to see the items I used from that pack, it will also look good with fewer packs, as in without the kits.

Download: google drive (430mb) | and up on the gallery: aeromantica (but you’ll need the cc from the drive folder)

Is the cc included? yes.

-> The cc is updated for DX11.

TOU: Please don’t claim as your own or put behind paywalls etc. If you find any issues please let me know + tag me if you’ll use the building, I’d love to see it in your games.

If you like what I do and want to show your appreciation, I have a ko-fi!

#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims 4 screenshots #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 build #ts4 community #sims community #simblr #ts4 simblr #*mine #*mydownload #ts4 lot #the sims 4 lot #ts4 build #ts4 lot dl #sims 4 lot dl

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flux1563 · 3 months ago

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Biggest secret

Words : 7381

Tags : squirting, tied up, a lot of fingering, BWC, creampie

"Wonyoung, we're going to be so late," Yujin called out, her voice echoing through the bustling airport.

Wonyoung, the ever-calm member of the K-pop group, glanced at her watch. "We've got five minutes," she said with a gentle smile. "Breathe, Yujin."

They were two young women about to embark on a much-needed vacation. Famous for their talents, their faces graced billboards and magazine covers across Asia. Yet here they were, trying to navigate the unfamiliar European airport as inconspicuously as possible. Their fans had no idea they were even on the same continent.

Their manager had assured them that this trip was off the books, a chance to let their hair down and enjoy the continent without the pressure of performances or appearances. They had packed light, eager to leave their glammed-up personas behind. Wonyoung, with her sharp features and piercing gaze, had swapped her usual high ponytail for loose waves that fell around her shoulders. Yujin, on the other hand, had opted for a more dramatic change, dying her hair a soft pink and trading her stage outfits for comfortable streetwear.

The air was thick with excitement as they stepped out into the warm embrace of the afternoon sun. The cobblestone streets of the city stretched out before them, a canvas of history and culture waiting to be explored. They had a map, a basic grasp of the language, and a list of must-see spots. But what they hadn't anticipated was the encounter that would change their lives forever.

As they approached a quaint café, a man emerged, his 6'3" frame casting a long shadow. His eyes, a piercing blue, met Wonyoung's and she felt an immediate jolt of attraction. He was ruggedly handsome, with a strong jawline and a mop of curly hair that danced in the breeze. Yujin's cheeks flushed as she took in his casual yet confident stride. The two women couldn't help but stare.

"Ladies, are you okay?" he asked in a rich, accented voice that sent shivers down their spines. His name was Y/N, a local artist who had recognized the subtle signs of lost tourists. They nodded, trying to play it cool despite their racing hearts. He offered to help them find their way around the city, an offer they eagerly accepted.

Wonyoung and Yujin found themselves drawn to his easy charm and the way his eyes twinkled with mischief. As they walked, Y/n pointed out hidden gems that weren't on their itinerary. They laughed at his jokes, feeling a sense of freedom that was rare in their usual tightly-scheduled lives. The tension grew as they shared glances, each one loaded with unspoken desires. The energy between them was palpable, and it wasn't just the heat of the day that was making them sweat.

When he invited them to his penthouse, they didn't hesitate. The elevator ride was filled with nervous giggles and sly glances, their hearts pounding in unison. The penthouse was a stunning blend of modern architecture and antique charm, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the cityscape. They felt like they were stepping into a different world, one where the only rule was to enjoy themselves.

As they settled in, Y/n suggested they stay with him for the duration of their vacation. He promised them privacy and a chance to experience the city like locals. The thought of escaping the watchful eyes of their fans and the suffocating bubble of their celebrity lives was too tempting to resist. Plus, the thought of getting to know him better was an alluring prospect that neither of them could ignore.

The next day, they set out early, their excitement palpable as they wandered through the cobblestone streets, the smell of freshly baked bread and blooming flowers filling the air. Y/n led them to a hidden market where the vibrant colors of the produce popped against the ancient buildings. They sampled cheeses that melted on their tongues and tasted wines that sang of the region's rich heritage. The sun climbed higher, casting a warm glow over their exploration.

As the evening approached, they returned to the penthouse, their senses filled with the day's adventures. The city had come alive with the setting sun, its vibrant energy seeping into their very souls. They decided to embrace the local nightlife, eager to let their hair down even further. Y/n pulled out an assortment of fine wines and beers, setting the stage for a night of relaxation and camaraderie.

The drinks flowed freely, and soon enough, Yujin and Wonyoung's inhibitions began to wane. They giggled and whispered to each other, their cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the excitement of their secret escape. Y/n, who had been nursing his drink more slowly, watched them with a knowing smile, enjoying their playfulness.

"You know, we have a fantasy," Yujin slurred, her eyes glancing coyly at Y/n. "A... a really big one."

Wonyoung's eyes widened for a second, then she giggled, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. "Yeah," she agreed, her voice a little unsteady. "A... a big white cock."

Y/n's smile grew wider, and his eyes darkened with desire. He leaned in closer, his breath warm on their necks. "Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low and seductive. "Well, I've got something that might just live up to your... fantasy."

The room grew hotter as the words hung in the air. Wonyoung's heart raced, and she felt a pool of wetness forming between her legs. Yujin bit her lower lip, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Prove it," she challenged, her voice a soft whisper.

With a knowing smirk, Y/n stood and began to unbutton his shirt, his muscular chest coming into view as the fabric fell away. The two K-pop stars watched in awe as he revealed a sculpted body that could have been chiseled by the gods themselves. His skin was a warm, golden hue, kissed by the sun. He approached them, his confidence a tangible force in the room.

"Gentlemen prefer blondes," he murmured, reaching into a drawer and pulling out two lengths of soft, velvety rope. "But I have a feeling I might make an exception for you two."

With surprising gentleness, Y/n approached Yujin first. Her eyes were wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation as he took her wrists in his firm grip. He deftly wound the rope around them, securing them to the chair's arms with a series of quick, precise movements. He made sure the knots weren't too tight, but just tight enough to keep her in place. The soft fabric of the rope was a stark contrast to the cold metal of the chair, sending a thrill through her body.

Next was Wonyoung. She watched with bated breath as he approached, her heart pounding in her chest. He knelt before her, his eyes never leaving hers as he bound her ankles to the chair legs. The way he moved was mesmerizing, a dance of dominance and care that had her panting with anticipation. He then reached for her wrists, wrapping the rope around them in the same expert manner as before. He tied them to the chair's back, making sure she was as secure as Yujin.

The two friends sat there, bound and helpless, their breaths coming in short gasps. The room was filled with a new kind of tension, one that was palpable and electrifying. They had never felt so exposed and yet, strangely, so alive. Their eyes locked on Y/n as he stepped back to admire his handiwork, his gaze roving over their bodies with a hunger that was almost tangible.

"Now, where were we?" he asked, his voice low and gruff with lust. "Ah, yes, your fantasy. Tell me more about this... 'big white cock' you've been dreaming of."

Wonyoung's cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red, and Yujin bit her lip to stifle a moan. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes, and with a nod from Wonyoung, Yujin began to speak, her words tumbling out in a rush. "We... we've always wondered what it would be like. To have someone so powerful and in control, to give us pleasure beyond what we've ever known."

Y/n's eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam entering them. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of Wonyoung's jaw. "And what makes you think I can give you what you're looking for?" he whispered, his thumb brushing against her plump bottom lip.

Wonyoung's breath hitched, her eyes never leaving his. "We've seen your pictures," she said, her voice low and seductive. "We know you can handle two eager mouths."

With a smug smile, Y/n leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin. He placed a gentle kiss on her neck, eliciting a soft moan. His tongue snaked out, tracing the line of her collarbone and down to the swell of her chest. He could feel her pulse racing under his lips, the heat of her body beckoning to him. His hand slid under her shirt, cupping her breast firmly.

He stepped back, his gaze lingering on the two bound women before focusing on Yujin. He approached her with the same deliberate grace, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched their own. He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss that stole her breath away. His other hand reached for the hem of her shirt, lifting it up to expose her midriff. His tongue traveled down, tracing the curve of her belly button, making her squirm in her seat.

Their moans grew louder as he continued to explore their bodies with his mouth. He kissed and licked every inch of exposed skin, savoring the taste of them. His teeth grazed Wonyoung's nipple, eliciting a high-pitched whine from her as she arched her back, trying to get closer. Meanwhile, his hands had moved to Yujin's thighs, his thumbs teasing the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of her shorts.

He moved back to Wonyoung, his tongue flicking over her erect nipple before switching to the other one. He took his time, savoring the sounds of her pleasure. Wonyoung's eyes were closed, lost in the sensation of his mouth on her body. He knew she was wet, he could see the evidence staining the crotch of her pants, and the scent of her arousal filled the air.

Yujin watched, her own desire building as she felt the heat of his breath against her skin. She could feel the wetness seeping through her underwear, a testament to the effect his words and actions had on her. When he finally turned his attention to her, she was more than ready. He kissed along her neck, his teeth scraping against her sensitive flesh as he moved downward.

He pulled her shorts aside, exposing her to the cool air of the room. His tongue darted out, licking a slow, torturous path from her belly button to the top of her mound. She gasped, her body jolting in the chair. He didn't stop there, though. He pushed her legs apart, giving him full access to her soaking wet pussy. His tongue dipped into her folds, tasting her sweetness. Yujin's eyes rolled back in her head, her moans growing louder as he explored her with his mouth.

The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, the soft wet noises of his tongue on their skin. He took his time, teasing and tormenting them both until they were begging for more. The ropes that bound them seemed to tighten with every passing second, their bodies straining against the restraints.

Y/n looked up, his eyes meeting theirs. "Ready to see if I can live up to your fantasy?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.

Their eyes glazed with desire, they nodded frantically. The night was young, and they had a feeling it was going to be one they'd never forget.

Y/n stood, his gaze never leaving the two bound beauties before him. He unbuckled his belt with a smooth click, the sound echoing through the room. He unbuttoned his pants with a leisurely grace, the anticipation building as the zipper slowly descended. He pushed his pants and boxers down to reveal the monstrous 10 inches of BWC that had fueled their fantasies for so long. It stood proudly erect, a testament to his arousal.

He sauntered over to the sideboard, his eyes never leaving the girls. He picked up a sleek, black vibrator that lay there, charging with an eerie glow. "While I'm fucking one of you," he said, his voice thick with desire, "the other will watch, with this little friend here keeping her company."

Yujin and Wonyoung stared at each other, the competition in their eyes burning hot. They had shared so much together, but never had they competed for a man's attention quite like this. Yujin leaned forward, her bound breasts jiggling with the motion. "Me first, please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. Wonyoung's eyes narrowed, her chin tilting up in defiance. "No, she said, "my pussy is better than hers."

Y/n's smile grew even more wicked as he took in their slutty expressions. It was clear that the two friends had a wild side that was eager to be unleashed. He knew that this night was going to be one for the books, and he had the perfect plan to cater to their every desire. He stepped closer to Yujin, his cock hovering over her face. "You seem so eager," he murmured, tracing the tip of the vibrator along her cheek. "But remember, you're going to have to share."

Y/n positioned the vibrator at Wonyoung's entrance, her eyes wide with anticipation. He flicked it on and watched as her pupils dilated at the first touch of the buzzing toy. She moaned, the sound muffled by the fabric of the chair. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. "You're going to watch," he whispered, "and you're going to imagine it's your mouth wrapped around me instead."

Turning his attention to Yujin, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her closer to his cock. She opened her mouth eagerly, taking the tip between her lips. He groaned, feeling her warmth and wetness as she began to suck. He could feel Wonyoung's eyes on them, her desire almost tangible. He pushed his hips forward, sliding his cock deeper into Yujin's mouth, watching as she struggled to take all of him.

"Fuck, he's so big," she murmured, her eyes watering as she tried to adjust to the size. Wonyoung's breath hitched, her own desire growing as she watched her friend's face contort with pleasure and pain. Y/n's cock was indeed massive, and the sight of it stretching Yujin's mouth was incredibly arousing. She knew it was only a matter of time before she felt that same fullness herself.

Y/n watched with hooded eyes as Yujin's cheeks hollowed with effort, her mouth straining around his thickness. Despite her inexperience with a cock so substantial, she took him in with surprising enthusiasm, her eyes watering but never leaving his gaze. He reached down to stroke her hair, whispering words of encouragement as she choked and gagged, her throat tightening around him.

"U can take it, baby," he coaxed, his voice low and reassuring. "Just relax, breathe through your nose."

Wonyoung watched as Y/n's cock slid in and out of Yujin's mouth, the vibrator inside her pulsing with an intensity that matched the throb of her own need. Her eyes never left the erotic dance of his hips as he fucked Yujin's face, the sight of her friend's submission sending shockwaves through her body. The vibrator inside her was a poor substitute, but it was all she had to cling to in that moment.

Y/n's eyes flickered between them, his grip tightening in Yujin's hair as he picked up the pace. "Glukk glukkk glukkk," he groaned, the wet sounds of his cock filling the room. "Your mouth is so good and tight, baby."

He began to fuck her face more aggressively, his hips snapping forward with a ferocity that made her eyes water. The vibrator inside Wonyoung buzzed away, the sensation amplified by her friend's desperate sucking sounds. She felt her own orgasm building, the pressure in her core growing tighter with each thrust of the artist's hips.

Y/n's grip on Yujin's hair tightened, his strokes becoming more erratic as he approached climax. His abs tensed, and a low growl rumbled from his chest. The room was filled with the sound of wet suction and the muffled gasps of the two bound women. Yujin's eyes grew wider, her cheeks hollowed as she took him deeper, her throat muscles working overtime to accommodate his size.

The moment came, and with it, a torrent of cum shot into Yujin's mouth. She struggled to swallow, her cheeks puffing out as rope after rope of white hot liquid filled her. It was too much, too fast. Cum began to leak from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin and onto her chest. Wonyoung watched, her own orgasm cresting at the sight of her friend's submission.

Wonyoung pussy clenched around the vibrator, and with a cry, she came, her juices spurting out onto the chair beneath her. The vibrator's relentless buzzing only heightened her pleasure, sending wave after wave of ecstasy through her body. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed his name, the sound echoing off the penthouse walls.

Y/n pulled the vibrator out of Wonyoung with a wet pop, her cum dripping down the shaft. He didn't even bother to wipe it clean before sliding it into Yujin's eager pussy, her legs still spread wide from her own oral ministrations. She let out a moan that was half-surprise, half-ecstasy as the toy filled her up. The artist's cum was still warm on her chin and chest, mixing with her saliva and sweat.

"Now is ur turn, Wonyoung," he said, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "Take it like the good slut u are."

Y/n stepped back, his cock glistening with a mix of precum and Yujin's spit. He approached Wonyoung with the same predatory gaze, his hands reaching for her bound wrists. "Prove to me," he said, his voice a low growl, "that you're the better cocksucker."

Wonyoung looked him dead in the eye, her own hunger palpable. She didn't need any further encouragement. As soon as the ropes were loosened, she leaned forward, her mouth open wide. Y/n stepped closer, positioning his cock at her eager lips. Without a moment's hesitation, she took him in, all inches disappearing into her mouth.

The sound of "Glukk glukk glukk" filled the penthouse, a rhythmic symphony of her mouth's submission to his length. Wonyoung's eyes watered as she worked his shaft, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting the saltiness of his pre-cum. She took him deep, her throat muscles constricting around his cock, and he watched with rapt attention as she took his entire length.

"You're so much better," he moaned, his hands tangling in her hair. "So tight, so good." His words were like gasoline to the fire of their competition. Yujin, whose pussy was still pulsing around the vibrator, watched with a mix of envy and arousal. Her own mouth was sore, but she couldn't help but want to try again, to prove herself to him and to her friend.

But the night wasn't about competition anymore. It was about pleasure, raw and unbridled. Wonyoung's eyes watered as Y/n's cock slammed into her mouth, his hips moving with an intensity that bordered on brutal. She could feel his desire in every thrust, his need for her submission. Her throat was a tight ring of muscle that stretched around his thickness, and she reveled in the feeling of being used by this powerful man.

He groaned, his hands tightening in her hair. "Fuck, I'm going to cum in your throat," he growled, his voice thick with lust. Wonyoung moaned in response, her eyes never leaving his. She nodded, eager to take him all the way.

With a roar, Y/n's cock erupted, filling Wonyoung's mouth with hot, sticky cum. She swallowed as much as she could, but it was too much, too fast. Cum spurted out of her mouth and down her chin, covering her neck and chest. Yujin watched, her eyes wide with a mix of amazement and envy as Wonyoung's cheeks bulged with the effort to contain his seed. It was clear that Wonyoung had outdone herself, taking even more of his cum than Y/n had given her.

The vibrator inside Yujin's pussy hit just the right spot, sending her spiraling into her own orgasm. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body convulsed in the chair, her moans muffled by the ropes around her wrists. Her orgasm was intense, her muscles clamping down on the buzzing toy, her juices coating it. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction as she watched Wonyoung take her prize, even though her own mouth was empty.

As Wonyoung swallowed the last of Y/n's cum, Yujin felt the first spurt of her own juices. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her pussy contracted, sending a geyser of liquid shooting into the air, drenching the chair and the floor beneath her. Wonyoung looked over, her eyes wide with surprise, and then with a wicked smile.

"Maybe you lost in the mouth, but I think your pussy is greater than Wonyoung's," Y/n said, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down, his cock still hard and glistening with saliva. He licked the cum from Yujin's chin before pressing his lips to hers in a deep, hungry kiss. "Tell me, baby, does that make you feel good?"

Yujin whimpered into the kiss, the taste of their combined flavors swirling in her mouth. She could feel the heat of embarrassment mingling with the high of her recent orgasm. "Yes," she admitted, her voice small and needy. "It feels... amazing."

Y/n chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter sending shockwaves through her body. He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork. The two idols were a mess of ropes and cum, their faces flushed and their chests heaving with each ragged breath.

"Enough for today," he murmured, his voice filled with a sense of finality. "I've got to save some for tomorrow." He began to untie Yujin and wonyoung, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Their wrists were red from the ropes, but she didn't flinch as they fell away. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, their legs still trembling from the aftershocks of orgasm.

They stumbled into the bathroom, still naked and sticky with cum. The shower was large and luxurious, with jets that could massage every inch of their bodies. They stepped inside, the warm water cascading down on them, washing away the sweat and the evidence of their earlier escapade. Their eyes met, and in that moment, any hint of competition was gone. They were just two friends, sharing a secret that no one else knew about.

Y/n took his time soaping them up, his hands gliding over their curves and valleys with the same gentle precision he had used when tying the ropes. He kissed their necks and whispered sweet nothings in their ears, making them feel cherished and desired. They giggled and played, the tension of their earlier encounter giving way to a newfound intimacy.

Once clean, they stumbled out of the shower, their bodies glistening with water droplets that clung to their skin like diamonds. He led them to the large, comfortable bed that dominated the penthouse's master suite. The sheets were cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies as they tumbled in, still wet from the shower.

Wonyoung, ever the tease, rolled onto her back and spread her legs with a wicked grin. "Yesterday, Yujin got the first taste," she purred, her voice husky with desire. "But today, I want your cock inside me first."

Y/n chuckled, his hand stroking his still-hard cock. "Beg for it, baby girl," he said, his voice low and seductive.

Wonyoung's smile grew even more wicked as she licked her lips. "Please," she murmured, her eyes never leaving his. "Please, fuck me first."

Y/n's grin widened, and with a swift move that belied his strength, he flipped Wonyoung onto her stomach. Her legs trembled with excitement, and she wiggled her ass in the air, silently begging for his attention. He took a moment to admire the view, her plump cheeks framing her glistening pussy. The scent of her desire filled the air, and he knew she was more than ready for him.

He leaned down, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting her again. His tongue slid out, tracing a wet path from the base of her spine to the sensitive flesh between her thighs. Wonyoung moaned, arching her back to give him better access. His tongue delved into her folds, lapping at her clit with a fervor that made her legs shake.

Y/n took his time, his tongue swirling and probing, teasing and taunting. He knew just how to make her squirm, just how to push her to the edge without sending her over. He felt her pussy clench around his tongue, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating against her sensitive skin. He licked her with long, firm strokes, each one sending a bolt of pleasure shooting through her body.

Her moans grew louder, echoing through the penthouse suite. She was close, so close, but he wasn't done with her yet. He pulled back, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. "Beg for it," he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

Wonyoung's eyes were glazed with lust, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please," she whimpered. "I need it. I need you inside me i want it raw."

Y/n's grin grew wolfish. "So greedy," he murmured, his hand coming down to give her ass a firm slap. She yelped, but the sound was muffled by the pillow she had bitten down on. "But if you can't even wait your turn..."

Before Wonyoung could respond, she felt the pressure of his cock at her entrance. With one powerful thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely. Her scream was a mix of pleasure and pain as her body stretched to accommodate him. Y/n didn't stop, pumping into her with a ferocity that had her seeing stars.

The feeling was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her pussy was so tight around him, and with each thrust, she could feel him hit a spot that made her toes curl. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt him reach depths that she didn't know were possible. "Oh, fuck," she screamed, her voice echoing in the large room.

Y/n's rhythm grew more erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants. He could feel the walls of her pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in, as if afraid he'd pull out too soon. He leaned over, his chest pressing against her back, his cock going even deeper. "You like that?" he growled, his voice low and guttural. "You like having my big white cock inside you?"

Wonyoung could only nod, her voice lost to the intensity of her pleasure. She could feel her orgasm building again, the pressure in her core growing with every stroke. "Fuck me harder," she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper. "I want to feel it in my stomach."

Y/n's hands tightened on her hips, and he complied, his cock slamming into her with a force that made her whole body shake. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by their gasps and moans. Y/n's cock was like a piston, moving in and out of her with a precision that was almost mechanical.

Y/n's thumb found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he continued to fuck her. Wonyoung's moans grew louder, the pressure in her stomach unbearable. She felt like she was going to explode from the inside out. "Yes," she screamed, "yes, I can feel it in my stomach!"

Her orgasm washed over her, a tsunami of pleasure that had her entire body convulsing. Her pussy clamped down on him, her juices flooding the bed beneath them. Y/n grunted, his hips moving faster, his cock swelling even more as he approached his own climax. "Take it," he groaned, his voice tight with effort. "Take all of me."

Wonyoung's cries grew louder, her body writhing in ecstasy. Y/n's cock was a blur, his strokes so fast they were almost a blur. And then, with a final roar, he came. His cum flooded her, filling her up until it spurted out around his cock, coating her ass and the bed beneath them. She could feel the warmth of it, feel the power of his release.

As he pulled out, she collapsed onto the bed, her legs trembling. "Fuck," she breathed, her voice weak. "That was... I don't have energy right now, i can't believe i can take 10 inches." Her pussy was still pulsing, her body still trying to come down from the high of that intense orgasm.

Y/n chuckled, turning to face Yujin, who had been watching the whole thing standing, her knees slightly bent and her own pussy visibly throbbing. "You're next," he promised, his eyes gleaming.

Yujin licked her lips, her gaze never leaving the artist's still-hard cock. She had never felt more desperate for anything in her life. The way Wonyoung had taken him, the sounds she had made... she wanted that. She needed that.

Wonyoung rolled onto her side, panting, and gave her friend a knowing smile. "Your turn," she murmured, her voice still thick with lust. "Show him how it's done."

The artist stalked over to Yujin, his cock bobbing with each step. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper.

Yujin nodded, her eyes wide with excitement and a hint of fear. She had never been with a man this big before, but she had watched Wonyoung take him, and she knew she could do it too. She had to. For herself, for her friend, and for the thrill of the challenge.

He pushed her onto the bed, her body bouncing on the soft mattress. "Spread your legs," he ordered, his tone firm but gentle. She complied, her legs spreading wide, giving him full access to her pussy. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock glistening with Wonyoung's cum. "Look at me," he said, his eyes boring into hers.

Y/n pushed into her with a slow, deliberate movement that had her gasping. He was so thick, so full, and she could feel every inch as he filled her up. "Oh, God," she whimpered, her nails digging into the bed sheets. "It's so big."

He didn't rush, taking his time to let her adjust to his size. His eyes never left hers, the connection between them intense. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice soothing. "You can do this."

Y/n's cock stretched her further than she had ever been stretched before. She felt her body give way to his, her tightness enveloping him like a warm, wet glove. "So tight," he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Tighter than Wonyoung."

Y/n began to move, his strokes long and deep, filling her to the brink with each thrust. The pain was exquisite, a delicious burn that she had never felt before. She watched in the mirror as her own pussy swallowed his cock, the sight of it making her even wetter. She reached down, her hand shaking as she touched her clit, her movements frantic.

"Fuck me," she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Fuck me like you did Wonyoung."

Y/n chuckled, his eyes dark with desire. "But you're not Wonyoung," he murmured, his cock teasing her entrance. "You're Yujin. And I'm going to make you feel things she never could."

With that, he pushed into her again, harder and faster than before. Yujin's body responded in kind, her pussy spasming around him as she felt her orgasm build. She had never squirted before, never felt that intense release of pleasure, but with each powerful thrust, she grew closer and closer.

Her hand worked her clit in a frantic rhythm, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The artist watched her intently, his eyes never leaving her face as he fucked her. He could feel her pussy tightening around him, the beginnings of her orgasm starting to pulse through her body. "Show me," he growled, his hips slamming into hers. "Show me what a squirting pussy looks like."

The room grew hazy around her, the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of his cock inside her and the pressure building in her core. And then, with a scream that was more animal than human, she did. Her pussy clenched down on him as a flood of liquid shot out, soaking the sheets and the both of them. It was a sensation like nothing she had ever felt before, a release that seemed to come from her very soul.

Y/n's eyes went wide with amazement. He had never seen a woman squirt like that before, especially not on his first try. "Fuck, baby," he breathed, his strokes becoming more erratic as he watched the show. "You're a squirting queen."

Yujin could feel her orgasm building again, her pussy spasming around him. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, so...used. It was intoxicating. "More," she moaned, her voice barely recognizable. "Please, don't stop."

The artist chuckled, his eyes gleaming. He knew he had her now, that she was his to do with as he liked. He picked up the pace, his cock slamming into her with a force that made the bedframe rattle. The sound of wet flesh slapping together filled the room, a symphony of lust that had Wonyoung watching with envy.

Y/n reached down, his thumb finding Yujin's clit again. He rubbed it in tight circles, feeling her body respond to his touch. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a high-pitched keening sound. She was close, so close.

"Cum for me," he growled, his cock pumping in and out of her with a ferocity that had her panting. "Let me feel your pussy milk me dry."

Y/n's thumb circled her clit with precision, the pressure building until she couldn't hold back any longer. Yujin's body bowed off the bed, her pussy contracting around his cock as another gush of liquid shot out, soaking him, the bed, and the floor. He groaned, the sensation of her squirting pushing him closer to the edge.

With one final thrust, he came deep inside her, his cum spurting into her womb. The feeling was indescribable, the heat of his seed filling her up in a way that made her feel complete. She could feel his cock pulse with each spurt, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm. They stayed like that for a moment, locked together in the throes of passion, their bodies slick with sweat and cum.

As he pulled out, Yujin's pussy gaped open like the letter "O," the aftermath of his powerful release leaving her utterly exposed and vulnerable. Wonyoung's eyes widened at the sight, a mix of awe and envy. The artist chuckled, his cock still hard and gleaming with their combined juices. "Look what I did to her," he said, his voice filled with pride.

Y/n's eyes were hooded with desire as he took in the sight of Yujin's pussy, still quivering from the intensity of her orgasm. He leaned down, his tongue tracing the edges of her swollen folds, tasting the sweetness of her cum. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "Your pussy is a fucking work of art."

With a wicked grin, he reached out with his hand and lightly touched the sensitive bud of her clit. Yujin's body jerked in response, her breath catching in her throat. He began to tease her, his fingers dancing over her clit in a rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite.

Her eyes went wide as she felt the beginnings of another orgasm. She had never been this sensitive before, never felt like she could cum again so soon after such an intense release. But here she was, her pussy gushing and spasming as if it had a mind of its own.

Y/n watched in amazement, his eyes glued to the sight of her juices flowing out of her. "Again?"

Yujin nodded, her body trembling with the effort of staying conscious. "Yes," she gasped, her eyes glazed with desire. "I need... I need it."

With one final, gentle squeeze of her clit, the artist leaned back, watching as Yujin's body was wracked by another orgasm, this one even more powerful than the last. Her eyes rolled back, and she let out a scream that was cut off as she passed out, her body going limp beneath him.

Wonyoung's gaze flickered from Y/n to her unconscious friend, her own desire flaring anew at the sight of Yujin's pussy, still quivering and open from the intense pleasure. "Looks like she passed out," she murmured, a hint of sadness in her voice. "But her pussy's still wide open like 'O' for you."

Y/n chuckled, his smirk never leaving his face as he turned to face Wonyoung. "And now, it's your turn," he said, his voice dripping with anticipation. Wonyoung's eyes widened, a thrill of excitement coursing through her as she realized she was about to be the center of attention once again.

He crawled over to her, his still-hard cock bobbing with every movement. Wonyoung spread her legs, eager to feel him fill her up. But instead of entering her, he lowered his head, his tongue tracing a path along her inner thighs. She moaned, her body already sensitive from the earlier orgasms. He licked her slit, his tongue delving into her folds and tasting the sweetness of her desire.

Wonyoung's hips bucked, her body responding instinctively to the sensation. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But with Y/n, she knew she could let go completely, surrender herself to the pleasure he so expertly delivered. His fingers found their way inside her, pumping in and out with a steady rhythm that had her pussy clenching around him.

Her moans grew louder as he worked her over, his tongue and fingers in perfect sync. She could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, a pressure that was both exquisite and unbearable. "Please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "I can't take anymore."

Y/n's only response was to push harder, his tongue delving deeper, his fingers curling to hit her G-spot. Wonyoung's body was a tapestry of sensations, a maelstrom of pleasure that threatened to consume her. She felt like she was on the brink, about to shatter into a million pieces.

And then it hit her, an orgasm so intense that it stole her breath away. She screamed, her body arching off the bed as her pussy spasmed around his fingers. He didn't let up, his tongue still lapping at her clit, his fingers still pumping away. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a never-ending crescendo that left her trembling and gasping for air.

As the waves of pleasure finally subsided, she collapsed back onto the bed, her eyes fluttering shut. "No more," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can't..."

But Y/n wasn't done with her. He slid his fingers from her pussy, bringing them to her mouth. "Taste yourself," he ordered, his voice firm. Wonyoung's eyes snapped open, and she took his fingers into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. The taste of her own cum was surprisingly sweet, a heady cocktail of desire and satisfaction.

Her eyes glazed over as she sucked on his fingers, the sensation of his gaze on her making her stomach flip. He watched her intently, his own desire never waning. "Now, I want you to watch," he murmured, his voice low and commanding.

Wonyoung nodded, her cheeks flushing with arousal. She turned to face Yujin, her eyes locked on her friend's pussy as Y/n began to finger her once again. Y/n's movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes on Wonyoung's face as he watched for any signs of discomfort or distress. But all he saw was pure, unbridled need.

Wonyoung's body was a canvas of desire, her pussy swollen and glistening with her juices. Her hips began to rock in time with his fingers, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Fuck," she whispered, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "I'm going to cum again."

Y/n watched as Wonyoung's orgasm built, her body tightening around his hand. He could see the moment she lost control, her eyes rolling back in her head as she let out a scream that was more primal than anything he had ever heard. Her pussy clenched down, and she came hard, her juices spurting out to cover his hand and arm.

It was too much for her to handle. With a final, desperate whimper, Wonyoung's eyes rolled back, and she passed out, her body going slack. Y/n pulled his hand away, watching the aftershocks of her climax ripple through her. Her pussy was still spasming, her legs trembling slightly from the exertion. He chuckled, feeling a sense of pride at his handiwork.

The room was thick with the scent of sex, the air heavy with the sounds of their panting. Y/n looked down at his cock, still hard and demanding more. He knew he had to take a break, though. He had work to do, a canvas calling his name. He stood, his legs shaking slightly from the effort of holding back his own climax. "I'll be back soon," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the two passed out stars.

Leaving the sated girls on the bed, Y/n padded over to the en suite bathroom, his cock still standing tall despite the recent releases. He stepped into the massive tub, the warm water enveloping his body, and reached for the soap, his mind racing with the images of their shared pleasure. The scent of sex still lingered on his skin, a potent reminder of the power he had wielded over them. He began to cleanse himself, his hands moving over his chest, down his stomach, and finally to his still-hard member, which seemed to protest the interruption of its fun.

As he washed away the sweat and cum, his thoughts drifted to the unspoken challenge in their eyes. They had pushed each other, competed for his attention and affection, and he had reveled in it. The sight of their pussies, open like the letter 'O', was burned into his mind, a visual testament to the depths of their arousal and submission. It was a powerful image, one that stirred his creative soul and inspired a new painting in his mind.

He stepped out of the tub, water dripping from his sculpted body, and padded over to the bedside table, where he found a piece of paper and a pen. In the dim light, he scribbled a quick note. "I will come at night, take care of yourself," he wrote, the words a promise of the pleasure yet to come. He knew they wouldn't wake until morning, but the anticipation was part of the thrill. He placed the note on Yujin's pillow, knowing she'd find it when she woke up.

#yujin smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut

854 notes · View notes

kysstar · 2 months ago

Text

RIGHT NEXT DOOR | SONG MINGI (requested 💕)

pairing : : song mingi x fem!reader

synopsis : : you and mingi have been dancing around your feelings for far too long—neighbors, friends, something more. neither of you says it. but everything else does. Eventually, something has to give.

genre : : friends to lovers, next door neighbours, slow burn (?)

warnings : : reader and mingi being fools, alcohol consumption. (lmk if i missed smth!)

word count : : 7.9k

author's note : : thank you @bananananana26 for requesting this <3 i had such a fun time writing it! hope you like it 💕

—There’s a click, the familiar metal rattle of a key sliding into your front door, and the slow creak of it opening like the house itself is still deciding whether it’s awake yet. You groan and bury your face deeper into your pillow. The sun is barely bleeding through the curtains—definitely not an acceptable hour for social interaction.

“Mornin’,” Mingi’s voice floats in, warm and unbothered. Too chipper for this ungodly hour.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He’s already crossing the room like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he almost does. Mingi is that kind of neighbor. The kind that becomes a fixture in your space, slipping into your life through shared dinners and inside jokes, and eventually, the spare key you gave him for emergencies. Now he uses it like an open invitation. Like it’s his right.

“Where’s that black shirt I left here?” he asks, already rooting through your laundry basket like a man on a mission.

You crack one eye open and squint at him. “What?” Your voice is gravel, soft and uneven from sleep.

“My black shirt—the fitted one, short sleeves, buttons down the front?” He turns to you, holding it up triumphantly. The fabric clings to his fingers like it recognizes its rightful owner.

You blink. “Why do you need that? It’s like... seven in the morning.”

Mingi shrugs, slipping off his hoodie right there in the middle of your room like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Got a date. Brunch.”

That word cuts through the fog in your brain like cold water to the face. You sit up slowly, heart tapping against your ribs, alert now in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.

“A date?” you echo, trying to sound curious, not concerned.

“Yeah.” He pulls on the shirt, and you hate how well it fits him. The fabric clings just right at the shoulders, tapering slightly at his waist. He runs a hand through his messy, copper-tinged hair, trying to tame it as he leans toward your mirror. His fingers smooth over his jaw, adjusting the necklace around his throat.

“She’s someone I met through Yeosang. Cute, funny. Likes jazz, apparently.” He says it like it’s a fun fact. Like he’s not casually rearranging the architecture of your mood.

You hum something noncommittal and flop back onto your pillow. You don’t want him to see your face.

Mingi laughs, amused. “Why do you sound like I told you I’m going to war?”

“Because waking someone up to brag about a date is not exactly delightful,” you mutter.

He throws a pillow at you, but it’s soft, and you smile into the mattress when he’s not looking.

—You spend the afternoon trying not to think about him.

It’s not easy.

The problem with Mingi is that he’s everywhere in your life now—without ever really meaning to be. He’s in the smell of your laundry detergent (because he ran out of his own and now uses yours). He’s in the playlist that’s still looping from last night’s wine-and-rant session. He’s in the extra mug on the dish rack and the way your living room couch always has a slight dent on the right cushion where he lounges.

You’re trying to work—trying being the operative word.

Emails stack up, deadlines hover like impatient clouds, and you’re still stuck thinking about how easily he said it. Date. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

You picture him sitting across from some girl at a cozy café, laughing in that low, goofy way that always makes your chest warm. You picture her making him smile. Picture her reaching out to touch his hand across the table.

It makes something twist in your stomach—tight and jealous and stupid.

He’s allowed to date. Obviously. It’s not your business. You’re just neighbors. Friends.

And yet. You keep refreshing your inbox like it might distract you from the ache of wanting something that isn’t yours.

Evening slides in with a sky streaked in orange and lavender. You’re in sweats, finally letting yourself collapse onto the couch, when your door creaks open again.

Mingi walks in without ceremony, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You glance over. “So?”

He sighs and flops down beside you like he’s been holding in the weight of the world and just now decided to let it out in your living room.

“So, that was a bust.”

You try to school your face into sympathy. “Oh?”

“She talked about her ex for thirty minutes straight. No joke. I timed it after the first ten.” He scrubs a hand over his face, voice muffled. “I thought it was just nerves at first, but then I realized I was basically a placeholder for some dude named Jinwoo who cheated on her with her Pilates instructor.”

You wince. “Ouch.”

“And then she asked me if I thought it was weird she still texts him sometimes,” he adds, eyes wide. “Like, ma’am?”

Despite yourself, you start to laugh. “Okay, that’s... tragic.”

“I left before dessert. Just told her I had to feed my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

He grins at you, eyes finally lighting up. That boyish kind of smile that you can't help but smile back.

You know you shouldn't feel happy. Not really. You should sympathize, offer comfort, maybe even suggest he give the girl another chance. But instead, your heart feels lighter. Like someone just cracked open a window in a stuffy room.

Mingi stretches, then stands. “Come on. I need to wash the disappointment off me. Let’s do a movie night. Your pick.”

“You mean your apartment, your couch, and my movie taste?”

“Exactly.”

The movie carries on in the background, its glow flickering across the room like a lazy pulse. You’re half-watching, half-daydreaming, legs tucked under a blanket and Mingi’s stretched across your lap like furniture. It’s quiet, comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just as a chase scene starts up on screen, you glance over—and freeze a little.

He’s fast asleep.

His head’s tilted slightly toward you, hair falling messily over his forehead, one strand caught against his lashes. His lips are parted in a soft pout, like he fell asleep mid-thought. The bowl of popcorn still rests on his chest, absurdly balanced, the kernels slowly sliding with each steady rise and fall of his breathing. You stare for a moment, then smile, amused and maybe a little fond without meaning to be.

You reach for your phone as quietly as possible and snap a quick photo, biting your lip to keep from laughing. The angle’s perfect. He looks ridiculous in the best way. You open the group chat and send it without shame.

Satisfied, you set your phone down and try to shift out from under his legs, but they’re heavier now that he’s completely out. You wiggle gently, hoping he’ll roll off or stir just enough to let you slide free. Instead, he shifts the other way—an arm slipping down across the couch, his body turning just enough to press into your side, his leg now fully across your lap. A soft sigh escapes him, content and oblivious, like he’s settling in for the night.

You pause, blink at the ceiling, and exhale. He’s not moving. At all.

You stare down at him, then at the blanket, then at the barely touched popcorn. This is your life now, apparently. Trapped under a snoring six-foot-something man who smells faintly like your detergent and still has crumbs on his shirt. With no other option, you shift down slightly, tuck the blanket tighter around both of you, and get comfortable.

And honestly? You don’t mind.

—You stand in front of the mirror longer than you need to, checking your reflection for the fifth time. The party isn’t anything wild—just a casual get-together at Seonghwa’s place, mostly mutual friends, people you’ve known long enough to not stress about. But still. You’ve put more effort into getting ready than you care to admit.

You’re wearing a black satin slip dress that hugs in the right places and falls just below mid-thigh. It’s simple, easy, but elegant in that effortless way. You threw a cropped leather jacket over it for warmth and balance, paired it with ankle boots that give you just enough height to fake confidence. Your earrings catch the light when you move, and your lips are glossed, eyes soft with just a little liner.

As you adjust the strap of your purse and reach for your phone, the doorbell rings.

Right on time.

You already know who it is. Your hand closes around the doorknob. You take a breath that feels too deliberate, then open the door.

And there he is.

Mingi stands in the hallway like a scene out of a daydream—black dress shirt tucked neatly into fitted slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the curve of his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a hint of collarbone and a simple silver chain glinting against his skin. He’s wearing his usual beat-up boots that somehow don’t ruin the look—if anything, they make it more him. His hair is pushed back messily, like he tried to style it but gave up halfway, and it somehow works.

You blink, once, then again. Breathe out before you realize you’ve been holding it in.

Mingi’s eyes travel down, then back up, slower than he probably means to. His lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing—just looking.

Like idiots.

You clear your throat, fingers tightening around your purse strap. “We should go.”

“Right,” he says quickly, nodding. You notice the faint blush creeping up his neck as he turns to head down the hall. “Yeah. Totally.”

Mingi’s car smells faintly like mint gum and that citrusy cologne he always pretends not to wear. You settle into the passenger seat while he starts the engine.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. There’s music playing low—some indie playlist he probably queued up for the ride. It’s chill. Familiar. You both sit in that silence that isn’t awkward, just... easy.

“Do you know if Wooyoung and Yeosang are going tonight?” you ask, adjusting the hem of your dress as you cross your legs.

Mingi nods without taking his eyes off the road. “Yeah. I think they’re already there. Wooyoung texted me like five times reminding me to bring that stupid portable speaker he left in my apartment.”

You laugh softly. “Of course he did.”

“Also said he has a new drink recipe and wants to test it out on people, so…” Mingi glances over at you with a smirk. “If we end up doing karaoke in Seonghwa’s backyard again, blame him.”

You roll your eyes. “That was your idea last time.”

“And you crushed a Beyoncé song, so clearly you didn’t hate it.”

The city lights smear across the windshield as he drives, flickering over his face in gold and white. You steal a glance—just a second too long—and wonder if he notices. If he ever notices.

He shifts gears at a red light, glancing at you quickly. “You look... nice, by the way.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing, like it didn’t just short-circuit your brain a little.

You glance at him, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “So do you.”

And just like that, the silence stretches out again. The light turns green. The car rolls forward. And neither of you says another word.

The buzz of conversation hits as soon as you and Mingi step through the door—warm light spilling from the hallway into Seonghwa’s apartment, the sound of music underscored by clinking glasses, laughter echoing from the kitchen. The place is comfortably packed, full of familiar faces. People you haven’t seen in a while but fall back in with like no time’s passed.

Seonghwa spots you first. “Hey! You made it,” he says, pulling you in for a quick hug. He smells like aftershave and woodsy cologne, dressed in something sleek that probably shouldn’t work indoors but totally does on him. “Damn, you look good.”

“Right?” Hongjoong appears beside him, one hand holding a beer, the other casually tucked into his pocket. He gives you a once-over, then nods at Mingi. “You clean up well too, man.”

Mingi grins. “Tried.”

Seonghwa glances between you, a knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You guys come together?”

You nod without thinking, brushing a hand down your jacket. “Yeah, we carpooled. We live next-door, remember?”

There’s a flicker—too quick to clock unless you’re watching for it. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchange a look, that subtle, shared language of people who know. But neither you nor Mingi catch it. You’re too busy scanning the room, looking for the next familiar face.

You find it in the form of Wooyoung crashing into you with the energy of a Labrador. “You’re here!” he says dramatically, like it’s some big surprise despite the fact that he texted you three times to make sure you were coming. He pulls you into a hug that rocks you on your heels. “And you look like a hot villainess. I love it.”

You laugh as Yeosang appears, slightly less chaotic, sipping something suspiciously bright green. “I tried to tell him not to make the drink neon,” he says, nodding toward Wooyoung, “but he’s impossible.”

The conversation rolls easily from there—catching up, teasing each other, talking about things you didn’t know you missed until they came back to you all at once. Mingi floats in and out of your orbit, sometimes close enough to feel the warmth from his shoulder when he leans in to say something, other times across the room laughing with San over something you can’t hear.

You get caught up in it—just the way people do when the right kind of music is playing and the drinks are cold and the conversations run just deep enough to matter but not so deep they get heavy.

At some point, Mingi notices you’ve disappeared.

He’s mid-laugh with San, hands animated in the air, when he glances to the side and doesn’t see you where you were just minutes ago. His smile falters, even if only slightly. It’s small, but San catches it. Mingi mumbles something vague about grabbing another drink, and San nods, too distracted to question it.

He starts scanning the apartment, weaving through clusters of people. He checks the kitchen, then the hallway near the bathroom. It’s not panic, exactly—just this pull in his chest that won’t relax until he knows where you went.

Then he sees you.

You’re by the window, a drink in your hand, laughing at something a tall guy is saying. Mingi recognizes him—Yunho. He remembers seeing him at a few other get-togethers. Friendly, always polite, the kind of guy people like instantly.

Apparently, you’re no exception.

You’re smiling wide, your eyes crinkling, one hand brushing against Yunho’s arm as you throw your head back laughing. Yunho leans in just slightly, saying something else that makes you laugh again.

Mingi’s stomach knots. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. But that doesn’t stop the irrational heat rising behind his collar. Doesn’t stop the way his jaw tenses when Yunho reaches out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

You feel it first—eyes prickling, that inexplicable awareness of being watched. You glance up, across the room, and meet Mingi’s eyes. He’s standing still, his expression unreadable at first glance, but there’s something in his posture. Tighter than usual. His hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying too hard to look casual.

You excuse yourself from Yunho with a quick, polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you say, though you know you won’t be.

As you cross the room, Mingi doesn’t move. He just watches you walk up to him, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s trying not to.

“Hey,” you say lightly, as if you didn’t just catch him staring.

“Hey.” His voice comes out lower than usual.

You grin, oblivious to the weight of his mood. “Guess what? Yunho just asked if I wanted to grab coffee tomorrow. Isn’t that cute?”

Mingi frowns before he can stop himself. It’s subtle, just the smallest dip of his brows, the barest twitch of his mouth.

You don’t miss it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too fast. Then shrugs, trying to play it off. “That’s cool.”

You tilt your head. “You sure?”

Mingi looks away for a beat, then back at you, and there’s something flickering in his eyes. Jealousy dressed up as indifference. “Yeah. Just didn’t know you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “That type?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish now. “I mean… tall. Smiley. Safe.”

You laugh. “Are you describing Yunho or a golden retriever?”

Mingi gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods again, almost to himself. “Yeah. No, it’s cool.”

But it’s not cool.

Not even a little.

—It starts with your closet door wide open and half your wardrobe already strewn across the bed. Tops hang from your headboard, dresses are tossed over chairs, and there’s a growing pile of “maybes” gathering on the floor like fallen soldiers. The date with Yunho is in two hours, and you’ve tried on five outfits. None feel right.

Mingi is on your couch, sipping a drink like he didn’t just invite himself over after lunch and then refuse to leave once he heard the words “I don’t know what to wear.”

You walk out in the sixth outfit—an off-the-shoulder baby blue top, short skirt, boots—and strike a pose in the living room. “Okay. Thoughts?”

Mingi glances up from his phone. His eyes flick down, then narrow slightly. “Too much leg.”

You scoff. “It’s a skirt, not a scandal.”

“Exactly,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and disappear back into your room, already tugging the skirt off. The seventh outfit is a black cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans—safe, cute, not trying too hard. You step back out and do a lazy spin. “Better?”

Mingi tilts his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” you repeat. “You sound like I asked you to rate my tax return.”

He shrugs. “Just feels... like you’re dressing down for him.”

You stop halfway to the mirror. “What does that even mean?”

Mingi takes a sip of his drink, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve just seen you wear better stuff when we get coffee. He should get at least that level.”

You squint at him. “So now the jeans aren’t enough?”

“You asked,” he mutters, hiding behind his cup.

Outfit eight is a fitted midi dress—wine-colored, sleeveless, square neckline. You kind of love it. It's flattering without being loud. You walk out again, expectant. “Okay. This one.”

Mingi doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Your hands drop to your sides. “What now?”

He gestures vaguely toward your chest. “That’s not even trying to pretend it’s subtle.”

“It’s literally not even low-cut!”

“Still.” He shifts on the couch, suddenly very interested in the stitching on his sweatpants. “You’re going to be sitting across from him in that, laughing at his jokes, leaning forward, doing that thing where you—just—no.”

You stare. “Didn’t realize you were dressing me for a convent.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s not about that.”

Outfit nine is an oversized graphic tee tucked into leather pants, the vibe a little chaotic but maybe weirdly sexy. You emerge, posing like a runway model.

“No,” Mingi says immediately.

You throw your hands up. “Okay, what is the vibe you’re looking for here, Mingi? Sack of potatoes?”

He looks up at you then, something sharp and quiet in his expression. “Something that doesn’t make other guys stare at you like you’re available.”

The room stills for a second. You blink at him. You try to laugh it off. “Mingi, that’s literally the point of a date.”

He doesn’t smile. You go quiet. Something strange shifts between you—just for a breath, barely there. Then it’s gone. He looks away, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, softer now, “if he can’t like you in something simple, he’s not worth the time.”

You look down at what you’re wearing, then back at him. “So what’s your vote?”

“Jeans and the white sweater,” he says without hesitation. “You look like you in that.”

You sigh, disappearing back into your room one last time, this time pulling on the outfit he picked without protest. You’re tired of trying to read into his words. Tired of guessing where the lines are.

You return a few minutes later, fully dressed and adjusting your earrings. “Well?”

Mingi looks up. His gaze softens instantly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the one.”

You grab your purse, still catching glimpses of yourself in the mirror as you pass. You look fine. Better than fine. But a part of you still wants to ask him—Why did it matter so much what I wore?

And a louder part of you already knows the answer.

—Yunho is perfectly on time. He greets you with a smile that’s all teeth and warmth, holds the car door open, compliments your sweater. It’s smooth—thoughtful in that quiet, well-raised way. The restaurant is nice too. Not overly fancy, not a chain—something in between. Brick walls, soft lighting, a jazz playlist humming just under the hum of cutlery and conversation.

Objectively, everything is going well.

You know how these things are supposed to feel. There’s eye contact. The rhythm is easy. You laugh when he says something genuinely funny. He’s polite, attentive, says your name when he talks to you like it means something. But it’s strange how even when you’re here, present, smiling and nodding at all the right times—you’re somewhere else.

You’re with Mingi.

Not physically, but in the little corners of your brain that won’t shut up. Every time Yunho says something charming, you find yourself thinking, Mingi would've made a joke here instead. When Yunho talks about his love for hiking, you imagine Mingi groaning and calling him a “nature masochist.” You smile at that thought, then realize you’re smiling at someone who isn’t even in the room.

You nod along as Yunho tells you a story about a weird encounter at a subway station, and your first instinct is to think, Mingi would’ve absolutely dramatized this into a full two-act comedy skit. Your second instinct is to look over and catch Mingi’s expression reacting to it—except, of course, he’s not here.

You twirl your straw in your drink, pretending to listen, but your thoughts drift again.

Mingi would’ve ordered something off-menu just to see if the server could keep up. He would’ve slouched in his chair, gotten sauce on his shirt, made you laugh with his dramatic regret. He wouldn’t be this polished, this effortlessly perfect. He’s not the type to play dates cool. Mingi shows up with full heart and zero filter. It’s messy. Real.

But Yunho is here. Polite, calm, thoughtful.

There’s no reason you should be comparing them. And yet.

You catch yourself doing it again when Yunho leans in and compliments your laugh—says it’s “light.” You remember how Mingi once called your laugh “ridiculously loud” while laughing so hard he snorted. He said it like it was the best sound in the world.

At some point, Yunho asks if you want to go for a walk, and you say yes, mostly to clear your head. The air is crisp, the sidewalk quiet under your boots. He talks about music, then books, then something about a camping trip. You nod along, you even chime in—but nothing lands.

You should like this.

You do like it.

But it’s like watching a movie with subtitles slightly out of sync. Everything almost fits. But not quite.

He walks you to your door when the night ends. Says he had a great time. That he’d love to see you again. You smile politely and say, “Yeah, maybe,” even though you already know you’re going to lie awake tonight thinking about someone else entirely.

Because the truth is, Yunho is lovely.

But he isn’t Mingi.

—It starts with a group chat message from Wooyoung that reads:

"Emergency night out. Everyone shut up and show up."

You don’t argue. After the week you’ve had—awkward dates, annoying work calls, and whatever the hell is happening inside your chest when Mingi looks at you a second too long—you need the chaos.

You meet the guys at a cramped, slightly too-warm bar tucked into a side street, the kind with sticky tabletops, neon signs buzzing weakly above the liquor shelf, and a karaoke room in the back that’s barely soundproof. Wooyoung and Yeosang are already two drinks in when you arrive. Jongho shows up five minutes later with chips and something stronger than beer. Mingi slides in last, wearing a hoodie and a grin that makes your stomach flip even before he sits down next to you like he always does—without asking.

The drinks come quick. Rum, soju, a cocktail Wooyoung insists is “his signature” that tastes suspiciously like melted candy. The room warms up, volume rising with every song. You all start off ironic—bad 2000s pop, dramatic power ballads, Yeosang doing Beyoncé way too well, and Wooyoung trying to harmonize with literally everyone.

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, pressed against Mingi’s side on the low couch. His leg brushes yours and stays there. You’re not sure when that started happening—these subtle, unspoken touches. But you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Then Wooyoung throws his arm around Mingi dramatically. “Your turn. Go. Impress us.”

Mingi groans. “No one asked for this.”

“Do it,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “Unless you’re scared.”

His eyes flash as he looks at you. “Scared? Of you?” He’s grinning now. “Okay. Bet.”

He stumbles over to the screen, selects a song with the confidence of a man who’s made questionable karaoke decisions before. The first notes hit. You recognize it immediately.

It’s a love song. A dumb, sappy, overly sincere one—the kind people usually only pick if they’re trying to make a point or drunk enough to not care.

But he sings it. And he sings it well.

His voice is rough in places, but there’s something raw about it. Something real. His eyes scan the room, playful at first. Then they land on you. And they stay on you.

You feel it like heat against your skin.

The room fades a little. Wooyoung and Yeosang are still howling in the background, probably off-beat clapping. Jongho’s filming it, mouthing lyrics under his breath. But Mingi is still looking at you.

When he hits the chorus, there's something almost serious in his expression. Not like he’s just goofing around now—but like he’s saying something without really saying it.

You hold his gaze, something caught in your throat.

The last note fades into the room like a secret hanging in the air. There’s a beat of silence before Wooyoung yells something unintelligible and dramatic applause breaks the tension.

Mingi laughs and sits back down, a little breathless, cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol, you think. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, avoiding your eyes now.

You lean toward him, voice low. “You sang that like it was personal.”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Maybe it was.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. You want to ask for who, even though you think you know. But your tongue feels too heavy and the room too loud.

Later, a few more songs in, the others are busy fighting over mic control. You and Mingi are leaning into each other now, bodies drawn like magnets. You’re laughing at something stupid he whispered in your ear, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on in this chaotic little room.

There’s a lull. A quiet moment in the noise. He looks at your lips. You look at his.

It happens slowly. A lean. A breath. His hand brushing your knee, his face close enough now you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Your heart is beating in your throat.

And then—

“NEXT SONG, LOSERS!”

Wooyoung launches himself between you two, flopping dramatically across the couch with a mic in hand.

You jolt back. Mingi does too. The moment collapses like a wave that almost reached shore but never quite did.

You swallow hard. He clears his throat. Neither of you say anything.

The night carries on like nothing happened.

—Your head is pounding. Not in a dramatic, movie-style way—just a dull, persistent throb behind your eyes, made worse by the fact that the sun seems personally offended by your existence today. You sit on your bed for a few minutes, staring into space, before finally pulling yourself up with a groan.

You know if you feel like this, Mingi probably feels worse.

So you do what you always do when he's hungover: you go into autopilot.

Within an hour, you're walking down the hall with a plastic bag full of hangover cures—the good kind. A container of hot soup, two greasy egg sandwiches, cold soda, painkillers, and something vaguely healthy to make it look like you tried. You knock once, but you’re already digging out the spare key he gave you when he first moved in.

The apartment is quiet when you let yourself in. Dim, a little stuffy, and still carrying the faint scent of cologne, leftover snacks, and last night’s choices.

Mingi’s sprawled across the couch, hood pulled over his head, blanket tangled around one leg. His arm is flopped over his eyes like he’s trying to disappear.

You walk into the room, drop the bag on the coffee table, and clear your throat. “I come bearing salvation.”

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then, in a voice wrecked by sleep and dehydration, he groans, “I knew you'd come. You're too good to me.”

You laugh, kicking his foot gently as you sit on the floor beside the couch. “You say that every time and still don’t drink water when I tell you to.”

Mingi lifts his arm just enough to peek at the food, eyes lighting up slightly. “Is that soup?”

“Obviously. And sandwiches. And soda. You’re welcome.”

He sits up slowly, wincing like it hurts, and leans forward to grab one of the containers. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes bleary and soft. He looks like a half-drowned cat. You try not to find it endearing.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes, hunched around your food like hungover goblins, the clink of plastic containers and occasional sips the only sound in the room.

You steal glances at him between bites, the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck, squinting slightly at the light, chewing like it’s taking his whole brain to coordinate. You wonder if he’s thinking about last night too.

Because you are.

You’ve been replaying it since you woke up. The music, the drinks, his voice. The way he looked at you like he meant every single lyric. The almost-kiss. The way your heart paused, then sped up, then did absolutely nothing, because nothing happened.

But the nothing is loud. Echoing through this quiet morning like it wants to be noticed.

You glance up. He’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet for a beat too long.

You look away, wiping your fingers on a napkin, trying to play it off. “You sang so seriously last night, by the way,” you mutter, reaching for your drink. “Didn’t know you were auditioning for a drama.”

Mingi grins, head dropping back onto the couch. “You dared me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to look at me like that while doing it.”

The words are out before you realize how they sound. He turns to look at you again, slower this time. His smile softens, fades just a little. “Like what?”

You busy yourself with the drink. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push it. You both go quiet again, finishing your food with the TV playing some muted weekend rerun in the background. The sun shifts through the windows.

When the food’s gone and the trash is gathered, you stay on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Mingi slides down until he’s sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, still silent.

It’s comfortable. It’s maddening.

You close your eyes, head leaning back, heart a little too aware of the space between you and the boy who almost kissed you last night.

—You’re half-asleep when the knock comes.

It’s light at first. Then louder. Then followed by an unmistakable voice slurring your name like a secret.

“Open the doooorrrr… I know you’re in there. I can hear the fridge humming.”

You blink, sit up on the couch, check the time. It’s nearly midnight. Thursday night. Correction: Thirsty Thursday, which you now realize must have meant a bar night for the boys.

You shuffle to the door, still in your old hoodie and bike shorts, and open it with a tired sigh.

Mingi is standing there, slightly swaying, cheeks flushed red, eyes shiny with poorly concealed mischief. His hoodie is unzipped, hair a tousled mess, and his lips are curled into that lopsided, too-proud grin that only shows up after two too many drinks.

“I was just thinking,” he says, dramatically pointing a finger at your face, “that you're my favorite person ever. So I came over.”

You blink at him. “You’re drunk.”

He gasps, like you’ve just accused him of something scandalous. You sigh, stepping aside. “Come in before you wake the neighbors.”

Mingi stumbles in, shedding his shoes with unnecessary force and immediately bee-lining to your speaker like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does—he knows your playlists better than you do.

“I’m playing something,” he declares, squinting at his phone like the screen is doing him dirty. “We’re dancing.”

“No, you’re drunk, and I’m going back to my spot on the couch.”

“You love dancing,” he counters, turning to you with wide eyes. “You always dance when you’re cleaning. Or when you’re happy. Or when I bring you cake.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to dance right now.”

He ignores you entirely. The song starts—something upbeat, obnoxiously happy. He starts swaying, arms moving like he’s swimming through molasses.

You cross your arms. “Mingi.”

He grabs your hand. “Dance with me.”

“Mingi, you can’t even stand straight.”

“I’m very stable,” he says confidently, almost falling into your coffee table as he tries to spin. “See?”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He’s a mess. A very affectionate mess.

Eventually, you give in. Just a little.

You let him pull you into a slow, lazy half-dance in the middle of your living room. He hums off-key, his forehead resting against yours for a second too long, his arms slung loosely around your shoulders. His grip is warm, clumsy, loose like he trusts the gravity between you to do most of the work.

“You smell like soju,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

“It's my cologne. Limited edition,” he slurs, head dropping to your shoulder.

You both laugh, and his breath hits your neck—warm and soft, closer than it probably should be. Your heart is doing something inconvenient in your chest, but you ignore it. This is Mingi. Drunk, clingy, harmless Mingi.

The song fades. He pulls back enough to look at you—eyes half-lidded, dazed and soft.

“You’re so pretty,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Okay, bedtime.”

“No, wait, I’m serious. You’re like… glowing.”

“Mingi.”

“Like a really hot glow stick.”

You snort and start steering him toward the couch. “You’re cut off.”

He lets you guide him with no resistance, but just as you reach the couch, he trips slightly, and suddenly, you’re both falling—an awkward, clumsy tangle of limbs, landing with an oof as his full weight collapses on top of you.

“Get off,” you wheeze, laughing as you squirm under him.

He groans dramatically. “Can’t. Too tired. You’re comfy.”

“Mingi, I am not your mattress.”

“You are now.”

You try to push him off, but he’s deadweight—already melting into you, head tucked against your chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. One arm is flung across your waist, his breathing already starting to slow.

You stare at the ceiling, frozen. “Mingi…”

Nothing. He’s out. Fully, deeply asleep. Just like that. You should shove him off. You should throw a pillow at his head or wiggle out from under him. But you don’t. Not right away.

His hair is soft against your neck. His hand twitches slightly, fingers curling against your side. And something about it—all of it—feels dangerously nice.

You sigh, let your hand rest lightly on his back.

Just for a minute.

Just until your heart stops doing this stupid thing where it thinks maybe this could mean more.

—Mingi wakes slowly, like he’s being pulled up from somewhere warm and far away. His body is heavy, his mouth dry, head faintly buzzing from the remnants of cheap soju and sleep. It takes him a second to realize why his shoulder feels warm. Why something soft is pressed against his chest. Why everything smells faintly like your shampoo.

His eyes open, hazy and unfocused, and there you are.

Still beneath him.

His breath catches in his throat as he lifts his head just enough to see you—eyes closed, face relaxed in the kind of peace that only sleep allows. Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and steady, like your body is somehow calming his without trying. His arm is still draped over your waist, one leg tangled with yours, and your hand rests lightly against his back like it’s always belonged there. You’re holding him.

And he’s never wanted to stay in a moment more.

He blinks, slow and disoriented, brain sluggish from the hangover and the fog of sleep. He takes you in like he’s afraid you might vanish. Like maybe he dreamed this, and if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up to an empty couch and the hollow space where you used to be.

Without thinking, he reaches up and gently brushes your hair out of your face. His fingers barely graze your skin, but the touch feels seismic. He watches the way your nose scrunches slightly in response, the way your lips twitch at the corner like you’re dreaming something good.

This close, it’s impossible not to feel everything. The heaviness in his chest. The tenderness blooming quietly behind his ribs. That low, aching want to stay like this—not forever, not even for long, just for a while. Just long enough to memorize the feeling of your heartbeat against his cheek. Just long enough to believe you’re holding him not by accident, but because you wanted to.

You shift slightly beneath him, and your arm around his back tightens in your sleep—barely, instinctively. It’s nothing. A reflex. But to Mingi, it’s everything.

He lets his eyes close again, just for a minute. Just to savor it.

Later, he’ll get up. Later, he’ll go back to being your best friend and neighbor and whatever else he’s supposed to be.

But for now, he stays wrapped around you, your warmth anchoring him, your breath brushing against his shoulder.

And in that stillness, he thinks—

If this is all he ever gets, he’ll carry it with him anyway.

—The next date isn’t much different from the first, at least on paper.

You say yes to a guy you met through work—Taehyun. Clean-cut, smart, soft-spoken in that effortlessly confident way. He texts back quickly, plans the evening with ease, and picks a place that’s just the right kind of trendy without being pretentious. The type of guy you’d be stupid not to give a chance.

You get ready without telling Mingi. That’s new.

He’s been quieter around you lately, more fidgety. He still shows up with snacks, still flops onto your couch like gravity insists he belongs there, still makes you laugh without trying. But there’s something in the pauses now. A tension in the space between his glances, like he’s holding something back he’s not ready to let you see.

So tonight, you leave without mentioning it. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But part of you is waiting for a text from him the whole time. It never comes.

Taehyun picks you up right on time. He compliments your earrings, opens the car door, makes easy conversation during the drive. At dinner, he asks thoughtful questions, makes you laugh more than once, and never interrupts when you speak. It’s easy. No red flags. No weird silences. No awkward fumbles.

And yet.

Every time he reaches across the table, your brain betrays you. Mingi’s hands are rougher. Warmer. When Taehyun leans in to tell a joke, you think, Mingi would’ve made a stupid pun instead. When Taehyun compliments your laugh, you hear Mingi saying “You sound like a cartoon character” with a grin on his face and fondness in his eyes.

You smile at Taehyun anyway. You nod, you laugh, you play the part.

But something inside you is quiet. Unsettled.

After dinner, he asks if you want to grab dessert somewhere nearby. You say yes, but you’re already picturing Mingi in your kitchen, raiding your freezer for ice cream you pretend not to keep stocked. You remember the way he always eats straight from the tub, standing barefoot, ranting about some dumb video he saw.

Taehyun suggests a walk before driving back, and you say yes again. The night is cool. The sidewalk is mostly empty. He offers you his jacket. You don’t take it.

He drops you off just after ten, walks you to your door. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t try to kiss you. He just says, “I’d like to see you again,” and waits.

You smile. “Maybe.”

And you mean it. But not in the way he hopes.

Inside, your apartment is quiet. Still. You drop your purse, kick off your shoes, and wander into the kitchen without really knowing what you’re looking for.

And then you hear the knock. You open it, and there’s Mingi—hoodie on, hands in his pockets, hair messy like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

He nods. “Hey.”

His eyes flick down—catch your outfit, the faint smudge of lipstick, the light perfume you never wear unless you’re going out. His jaw tenses, just for a second.

“You were out,” he says, like it’s a statement, not a question.

You shrug. “Just dinner.”

He nods again. “With a guy?”

You lean against the doorframe. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between you, longer than it needs to be. You can hear the faint hum of your fridge behind you. The soft buzz of a streetlight outside.

Mingi shifts on his feet. “Was it good?”

“It was fine.”

More silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he wants to say something but can’t figure out how to start.

You watch him, heart thudding somewhere between frustration and longing. You wish he’d just say it. Ask. Admit. Anything.

Instead, he glances at his shoes and mutters, “I brought the stupid ice cream you like. Figured you might want it.”

Your chest aches a little. You step aside.

“Come in.”

—The party’s already buzzing by the time you arrive.

It’s someone’s birthday—someone you don’t know well enough to hug, but well enough to show up for. The place is packed. Music is loud, lights are low, and the drinks are flowing too fast for how early it still is. You're not even halfway through your first cocktail when Taehyun shows up beside you, grinning like he’s already tipsy.

You smile back. Out of politeness. Out of habit. Out of something else you’re still pretending not to name.

At first, it’s nothing. Light flirting. A little too close when he leans in to talk over the music. A hand at your waist that lingers a second too long. You laugh—nervous, but letting it happen.

You don’t see Mingi watching.

He’s across the room, pretending to listen to Jongho tell a story, but his eyes are fixed on the way Taehyun’s thumb brushes against your arm. How you don’t pull away. How you tilt your head and smile like it doesn’t twist something sharp into his chest.

When he sees Taehyun lean in and whisper something that makes you laugh—really laugh—he snaps.

He’s moving before he can stop himself, cutting through the crowd, his heart slamming into his ribs like it’s trying to get out. You don’t see him until he’s already there.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, clipped.

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just jerks his head toward the balcony. “Now.”

There’s something in his tone you’ve never heard before. You follow.

The air outside is cooler, quieter. Distant bass thuds through the walls, but here it feels separate, suspended. Mingi paces once, then turns to face you, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“What the hell was that?”

You frown. “What are you talking about?”

“You and him,” he says, motioning back toward the party. “The hands. The way he was—you were letting him touch you like that.”

You cross your arms. “So?”

He scoffs, bitter. “So, nothing? Just a casual thing? Doesn’t matter?”

You straighten. “Why does it matter to you?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes. You see him struggling—his fists clenching, his breath uneven.

“It’s not like you care who I date!” you throw at him. It’s defensive, sharp. You’re trying to hurt him before he can hurt you.

His voice rises, the words bursting out before he can stop them. “Maybe I do!”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t sit quietly. It rings.

He runs a hand over his face, frustration spilling from every movement. “God. I do. I care, okay? I’ve been trying so hard not to. Trying to be the friend, the neighbor, the idiot you vent to about your dates while pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.”

You stare at him, your heart thudding once—hard, loud, like a signal flare.

Mingi steps closer, eyes locked on yours now, chest heaving with everything he’s been holding back. “I hated watching him touch you. I hated how easy it was for you to smile at him like that. Because I’ve been right here this whole damn time, wanting you, and you never look—”

You don’t know you’re moving until you're already there—your hands in his hoodie, your mouth crashing into his mid-sentence.

His breath stutters, and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been waiting to—for months. Years, maybe. Like he’s been holding his breath every time you walked into a room, and now he finally gets to exhale.

His hands find your waist, your back, your face—like he can’t pick where to hold you first. You’re still pressed up against the balcony, and the city blurs behind you, lights spinning, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You don’t stop. Not even when someone opens the door behind you, lets out a laugh, and goes back inside.

The world can wait.

Right now, this is everything.

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