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sceletaflores · 16 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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violentdelightsandviolentends · 7 months ago

Text

Honey Girl. Chapter Twelve.

previous (chapter eleven). series masterlist. the playlist.

chapter synopsis - And throughout it all, no matter what - there was Lacie.

pairing - dad’s bestfriend!bucky barnes x female reader - soulmate au

warnings - cursing. alcohol consumption.

word count - 5k

authors note - to all my girls who have their girlfriends backs no matter what, who wipe their tears and fix their hair and tell them everything is going to be okay, who will always pick up the phone regardless of the time or place… this one’s for you.

masterlist. inbox.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Honey, please. You’re making me nervous.”

You foot stills where it was banging against the cabinet, the words halting your movements. You’re perched up on your kitchen counter, watching as Bucky makes you breakfast, both of you illuminated by the morning light. He’s shirtless and wearing short shorts that show off the tanned, corded muscle of his thighs, skin all sun kissed and begging to be bitten.

There’s an energy coursing through your veins, prickly and warm. You woke up feeling like this - uneasy and on edge - like a grey cloud was looming in the distance, getting closer with every passing minute.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he moves to stand between your legs, warm hands splaying across your thighs.

“I’m fine,” you answer a little too quickly, avoiding his gaze. “S’nothing.”

Bucky takes your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he murmurs. “I can feel your anxiety in my chest. If it’s bad for me, it’s gotta be awful for you.”

“I don’t know what it is,” you whisper, playing with his fingers. “Just woke up with this… feeling.”

He leans forward to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, lips warm on your skin.

“Get dressed.”

“What?”

“Get dressed, baby. We’re going out.”

“But what about breakfast?”

“We’re bringing breakfast with us.”

You stare at him for a moment, before nodding and hopping down from the counter. Padding across the kitchen tiles, you make your way into your room, your nerves too fried to worry about what your soulmate has planned.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The world passes by in a blur as Bucky speeds down the road, the steady roar of his truck soothing the buzzing in your bones. You arrive at your destination before you know it, coming to a stop next to a familiar path.

“Our house,” you breathe, looking out over the coastal plot.

“Our soon to be house,” he smiles, slinging an arm around your shoulders to pull you into him. “Thought we could have a breakfast picnic.”

“That sounds… perfect.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the melodic rhythm of his heartbeat to settle your nerves.

“Come on, honey baby. Let’s put down a blanket and eat while the everything is still warm.”

You get settled on the old, worn throw that Bucky keeps in his trunk, looking out at the ocean view that you’ll be blessed with for the rest of your lives.

“I may be the baker here, but you’re a damn good cook, sir.”

You practically moan as you bite into the sandwich, rolling your eyes when your soulmate can’t help but laugh at you.

“You blow up my ego too much.”

“Well, someone has to, I suppose.”

He shoves you in the shoulder lightly, chortling at your dramatics when you throw yourself backwards.

“If you’re done with the theatrics, there’s something I want to show you.”

“Fine, fine,” you relent, sitting up and finishing your breakfast. “Show me, Buck.”

He reaches into the picnic basket, pulling out rolls of paper and unfurling them in front of you.

“Official house blueprints. Got them all printed properly so we can mark them up and make adjustments.”

You run your fingers over the designs, trying to picture it all in your head. You trace journeys through the house - living room to kitchen, bedroom to bathroom, front door to backyard. Bucky watches you, gentle smile etched almost permanently onto his face. He wishes, for a moment, that he could speed up time - that the house was built and finished, so he can swim in the pool with you on Sunday mornings, stay up late watching movies on Friday nights, listen for your car pulling into the driveway after a long day at work in the week.

“I’ve been thinking about the little things, you know. That I’d want in the house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, all hopeful and content, and every worry Bucky has ever had vanishes into thin air.

“Tell me.”

“I think we’re - I’m - gonna need a pantry. If I try new recipes at home, I have to buy copious amounts of flour and sugar and all that jazz. I think a pantry would make everything a little bit easier.”

Bucky pores over the blueprints, pointing at a certain area of the spacious kitchen.

“We could add one here? Build the walls into this cove section, close it off.”

“Perfect,” you grin, leaning over to kiss him sweetly.

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, allowing the warmth of your skin to seep into his.

“Also,” you murmur against his lips, “I was thinking that we should make sure the shower is plenty big enough for two people. Hmm?”

Your soulmate groans, closing the gap between you to press a kiss to your smirk.

“I agree,” he hums. “I couldn’t agree more, actually. Might put a bench in there for good measure too. You know, just in case.”

You can’t help but chuckle, pecking him again before sitting back to get a better look at the designs.

“As long as I’ve got lots of kitchen storage and countertop space, I’m happy. Everything else is a bonus. I could live anywhere with you and be happy, actually.”

Bucky’s looking at you like you are the sun, bright and blinding and brilliant. A couple of years ago, if anyone looked at you like this, you’d have shied away, shrunk into the shell of yourself to avoid the gaze. Now, you revel in it, soaking up the warmth that being the centre of someone’s universe brings.

“I love you so much, my honey. And I can’t wait to build you a house.”

“I love you so much. And I can’t believe you’re going to build me a house. I mean, how many girls can say that?”

You shift over to slot yourself into Bucky’s side, the heavy weight of his arm around you anchoring you to the present. Resting your head on his shoulder, you try to exhale all of your anxiety, focusing on the coastal view instead.

Your eyes are drifting closed when you’re startled back to reality by your phone ringing. You grab it and show it to Bucky, who smiles at the sweet picture of Lacie that lights up the screen.

“Hey, Lace.”

“Hi babe! Has your Mom texted you?”

“Not this morning, no. Why?”

“I just bumped into her in the grocery store, and she invited me over for dinner tonight. She said we’re well overdue a catch up, just like old times. I figured she’d call or text you when she got home.”

“Ugh, that sounds amazing. I’ll call her in a minute and double check the details, but… I can’t wait.”

“Yes, call her! I’ll bring both red and white wine, just to be sure. I’m so excited you wouldn’t even believe. It’s been too long since I’ve spent the evening with my second family.”

“And I’ll make you that cake you like for dessert, the raspberry and peach one.”

“Eeee! You’re the best. See you tonight, babe!”

“See you tonight, Lace. Love you.”

“Love you too. Later!”

You’re grinning when you press the red button to hang up, content with the sudden addition of evening plans. Bucky presses a kiss into your hair, happy to see you the most relaxed you’ve been all morning.

“You wanna join us, Buck?”

He tightens his arms around you, pulling you in so you’re sat in between his legs, back to his chest.

“No, it’s okay. It’ll do you good to have a night with your family, honey. Besides, I have like two weeks worth of laundry to catch up on.”

“Stop it. I’ll be having fun with my best friend and you’ll be… doing laundry?”

“Might clean my oven, too.”

“Stop,” you laugh, leaning back into him. “You’re making me feel guilty.”

“Well,” he hums against your ear, “seeing as they’re stealing you away from me tonight… how about we go sailing today? Promise I’ll get you back in time to get ready for dinner.”

“I’d love that,” you breathe, twisting around to plant a kiss on his stubbled jaw. “We haven’t been out on the boat in forever.”

“Then let’s go, honey girl. The ocean awaits us.”

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Being on the sailboat with Bucky takes you right back to the day after your Tethering.

Salty breeze whipping through your clothes, sun beating down on your skin, wooden boards creaking beneath your feet. Your soulmate stands on the deck in his pale blue linen button up, adjusting the sails with experienced precision. He’s the image of grace, like a statue made of marble carved by an ancient sculptor.

“You thinking about that day?”

You didn’t even notice he’d moved, too fixated on his backlit silhouette and how beautifully broad his shoulders look.

“Yeah,” you grin, propping yourself up on your elbows where you lay. “That was a good day.”

“Yeah, it was.”

He sits down on the deck in front of you, rubbing circles into your calf with his thumb.

“A lot has changed since then, huh?”

“Yes and no. We’re still just as clueless about the soulmate stuff as we were back then,” you chuckle. “But we’re happier now. Less afraid.”

“And we still haven’t talked to your parents about it.”

“But we will. Very soon. Oops.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling as he does it. You move to sit in the space between his spread legs, allowing his arms to wrap around you and cage you into him. The two of you stay like that for a while, embracing the calmness that time has brought you.

You close your eyes, slowly letting yourself relax as the gentle waves and the anchoring of your soulmate ease your nerves. Bucky hums lowly into your hair, a tune that you can’t quite place your finger on.

“Have I heard that before?” you ask in a murmur.

“Maybe. It’s an old song, my mom used to sing it to us as a lullaby.”

“That’s sweet.”

The mental image of a tiny little Bucky all wrapped up in his blankets while his mother sings to him is almost too much for your heart to handle. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the melody.

“You never talk about her.”

“Hmm?”

“Your mom. You never mention her.”

“I don’t really have much to say.”

You contemplate it for a moment, before deciding to just bite the bullet.

“You know my mom mentioned something about your sister the other day, and I had to sit there and nod and pretend that I already knew it. When in reality, I didn’t even know you had a sister, Buck.”

You can feel him tense up behind you, muscles going stiff where they’re wrapped around your arms.

“It just never came up.”

“Never? In almost two years of us being soulmates, it never came up?”

Bucky’s silent - perhaps the most silent you’ve ever heard him. The sound of the ocean waves is suddenly amplified, filling the empty space.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, honey.”

“Anything. Literally anything. I just… why do I feel like I don’t know anything, all of a sudden? Your family, your upbringing, nothing.”

“Because it’s not relevant. I’m not just gonna bring it up out of the blue for no reason.”

“I’d say our pasts are pretty relevant, Buck. They make us who we are. I’m not gonna sit here and push you to talk about something you don’t want to talk about, because that’s not fair. But I also don’t think it’s fair that you know everything about me, and I feel like I don’t really know that much about you.”

You’ve turned in his arms, sliding back so you can face him from a distance. You’re expecting him to look angry, or sad, but instead he looks… guilty. Caught out, even.

“You know more about me than anyone else in this world does,” he says eventually.

“Maybe. But I couldn’t tell you your mom or sister’s names, where you grew up, any of it. It makes me feel like there’s a piece of you, however big, that you just don’t want me to know.”

“I… don’t know what to say.”

“Okay. Well, neither do I, anymore.”

The two of you sit for a minute, waiting to see if the other one has anything else to add.

“We’ve done this in the wrong order, I think.” You’re whispering, but he hears you loud and clear. “We think we know each other just because we’re soulmates, but we don’t.”

He goes to interject, so you continue quickly.

“We’ve avoided tough conversations because we thought it’d make things easier, but now they’ve come back to bite us. Buck… do you know how much we haven’t talked about?”

He bites at his bottom lip, gaze never leaving yours.

“We’ve not spoken about marriage, or kids, or any of that stuff. I mean, do you even want kids? Do you know if I do? Would you want to get married? God, did we think that by not having these conversations that they’d just… go away?”

“I- I didn’t want to scare you off with the hard topics too soon. You were overwhelmed at even having a soulmate, never mind marrying or having kids with one.”

“Yeah, but Buck… we’re past that now. We should be able to talk about everything, and we’ve just pulled the wool over our eyes in blissful ignorance.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, running his fingers through his windswept hair.

“I don’t have the time that you do.”

“Hmm?”

“Kids. On my next birthday, I’ll be forty. I don’t have the time to wait around, wondering and debating if I want kids or not. You can wait another ten years if you want to - but I can’t.”

The reality of that statement hits you like a freight train, knocking the air out of your lungs.

“I can’t be an old dad. A little older, sure. But no one needs their dad to be fifty when they’re a baby. Seventy when they’re twenty one. Dying when they’re not even forty yet.”

A tear slips down your cheek, landing on your thigh with a tiny splash.

“I’m not ready for kids,” you confess quietly. “And I don’t know when I will be.”

Bucky nods in understanding, careful eyes taking you in.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, honey. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

In this moment, nothing anyone says will make anything any better. You can feel each others sadness in your chests, blue and heavy and constricting.

Bucky sails you back to shore without another word, both of you quietly contemplating. He drops you off outside your apartment building, the roar of his trucks engine the only sound that can be heard. You gently rub your thumb over his cheekbone where he’s caught the sun, before picking up your bag and unlocking your front door without looking over your shoulder.

You can’t bear to meet his eyes. You don’t dare to.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You spend the rest of the afternoon baking.

It takes your mind off of everything, at least temporarily. You throw yourself into the recipe you’ve made at least ten times, all for Lacie. This is her favourite thing you create, and you’re absolutely determined to make it perfect for her.

You place the final raspberry on the top of the cake, and burst into tears.

It feels like everything you’ve built - that you believed was solid - actually has cracks running throughout. You want to convince yourself that you’re not mad at Bucky, but you think that maybe you are. He’s made the conscious choice to never share parts of his life before you with you. Even knowing that he didn’t do it with any malicious intent doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

Taking a deep breath, you pop the cake in the refrigerator to keep it from melting, before making your way to your bathroom. The water you splash on your face makes you feel a little more alive, the coolness of it shocking you back to reality.

You inhale, watching your reflection in the mirror as you exhale shakily. A noise from your phone rings out from where it sits atop the vanity, a text from Lacie lighting up the screen.

From: Lace <3

Can’t wait to see you tonight babe!! Are you wearing a skirt, or are jeans the vibe?? Shorts maybe?? Send me a pic of your outfit <33

You smile as you type your reply, picturing her face in your head as she reads it.

To: Lace <3

No outfit picked yet - will let you know what I decide. Definitely not wearing jeans, skirt is a maybe. Made your cake though <3

You press send and hop in the shower, hoping that the hot spray of the water will wash away some of the tension in your muscles. Trying to turn your brain off, you decide to focus all your attention on getting dressed and ready, putting on some music and pouring yourself a glass of something fruity.

Tonight will be a good night. You’ll make sure of it.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You wait for Lacie out on the street, just like old times. If she was ever coming over when you were kids, you’d stand at the end of your driveway, too excited to stay on the front porch.

She tries to run towards you, but her wedge heels don’t let her get too far. She hobbles over instead, half hopping, half jumping to get to you faster.

“I am so excited!” she practically yells into your ear as she hugs you tightly. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Lace,” you laugh, “I saw you last week.”

“Too long!” she declares, grabbing your hand and leading you towards your front door. “Let’s have the best night ever, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s.”

Your parents are overjoyed to see Lacie again.

“You got taller, kid?” your Dad asks as he ruffles her hair, much to her dismay.

Your Mom’s laughing, shaking her head as she pulls her in for a quick cuddle.

“You look beautiful, sweetie. Have you changed your hair? Is it lighter?”

“You like it? Did it a couple of months ago. Wanted a change.”

“I love it. I need to make an appointment with you soon, I’m well overdue a cut.”

“I’ll make space for you anytime, Lori. Just text me and I’ll fit you in.”

“Wine, anyone?” your Dad yells from the kitchen doorway. “Lacie, I know you’ll have some!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she teases, giggling. “But yes, I will. The biggest glass you have, actually.”

You grin as you sit down to your place at the dinner table, Lacie taking the chair next to you. She’s already launched into a story about a nightmare client at work, making all of you double over with laughter.

The stress leaves your body the more you smile, all four of you wrapped up in this perfect bubble of nostalgia and friendship and memories and love.

Just like old times.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

“We’re going for a walk. You girls want to come?”

Your parents are stood hand in hand in the doorway, looking at you expectantly.

“No thanks, you two go ahead. Think we’re gonna have a drink on the porch.”

“Okay, sweethearts. See you later.”

They’re giggling at something when they leave, the melodic sound of it hanging in the air behind them.

“You wanna raid the bar cart?” Lacie asks, looking at you with mischief in her eyes.

“Yes, I do,” you laugh, standing up and pulling her with you.

The two of you find a bottle of coconut rum, half empty but still in date. Your best friend holds it in her hand as if you’ve discovered buried treasure, face lit up with excitement.

“Let’s sit out the back, maybe see some stars.”

You get cosy on the porch, both of you curled up under a blanket to keep the evening chill at bay. You pass the rum back and forth, content to just be in each others company again.

“Remember when we were like sixteen, and your Dad caught us trying a cigarette out here?”

You smile at the memory, casting your mind back to that day you sat in this very spot.

“And instead of yelling at us, he told us that we were lighting it wrong?”

“And then he called us losers while he walked off laughing.”

You both shake with laughter, recalling the look on his face.

“I thought we were so grounded, but then I just felt kinda lame.”

“That’s my Dad for you. He’s always had his own method of parenting. And honestly? It’s worked pretty good so far.”

Lacie looks at you with a measured gaze before taking your hand in hers.

“Have you guys talked to your parents yet? About everything?”

“No,” you reply a little too quickly, bottom lip wobbling. “Not yet.”

“Hey, hey.”

She scoots over so she’s practically sitting in your lap, legs tangled with yours under the throw as she slings an arm around your shoulders to pull you close.

“Babe, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You didn’t realise you were until she said it, now feeling the warm tears drip down your face. There’s a lump in your throat that you can’t seem to get rid of, and you wonder momentarily if it’s your sadness or Bucky’s.

“Me and Bucky had a bad day.”

“What happened?”

Her fingers are rubbing gentle patterns into the skin of your shoulder, her soft eyes watching you encouragingly. She’s always been the most patient person with you - as if she knows you’ll tell her everything eventually, even if it takes you a while.

“I just had this - this, this sudden realisation? That I don’t feel like I actually know that much about him, or his past, or his family. And when I said this to him, everything got weird and tense and he was all closed off.”

“Did you ask why? Why he hasn’t shared this stuff with you?”

“Yeah,” you sniffle, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “He told me he just didn’t have much to say.”

“Well that’s not really an answer.”

“Exactly. Am I being crazy? You’d tell me if I was being crazy, right?”

“Of course I’d tell you, you know I would. And you’re not being crazy. He’s so involved with your family, so why shouldn’t you at least know a little about his?”

“This is what I mean,” you breathe, relieved that someone finally understands. “He’s purposefully never mentioned his parents, or his upbringing. You know I only found out he has a sister last week?”

“Woah. That’s… that’s kind of a big deal.”

“I just don’t know if he could see it from my point of view when we talked about it today. And I didn’t want to push and push just in case I pushed too far, because that isn’t fair and he wouldn’t do that to me. But at the same time… sometimes he closes himself off, whether he realises it or not.”

She squeezes you tightly, reassuring you with a simple gesture.

“I love you. You know that babe, don’t you? Even if we don’t see each other as much as we used to. I love you more than anything.”

She’s only making you cry harder, a mixture of happy and sad tears.

“I know, Lace. I love you so much.”

She rests her head atop yours, hands and hearts intertwined on the back porch.

“I just…” you take a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. “I’m sad. And I’m angry. I’m angry that this is the hand I’ve been dealt. Not Bucky - never Bucky - God he’s the best soulmate I ever could have asked for. But I’m mad that we’ve had it so hard. Soulmates are supposed to be easy and simple and written in the stars and all I’ve felt is stress because our Tethering is so complicated.

I feel so uncertain of the future and who I am and who I want to be. And I never used to feel that way, but Bucky has changed everything. I love him so much, and that has altered my entire life and my entire future and the way I look at and think about the world.

I guess I’m just sad, at the end of it all. Because this should have been a magical honeymoon period for us, and instead it was filled with so much worry and hiding and confusion. And how is that fair? Why do some people have it easy, and others don’t?”

Lacie takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look into her big green eyes.

“Listen to me, babe. Nothing worth having ever comes easy.”

You’re expecting her to continue, but she doesn’t. She just watches you process, thumbs wiping away the tears on your cheeks.

“Nothing. Worth. Having. Ever. Comes. Easy.”

You’re nodding, letting her words sink in.

“You’ve been dealt a tough hand. You’re right. But when has that ever gotten you down before? You’ve always picked yourself up, dusted yourself off, and kept going. It’s one of the things I love the most about you.”

A ghost of a smile threatens to take over your face, and she laughs.

“It’s true. And it’s not going to solve itself overnight. It’s going to require a lot of talking, a lot of listening, and a lot of patience. But the two of you will do it. Because you’re soulmates, and you’re meant to be. Literally.

Have some time apart, put a little space between you. And then come back together and work through this. It’ll do you both some good to take a step back and look at everything from a different perspective in a few days. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, tucking her hair behind her ear so it stops blowing into her face. “Yeah.”

“And you know where I am if you need to talk or rant or scream or cry or all of the above.”

“Always,” you chuckle, resting your head on her shoulder. “Love you.”

“Love you.”

The two of you abandon the rum, instead choosing to make some tea to drink out on the porch. You watch the stars for hours, just like you did when you were kids.

“You wanna have a sleepover tonight?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If Cameron doesn’t mind.”

“He won’t, don’t worry. I’d love to.”

Your Mom and Dad watch through the kitchen window, as the two girls who were once four years old running around the garden are now grown women, sitting out on the bench and holding hands like they used to.

They’d pause time, if they could. Just for a moment.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You feel like giggly teenagers when you both snuggle up under your blankets in bed, the light of the moon casting shadows across your features.

You’re all tucked up, facing each other and whispering in the dark. These would be your favourite nights when you were kids, especially during the summer. The promise of no school tomorrow, staying up and sharing secrets until the early hours of the morning, trying to keep your voices down so your parents didn’t hear. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed it until now.

Lacie moves a piece of hair away from your face, her manicured nails against your skin making you shiver. She reaches for your hand under the duvet, linking your fingers firmly.

“You know, I was never worried about meeting my soulmate,” she murmurs into the dusk. “I was always excited, but never worried.”

“You weren’t? How come?”

“Because I’ve had a soulmate since I was four years old. And she is the most important thing I have. Even if I never met my romantic soulmate, I would have been okay - because I know what true love is.”

A tear slips down your cheek and onto your pillow as you shuffle sideways, resting your head on her shoulder.

“I’m so lucky,” you sniffle. “And emotional. I think the rum has gone to our heads.”

Your best friend laughs a little too loud, both of you trying to muffle the sound with your hands.

“I’ve always been a teary drunk,” she chuckles, squeezing your fingers. “Before we both fall asleep because the wine has hit us, let me just say that I’m proud of you. Going to California, having the courage to come back, opening yourself up to Bucky… all of it. You guys will be just fine.”

“Yeah, we will. I couldn’t have done any of it without you, though.”

“We make a good team,” she grins.

“We always have. We’ve had twenty years of being a good team.”

“Here’s to twenty more,” she whispers, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“And twenty more after that,” you whisper back, snuggling into her.

You fall asleep like that, still tangled and clutching each other’s hands like you’re children again. You can almost feel the love in the room, all warm and soft and glowing.

No matter what happens… you’ve known what true love was since you were four years old. And that is something that no Tethering can replicate.

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pearlywritings · 6 months ago

Text

Of stained glass hair and flower hands

synopsis: just a small date of an architect husband and a painter wife.

prompt: 7, 25

requested by: @7urriya

pairing: Kaveh x fem!reader

tw: fluff, established relationship, reader is a painter

word count: 1k+ words in total

a/n: this was my last request for the last year's Token of appreciation writing event and I completely missed the fact I didn't publish it (I should really check my inbox more often to be reminded of stuff). I am so sorry for the wait, my lovely @/7urriya and I hope you'll still find it enjoyable even a year later.

What were the odds, huh? An architect married to a painter, an artistic duo brought together by the gods above. A mess of blueprints and canvas, ink and paint splotches, mugs of finished coffee piled up on the table and another glass of any beverage ruined by an accident brush toss is working wonderfully. A mess that exists among you freely and doesn’t ruin your couple's life and its equilibrium.

Yes, a passionate individual paired with another possessor of strong beliefs doesn’t seem like a good idea, assumed to end up in a big fight and a heartbreak. But, to the surprise of your mutual friends, everything worked out smoothly. Yes, you bicker, but are quick to remember how Alhaitham once called you an ‘old grumbling couple’ and it stuck to the point of ending all the rising arguments with laughter over imagining how grouchy and wrinkly you’ll become in 40 years and suggestion to go out and cool off.

But you also love to go out just for the sake of going out. Sometimes it’s the case of seeking inspiration, other times it’s to get out of the four walls and revel in the beauty of the world around you.

Or, like today, it’s both.

Originally it was a planned picnic date - with finding free spaces in your schedules, going to the market the evening before, cooking the following morning and all that ‘planning’ stuff. And when you grabbed your portable painting kit with all the necessary tools at the last minute just as you were leaving the house, Kaveh wasn’t surprised and only smiled warmly.

Vissudha Field is a marvelous place; it has the most breath-taking view of the Sumeru City and should you only turn your head - the other magnificent areas of the Dendro region. The perfect spot for an artistic date.

Climbing to the highest of the grass-covered hill, Kaveh puts the basket down, which you quickly follow by lowering your own make-shift ‘bag’. Soon the opposite ends of a big patchwork blanket are in his and your hands and you shake it in the air a couple of times to slowly lower it in a straight manner.

Your husband lets out a joyous laugh as you flop onto your back with arms spread wide and a grinning face exposed to the sunrays. You giggle, when he playfully boops your nose, and wrinkle it, blindly reaching up to try and locate him with your hands. But his slight dodging and your squeezed shut eyes do little to help.

“Come ooon, Kaveh, let me touch you,” you softly whine, not quitting your attempts to catch at least the fluttering ties of his today’s choice of shirt.

“I’m right here, love,” his voice sounds like he is leaning from the left and you redirect your grabby hands there, only to miss him again. “If you just opened your beautiful eyes for me.”

“But that’s no fun,” you huff, yet already bring an arm to shield your eyesight from the brightness of the sun. However, a shadow appears, casting itself upon you, and you dare to open one eye. There he is - standing above you, bent in his waist, with hands planted on his hips and hair cascading down, framing his face like the finest silk curtains. The most captivating part? Pink padparadscha eyes gazing at you with unspoken adoration.

You can’t stop the beaming smile that is spreading across your face.

“Well, well… you shouldn’t stay like that, a thousand steps away from me,” you reach your arms upwards again, tips of the fingers barely touching the apples of his cheeks. “Stay close to me, alright?”

Your husband immediately mirrors your smile and leans even closer so your palms properly cup his face. Slowly lowering his body, Kaveh eventually ends up kneeling above you, your lips inches away and noses almost touching chins. And then he angles his head and you eagerly let him press his mouth to yours.

When an hour later, having eaten and shared a lovely conversation, you fall into comfortable silence, Kaveh decides to lounge on his side with a hand supporting his head. Occasionally he steals glances at you immersed in your painting - canvas propped against your crossed feet, held firmly by the upper edge, and a brush securely yet effortlessly rested between your lovely fingers. Fingers of the no less lovely hands, already dirtied by the paint, but to the man next to you those are not imperfections, but the little unchangeable details that make you - you.

“Your hands are like flowers, blooming with all kinds of vibrant colors,” he suddenly says, breaking your focus and making you turn to him with a questioning look. A lock of hair escapes with the movement, gently falling on your face, shimmering like a temple's stained glass windows.

Oh, how he’d love to design and build a temple with an image of you in mind.

“Sun plays with your hair like it’s the colorful pieces of glass mosaic…” he goes on, completely enthralled with you, with unkempt hair and paint spots dry and cracked on your skin. You are beautiful. You are his wonder. You are his.

The tenderness with which he is looking at you makes your cheeks flare and eyes avert, now more interested in a ladybug walking across the blanket. And yet, the absolutely happy smile betrays your sheepish state.

“Saying my hair looks like glass, and my hands are flowers…” you chuckle, shaking your head and putting your tools aside, “how romantic you are. Or are they just words from the book?”

This time he is the one reaching his hands to you, sitting up to face you. Knees bumping, fingers intertwining and foreheads pressing together, the position is awkward, but at the same time oh so perfect.

“I don’t think there is a book with words grand enough to describe the very depth of my feelings for you,” he murmurs, thumb skimming over the paint-covered skin of your hand. “Only if I were to write them down.”

“Changing careers, huh?” You can’t help but tease, gazing into his eyes with mirth. He lifts an eyebrow.

“For you? I could.”

“No need. I already love my architect husband more than I could ever do the writer one.”

“How reassuring, coming from my painter wife.”

As you both erupt in a fit of almost teenage-sounding giggles, Kaveh can’t help but think that even if the odds were against him, he’d still choose you, no matter what others believed.

#pearlywritings appreciation event #token of appreciation #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kaveh x reader #kaveh x fem!reader

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godricgryffinsnore · 28 days ago

Note

Harry and YN building up their dream home.

[a random 4 am request]

Blueprints, Blunders, and Butterbeer ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : A whimsical and heartwarming tale of Harry and his love building their dream home from scratch—complete with laughter, mishaps, and magic—proving that the best kind of home is one built together.

warnings : Pure fluff and domestic chaos, Light comedic injury (hammer vs. thumb), Excessive use of charm, puns, and enchanted vegetables, May cause uncontrollable smiling and the urge to redecorate with your partner 🧱💫. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Currently only focusing on emptying my inbox. Please feel free to send more requests <3. Hope you enjoy!!

word count : 0.8k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

🪄✨

You’d always thought building your dream home with Harry Potter would be a romantic whirlwind of soft music, shared paintbrushes, and spontaneous kisses under newly installed doorframes.

It was not.

It was chaos.

“I thought you said you knew how to use a hammer,” you muttered, arms crossed, staring down at your boyfriend, who was currently sprawled on the floor with a bruised thumb and a look of betrayal.

“I do!” Harry insisted, looking deeply offended. “Just… not when the nails are acting like Slytherins.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“They keep dodging my strikes and judging me.”

You snorted. “Pretty sure the nails aren’t judging you, sweetheart.”

He looked up at you mournfully. “They definitely are.”

🧱

It all started with an ancient cottage on the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole—ramshackle and vine-choked, with more personality than practicality. You and Harry had fallen in love with it immediately. It needed “a bit of work,” which you now understood to mean: it needed everything.

Day one had been about demolition.

“I don’t know if this wall is load-bearing,” you’d said.

Harry, wand in hand, beamed. “There’s one way to find out.”

Three loud cracks, a puff of plaster, and a very angry gnome later, you had discovered it was, in fact, load-bearing.

“We’ll fix it,” he’d promised sheepishly, brushing dust off your head and kissing your temple.

Day five was the plumbing disaster.

Harry had insisted on trying a Muggle method, “just to learn.”

You were still not over the geyser that had burst from the kitchen sink, soaking you both and leaving you looking like wet rats huddling over a how-to YouTube video. He handed you a cup of tea afterward, his hair still dripping. “I think we invented a new water feature.”

You almost hexed him.

But then he grinned, wide and hopeful, and you forgave him again.

🖌️

By week three, things started coming together.

You painted the bedroom a warm, golden hue, and Harry spelled the ceiling to look like the night sky, complete with a little enchanted shooting star that zoomed by every hour.

“I named that one after you,” he said one night, pointing at a sparkling star near the center.

You looked up at it, breath catching. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s the brightest. And slightly chaotic.”

You smacked him with a pillow, and he cackled.

🌱

The garden was your pride and joy. You planted wildflowers and grew your own vegetables (or tried to).

“Why are the carrots floating?” you asked, peering over the raised bed.

Harry scratched his head. “I may have used Wingardium Leviosa instead of fertilizer.”

“HARRY.”

He dropped the carrot mid-air. It bonked him on the head.

He pretended to die dramatically in your freshly planted dahlias.

“I’m not helping you up,” you said, but you were laughing too hard to sound convincing.

🎶

Then came furnishing day.

You discovered Harry had absolutely no taste in furniture. He wanted beanbags in the living room. Bright orange ones.

“Why orange?”

“They’re like the Chudley Cannons!”

“They also look like pumpkins that lost their will to live.”

After a passionate debate that may or may not have involved you threatening to transfigure them into literal pumpkins, you compromised: one sad orange beanbag in the corner—“The Timeout Chair”—and a proper sofa you picked together.

He sulked dramatically in the beanbag for an hour and only came out when you made hot cocoa and told him he was your favorite wizard, even if his interior design skills were suspicious at best.

🔥

The final touch was the fireplace.

Harry insisted on building it by hand.

“I want us to have a place we sit by in the winters,” he said. “Where I propose. Where our kids fall asleep with cocoa mustaches and Christmas jumpers too big for them.”

You blinked, trying not to cry.

That was how you found yourself handing him bricks and biting your tongue every time he placed one crookedly.

“Are you crying?” he asked one evening as you both sat in front of the finished (and slightly uneven) fireplace.

“No,” you sniffled, tucking your face into his jumper.

He pulled you into his lap, kissed your forehead. “You’re thinking about the cocoa mustaches, aren’t you?”

You nodded.

“I’m thinking about our kids stealing biscuits before dinner and blaming the dog.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

He looked very serious. “We’ll need one. For the blame, obviously.”

🎇

The first night you stayed in the cottage, it still smelled like paint and plaster, and half the wardrobe doors were missing. But you were curled in bed beside Harry, wrapped in a blanket, his arm tucked tight around your waist.

“Think it’s perfect,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against your shoulder.

You looked around your slightly crooked dream home—your scratched floorboards, your starry ceiling, your half-working plumbing—and smiled.

“It is.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just wait ‘til I install the quidditch pitch in the backyard.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late, already drew the blueprints.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him anyway.

After all, it was your dream home.

And it was filled with love, laughter, magic—and one very determined, hammer-incompetent Harry Potter.

#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #della's inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡#della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#harry potter fan fiction #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x fem!reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #harry x yn #harry x reader #harry potter #harry james potter #harry j potter

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myownwholewildworld · 1 month ago

Note

I really don't know what I would do with myself if I didn't have your amazing Joel filth to read fr. Can we get a lil glimpse of what else you're cooking in terms of future fics and requests? Also, if I might request one, would you consider writing something about peepaw Joel and coming untouched?🫣🫣

omg hi anon!! you’re so so so darn sweet 🥺 this ask made my day, i swear, so thank you so much for sending it in! i’m more than happy to feed you all some old man!joel because only the devil knows how badly i need him. i kid you not, i’m not okay whenever i think of him 😮‍💨

right, so for future fics right now i only have one in mind, and it will be the continuation of this request mixed with this other thought i had – basically, the day you ride your peepaw’s limp dick is the day he actually (and finally) gets you pregnant with a bit of help from his good ol’ friend the g-spot 😵‍💫 i have quite a few notes written down on my phone for it so the thots be thotting real bad…

as for requests, here’s a list of what’s currently sitting in my inbox in no specific order. what would you all like to read next? 👀

you’re tommy’s wife but he’s an ass, so joel consoles you *wink wink* (this would be an AU to the current pairing)

surprising your old man with some sexy lingerie and showing it off in public

the first time Joel gives you head – you’re feeling a bit insecure about it bc your previous partners were assholes and you’ve never really enjoyed being eaten out before

a younger man tries to woo you and joel gets jealous / insecure about your relationship, so he tries to back away. obviously you won’t let him do such a stupid thing…

the first time you and joel have sex and girl (gn), you’re struggling to take him. he's gotta train your pussy well 🫡

edging / overstimulating joel while he’s tied up – and your poor old man comes without your permission...

putting a cockring on joel / more edging / use of vibrators + g-spot stimulation for your old man

lovemaking – just sweet and fluffy

thigh riding a fully clothed joel while he’s working on some blueprints in his public office. then he fucks you stupid on the desk and tommy interrupts 🤠

and then your own! – joel coming untouched (hopefully i won’t forget about this one since i’m answering the ask now but pls feel free to send in a separate ask)

so yeah……….. got a few! lmao i’ll get to ALL of them i promise! every time i look at my inbox i just drool all over the keyboard cause omfg you guys make me feral for this man… so yeah, keep sending them in pls! love you all <3

#asked and answered #anon #old man!joel miller #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal character #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #ppcu fandom

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creativepromptsforwriting · 10 months ago

Note

Hi, I love your prompts, they have inspired a lot of my works! Thank you for posting them. As soon as I saw that your inbox was open I was so excited.

I was wondering if you had any prompts that are about someone introducing their friend group to their sibling(s) for the first time and the friend group is confused because they look nothing alike. (Adopted, Step-Sibling, Biracial, Half-Sibling, or something else).

I'm having a lot of trouble coming up with where to start with the dialog.

Hi there :)

Some of the prompts would probably sound inconsiderate from a stranger, but since they are friends, I could imagine some humorous dialogue.

Introducing siblings to friends

"Are you sure you're siblings?"

"You're less of a blueprint of each other, and more like a rough sketch."

"That's your sibling? Oh yeah, I'm totally seeing the resemblance."

"Your parents' genes were fighting hard about who is dominant, it seems like."

"So nice to meet your siblings! But I do have one question..."

"Not to sound rude, but... you look nothing alike."

"I mean you do have similar ears."

"Siblings? Like full siblings or more like... distant ones?"

"If you just look hard enough you can see similarities. I think."

- Jana

#stars-forever #ask #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing prompt #introducing siblings #writing prompts #writing ideas

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theworldsarchitect · 4 months ago

Text

BLOG INFO - READ BEFORE SENDING ASKS🔧

This Blog is based off a Roblox game called Forsaken, specifically the character from said game, Builderman!

-I have no affiliation with the developers of Forsaken.

-This character is based off of the personality in Forsaken, not the real Builderman.

⚠️THIS MOD IS A MINOR.⚠️

RULES

NOTHING NSFW. Suggestive is okay, but nothing outright sexual.

Nothing about Gaza or Palestine. I will not respond to it.

MUST follow DNI rules.

Unless it is an in character response, I will not allow any hate/discourse and you will be blocked.

Don't criticize how I play the character. He has no set in personality. This is based off of MY interpretation.

CHARACTER INFO

Name: Builderman (Builds for short), David

Pronouns: He/Him

Format for text will be:

"This for talking,"

[this for an action,]

and bolded character names.

If I speak without bolded text, it is an out of character response.

CURRENT/PAST EVENTS

The C0rruption Event: Currently happening

- something is wrong with BM and no one knows why this is happening. He's been less happy, fatigued, and is somehow suffering from an illness.. He sounds almost encrypted, as if he's just a piece of code that was corrupted. A file. He's been losing weight slowly, with the problem being a lack of appetite because of his illness. It's up to the other Survivors and the Anons and everyone else to figure out what exactly is going on and stop it before it's too late.

Event tags:

"Event: Corruption"

"An unfamiliar voice."

"A voice that resents you."

DO NOT INTERACT IF:

- Nazis, pedos, maps, com/proships, zoophiles, groomers, abusers/abuse supporters, terfs, toxicity, discourse, NSFW only accs, etc.

HEADCANONS/AU FACTS BELOW CUT

(and tags, credits, etc)

-Builderman is one of the main architects, builders, and creators of Robloxia. He built the world from the neck down.

-He's cisgender, with an unspecified sexuality. It doesn't matter to him.

-while he looks like he's in his thirties, he's a lot older. Yk being the one who built the universe n all makes ya old

-OKAY I GIVE UP.... he's 4'9. I GIVR UPPT RNDKMDNDNS

-He owns Builder brothers pizza, manages Roblox HQ with Studios, designs blueprints and schematics for buildings and creations, and is apart of the main construction crew of Robloxia.

-He often tries to keep himself looking happy for other people to see, even if he isn't.

-He tends to stay optimistic when in bad situations. (In jeopardy currently)

-He will not appreciate you calling him David.

Tags:

Toolkit - interaction (in character)

Blueprints - Headcanons/au facts

Builders Club - mutual response

Schematics - inbox/answered ask

Damned - Forsaken specific

Events will have their own tags regarding what specifically is happening in said event.

Lampett - interaction (out of character)

OTHER @S

@lamperts-rokea - my Regretevator Lampert blog - currently turning it into my main blog

@ask-betrayal-goob - my Dandy's world AU blog

Also check out @yourlocalpizzaguyelliot - He runs an Elliot blog from the same universe Builderman is in!

Will add my main blog @ when it exists lol

Also planning on adding my new Lamprt blog, since my current is dead and is simply a fanart dump

Credit for dividers to @medical-meat for the wrench divider (thank you bbg)

and this cool person for the orange one ^_^

#toolkit #blueprints #Builders Club #schematics #damned #Lampett #builderman #builderman forsaken #forsaken #forsaken builderman #roblox #roblox forsaken #roblox builderman

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thewritingrowlet · 1 year ago

Text

The Guardian Angel, ft. ICHILLIN' Joonie

tags: cum-in-mouth, deepthroat, quickie, creampie (both type), anal, rough, daddy kink

word count: 8k+

warning: mention of firearms and depiction of use of firearms; reader discretion is advised.

author's note: I saw this picture of Joonie holding a toy gun and said "fuck it", so here we are. I wanted to get this fic out ASAP so that I could start working on The Outing Trip 3 and the ideas that are currently sitting in my inbox. Joonie is referred to as Junhee in this fic, btw.

“Excuse me, Mr. Director”, Mr. Kang, your chauffeur, calls out to you, waking you up from your peaceful nap, “we have arrived, sir”. “Hngh? We have?”, you say, rubbing your eyes to speed up the process, “can I ask what time this is?”. Mr. Kang looks at his watch, “it is 8:09 pm, sir”. You look outside the window of the car and see that it is dark out there. “Any news about the Guardian Angel, Mr. Kang?”, you ask. “The Angel is in position, sir. I was asked by the Angel to tell you to mind where you stand and not break line of sight—I’d also like to remind you that I’m keeping an eye on you as well, Mr. Director”, Mr. Kang explains as he shows you the gun on his hip. “Thank you, Mr. Kang. Be safe, okay? We can’t afford to lose you. I’ll see you in less than an hour”, you say to him before putting on an earpiece and getting out of the car.

“In case you forgot how you’ve ended up in this situation, let’s do a quick recap”, your brain says before starting. “You, Han Jinwoo, are the founder and director of a handful of companies, one of them being a nickel mining company that mainly operates in a developing country that is known for its messy politics. Over the past few years, you’ve been receiving extreme threats and defamations from people all over the world, including your own countrymen, for, and I quote: ‘destroying both the environment and the people of the country by ways of exploitation for capitalistic greed'. Those threats have led you to getting armored cars and extra security to keep an eye on you in public”. “Thank you for reminding me, brain; that was super helpful”, you say to yourself.

So here you are, standing in front of an empty lot that you’ve bought for an ungodly amount of money. You’re planning to build a new office building so that you can house 2 of your smaller companies here because the rent on the current building is getting ridiculous, and you’re here to meet some architects and engineers to talk about the construction.

Before you get closer to the construction site, you want to make sure that the Angel has eyes on you. You turn around and scan the buildings across the street, hoping that you’ll see the Angel. “Looking for me, director?”, you hear the Guardian Angel say in a calm but serious tone from your earpiece, “you don’t have a sniper scope like I do; you’re not seeing shit, love”. You bring your wrist closer to your mouth and speak softly into the mic, “don’t let me die, okay? I love you”. You don’t hear a reply, but you see flashing lights that spell out “ILY” in morse code. That’s your Guardian Angel, Park Junhee, a spec-ops-turned-private-military who also happens to be your beloved fiancé.

You turn towards the construction site and see some people with hard hats talking among themselves while seemingly waiting for you. “Good evening, ladies and gents. I apologize for being late”, you greet them. “Not at all, Mr. Director. I’d say you’re perfectly on time”, Mrs. Hwang, an architect, says as she shakes your hand. “Can I have a recap of our progress, Mrs. Hwang?”, you ask her. She shows you the site plan and some blueprints and explain to you that they’re planning to build the first 4 floors as soon as the materials arrive and aiming to finish it in 40 days. “Sir, I regret to inform you that the steel beams have been in transport longer than they should’ve been, thus slowing down the progress”, she says, “we have also been seeing protestors gathering here and harassing workers, sir. If I may, Mr. Director, I suggest having security here”. She is correct; while you may not have the cleanest hands and be the kindest businessman around, you certainly don’t want the innocent workers to be harassed or potentially be put in danger. “I’ll contact Nighthaven and see if they can help. Thank you, Mrs. Hwang—anyone else?”, you say.

An engineer asks for your attention, so you turn to him and listen to him. You’re deep into his speech when you hear Junhee warn you, “sir, there’s a man holding a knife running towards your position. Permission to engage, sir.”. “Don’t kill him!”, you yell out, and the people around you look at you in confusion. “Engaging”, Junhee calmly says, and you immediately hear a scream of pain from behind. You and everyone else walk towards the source of the scream and see that there’s a man lying on the ground with a butcher’s knife next to him. To your surprise, the man pulls out a gun and aims it at you, but instead of dying, you hear the man scream again; Junhee has shot him in the arm, forcing him to drop his gun. “Nonlethal, sir, as you asked. Wrap this up quick, please”, Junhee says, and you can hear the worry in her voice.

“I can’t risk losing you, ladies and gents. We’ll meet again at my office tomorrow morning, okay? Scatter, please, and be safe”, you tell Mrs. Hwang and company. Mr. Kang jumps out of the car and opens the door for you, “Mr. Director, get in, please”. “Mr. Kang, call an ambulance and make sure the man gets help, okay?”, you say as you get in the car. Mr. Kang calls his contact as he’s driving to make sure the man can be attended to with no questions asked. “We’re done, Angel—see you at home”, you say to Junhee over the mic. “Yes, sir”, she says.

“I’m home”, you say as you open the door and enter the house. You see that Junhee is pacing back and forth nervously while waiting for you. “There you are”, she says, “are you okay, love?”. “Yes, I am. Thank you for covering me, baby; I would’ve died otherwise”, you tell her before coming in for a hug. “You’re much more than a client to me, love”, she says, her voice shaking from the emotions. “I know, baby. I’m still alive because of you, you know that right?”, you say. Junhee was a spec ops personnel and all that, but considering that you’re her fiancé, she feels way more attached to you. “Please don’t die, love. I don’t know what I would do without you”, she says as her eyes turn to a waterfall. “I’m here for you and will continue to be, love. You’re there for me as well, aren’t you, my Guardian Angel?”, you say. “Why did you ask for non-lethal, though? I-I had perfect line of sight, love”, she asks. “We’ve caught enough flaks, baby; we don’t need more”, you say, pressing your lips on her head. “But you could’ve died!”, she screams, “please don’t die, I’m begging you”.

You let Junhee cry to her heart’s content in your arms for a few minutes while offering words of comfort and assuring her that you’re fine. Junhee breaks the hug and tells you to take off your clothes; “I need to make sure you’re not hurt—not even a scratch”, she says. You do as she says and start by taking off your shirt and trousers, revealing the bulletproof vest underneath; “thank you for listening to me and wearing a vest”, she comments with a smile, “continue, please—wait, actually”. She cuts herself off and runs towards the bedroom, leaving you with only a bulletproof vest and boxers on.

She walks out of the bedroom while singing Happy Birthday and holding a cake, and only now do you remember that it is your birthday. “Did you actually forget that today is your birthday, love?”, she asks. “Time flies, love. I was so occupied with work”, you admit. Junhee tells you to make a wish, so you close your eyes and pray for your and Junhee’s safety and prosperity before blowing the candles. “Hurray, happy birthday, love!”, she excitedly says. “Are we eating that, or?”, you ask. “Later”, she says, putting the cake on the dining table. Junhee begins taking off her Agent 47-esque attire and vest and throwing them to the side before approaching you and helping you take off yours.

She pulls you towards the sofa and tells you to sit down, “I want to suck your cock”. Junhee likes sucking your cock to celebrate both your and her birthdays, so this is nothing new or odd to you. Junhee pulls down your boxers and immediately take you in her mouth. “Oh, so good, baby”, you moan, “always so good to me”. Junhee gives you a wink and go down on your cock until her nose touches your pelvis, making her gag slightly in the process. You throw your head back and pet Junhee’s head as you bask in the sensation of her wet mouth and the sounds she’s making.

You feel your cock twitch in her mouth, and you know Junhee feels it too, proven by how she bobs her head faster on your shaft. “Ah, I’m about to cum, love”, you announce to her. Junhee moves up and leave only your tip in her mouth, ready to accept your cum. With a groan, you finally blow your load and flood her mouth with it. Junhee yelps a little bit when your cum hits her throat when she wasn’t ready, but keeps her lips tight around your cock. She closes her lips after pulling away from your cock before swallowing your cum. “Tasty as usual. Thank you, love”. You shake your head weakly, “no, thank you, love”.

Junhee helps you put your boxers on again before sitting next to you on the sofa. “Love, I want to buy firearms tomorrow”, she says. “Plural, baby?”, you ask her. “I want to sell my handgun, get a new handgun and rifle, and buy some ammo for them”, she explains, “you want to come along? We can practice shooting after”. You rub your chin and think about tomorrow’s agenda, “I have a meeting with the people from earlier so you’ll need to be with me first and then I’ll come with you—can I come with you, though? I’d hate to find out that the gun shop people hate me while I’m there with you”. Junhee laughs at you, “so what? C’mon, love, come with me, please”.

“Good morning, everyone. I apologize for ending the meeting abruptly last night”, you say as you enter the meeting room and see that everyone has come to the meeting, “is everyone okay, by the way?”. Mrs. Hwang answers for the group, “we’re okay, director. With respect, it was you that he wanted, not us”. “That is correct, Mrs. Hwang. Let’s start now, okay?”, you say as you press the button to roll down the blinds. Obviously, they notice Junhee’s presence in the room as she sticks out like sore pretty thumb, but no one dares ask you about her and jump straight to the conversation.

Since you have let the architects come up with the design, the engineers have little trouble following it since nothing is out of the ordinary or defying the laws of physics. Instead, they offer you ways to shave off some expense by “making the construction process less redundant”. You have no idea what this man is talking about, but since he assures you that it won’t compromise with the building’s quality and strength, you decide to agree. “We have received news saying that the steel beams I mentioned last night will arrive in 2 days, director”, Mrs. Hwang says. “Understood, Mrs. Hwang; please make sure we can continue the construction soon”, you say to her with a nod.

The meeting ends after about 40-something minutes, and everyone leaves together as a group, filing one by one out the door. Junhee drops the cold front and approaches you for a kiss. She takes your hands and put them on her tits, encouraging you to play with them. “Your tits are so soft, baby. Are you sure you’re wearing a bra?”, you comment as you juggle and squeeze them. “I’m wearing your favorite sports bra but no vests”, she says, “love, I’m wet; touch me, please”. You press a button to lock the doors and take off your trousers and boxers, “come to me, baby”.

Junhee pulls her trousers and panties down to give your cock access to her pussy. She jumps into your lap and immediately impale herself on your erect cock, letting out a soft moan in the process. “You-you’re filling me up so well, love—ah, hngh”, she says with heavy breaths. You want to cum so bad, so you thrust up and meet her in the middle, “Fuck, I want to cum for you, baby”. Junhee’s heart is palpitating like crazy, “ah-ah-ah—yes-yes, cum for your fiancé, love—ah, fuck—I’m so close, love”.

You keep thrusting up while Junhee keeps going down as the both of you are chasing your own orgasms. “Love, love—oh, please”, Junhee calls out to you, “I’M CUMMING!”. The way her pussy is squeezing your cock forces you to blow at the same time, and nothing beats the feeling of cumming together with your fiancé. Junhee leans forward for a hug, and the two of you stay silent while catching your breaths. “The—hah, God—the cum will drip down if you stand up”, you say to her. Junhee tells you to lay her on the table and get ready to scoop up the leak. Thankfully the leak isn’t too crazy, and she licks it off your hand. “That’s one pew-pew down, wanna move on to the next?”, you ask her. “Ye-yeah, help me put on my pants, please”.

Mr. Kang drops you off in front of the gun shop, and Junhee leads you into it. “Good afternoon!”, Junhee says to the staffs. “Good afternoon to you as well, Miss Park. Can I help you?”, a female staff says. “Yeah, I’m looking to trade this in for a G43X MOS”, she pulls out her handgun and unloads it before putting it on the counter. The staff picks it up and inspects it, “G19, hey? Anything else?”. “No, that’s it—oh, some 9mm ammo, please”, she says. The staff then leaves you two alone and do whatever he needs to for the trade-in. “I thought you were buying a rifle?”, you ask. Junhee shakes her head, “on second thought, I don’t think I need a new one now. The one we have now still works well—you saw it last night”. You have little clue about firearms, but Junhee knows her stuff, so you trust her judgment on the matter.

The staff comes back outside and invites you two to the range to test her new handgun. The staff hands each of you some headset and safety glasses and asks you to put them on. Junhee then hands the gun to you and asks you to load it yourself, “do not put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot—you don’t want to kill us, do you?”. You shake your head and take the gun from her hands. “Aim at that target, love”, she says. You’ve shot a gun before (under Junhee’s supervision, obviously), so you know how to unlock the safety switch and get ready to shoot. “I’m ready”, you say to her. “I know they’ve fired this gun multiple times during production to test it, but technically it’s a virgin; take her cherry like you did mine, love”, she says as she steps away from you.

You steady your aim and start firing one bullet at a time until you’ve shot all 10 of them. “Not bad”, Junhee comments, “you missed one, love—that might hit a bystander, you know?”. You apologize for missing, but she rejects it, “you can apologize by getting better, okay? You need to be able to handle a gun well in case I’m not there to protect you. Come, let’s get out of here”.

Junhee leads you to the front and pays for her new pistol and a box of 9mm ammo. “Sorry for being pushy, but is he your client, Miss Park?”, the staff asks. Junhee looks at you and chuckles, “yeah, something like that. Alright, we’re leaving. See you soon!”. You open and hold the door for your fiancé, earning a cute smile from her; “who would’ve thought a girl this cute was spec ops? Looks can really fool you, huh?”, you think to yourself.

“Love, can we go home, or do you need to go back to the office?”, she asks. “We can go home, yeah. We need to talk”, you say, keeping things vague for Junhee. “Oh, um, okay, love”, she says nervously. She tries asking you what you want to talk about, but you wave her off and tell her that she’ll know soon enough. “Excuse me, sir”, Mr. Kang says, “the news of Miss Park’s work last night has broken out. Personally, I would like to commend her for not killing him”. “It was my fiancé’s wish to shoot him in the leg, Mr. Kang; I was just following orders”, Junhee says. “That is good thinking, sir; the public might dislike you, but not killing him will make you look not as bad”, Mr. Kang says. “What do you think if I pay for his medical expenses?”, you ask your fiancé. “Yeah, I guess we can do that. I’ll call someone and have them take care of it”, she says.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about? I’m not in trouble, am I? Please say no, oppa”, Junhee asks as you enter the bedroom with her. Junhee stopped calling you oppa after you two got engaged and nowadays she usually calls you that when she wants something. You laugh at her as you hold her hands, “no, you’re not in trouble, baby; I just wanted to say that I’ve booked a restaurant this weekend for our anniversary”. Junhee falls forward limply into your arms, “aaaah, you scared meeeee—I thought you were going to scold me or something, aaaaah”. “Ahaha no, of course not. Can I ask you to wear a dress, though?”, you say to her. Junhee huffs: she doesn’t like wearing a dress because she can’t keep her gun on her hip, “ugh, fine—please keep in mind that I’m only doing it for you”. You put on a confused face, “if not for me, then who are you dressing up for?”. “Nobody, oppa, I promise”, she says in a low voice, “if it was up to me, I’d not wear anything when I’m with you and just let you do whatever to me”. “One day, baby, okay?”, you peck her forehead.

“Baby, aren’t you hungry? Want to ask the cook to make you something?”, you ask your fiancé. “I’m hungry for your cum”, she says with a naughty smirk, “but honestly, I am. Can we have fettucine, love?”. You ask her to sit on the bed while you call the cook, “good evening, Miss Ahn. Can we have two fettucine alfredo, please?”. You hang up the phone after getting an answer, “she’s making us some right now. Do you want to do anything while we wait?”. Junhee moves to the center of the bed and rests her head on a pillow, “cuddle, please”.

You join her in bed and Junhee rests her head on your shoulder, the rest of her body hugging you from the side. “I love you”, she says. “I love you too, baby”, you answer. “No, no, you must’ve not heard me; I love you”, she repeats with a pout. “I love you more, baby”, you correct yourself. “There you go—wasn’t so hard, was it?”, she pecks you on the cheek after. You hear Junhee yawn, so you pat her on the back softly and encourage her to get a quick shuteye. She’s private military and all that, but deep inside, she’s just a girl who wants to love and be loved—Junhee doesn’t like being referred to as a girl, by the way; “you turned me into a proper woman, oppa—your woman”, she said after her first time.

The buzz from your phone shakes you awake, so you reach over to the bedside table and see the text from Miss Ahn saying that the food is ready. “Junhee, my baby, the food is ready, love”, you poke her in the cheek repeatedly to wake her up. “Hng, carry me, love”, she whines cutely. You carry her on your back and head towards the dining room.

Miss Ahn is waiting for you at the table when you arrive and welcomes you to dinner. “Your dinner is ready, sir and madam”, she says. “Wow, thank you, Miss Ahn. You’re the best!”, Junhee praises Miss Ahn with two thumbs-up and a gleeful smile. Miss Ahn then excuses herself to go home, since it’s almost the end of her working hours.

“Thanks for the meal!”, Junhee exclaims as she picks up some fettucine noodles with a fork and puts it in her mouth, “oh my, delicious as always”. “Apologies, sir”, Miss Ahn returns to the dining room, “your parents sent you a bottle of wine this morning, would you like some as company?”. You see that Junhee also wants some, so you agree to Miss Ahn’s offer and she disappears once again to get the wine and some glasses. “Oooh, a Chateau Margaux”, you say as she brings the bottle to the table. Miss Ahn pours some wine into each of the empty glasses and fills them halfway. “Is that expensive, love?”, Junhee asks. “Yeah, I think so; my mom is a bit of a wine connoisseur, so I’d like to guess that it is”, you tell her. Junhee takes a sip and smacks her lips after, “that’s really good, love”.

You send Miss Ahn away so that she can go home before digging into your fettucine and wine. “This is really good, wow”, you comment. You look at Junhee as you’re chewing and see that she has finished her fettucine. She leans back in her chair and lets out a tiny burp, “oh, sorry, love. It was too fucking good”. “Which one tastes better: the fettucine or my cum?”, you tease her. Junhee’s cheeks are red thanks to you, and she can’t come up with an answer; “you’re not comparing an apple to another apple, though, love; you’re comparing an apple to a banana”, she argues. You shake your head and laugh, “sure, baby, whatever you say”.

“It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”, you think to yourself as you’re waking up in the morning. You look around in the dark and see that Junhee is still in dreamland in your arms. You move her arms and legs softly and set them on the bed so that you can get off and stretch your body.

After stretching, you decide to check out Junhee’s gun shelf in the bedroom. You open the shelf and see an unloaded rifle with a suppressor attached to the end of its barrel and two pistols, presumably Glocks, since Junhee likes them so much. When you look down, you see a bunch of magazines lined up tidily and a few boxes of ammunition. You pick up the rifle and rotate it around to inspect it; “feels like a very solid rifle—what is this big ass scope, though?”, you think to yourself. “Looking for something, love?”, Junhee comments as she wakes up. You put the rifle back in its place, “sorry, baby; I was just curious”. “I’m glad that you’re not scared of them”, she comments, “it’s helpful to not be scared of guns, especially when they’re used to protect you”. You turn your attention back to the shelf, “did you modify these things, baby?”.

Junhee gets off the bed and stands next to you. She grabs the rifle from the rack and shows you what part she’s swapped out, such as trigger, charging handle, and bolt carrier group; “obviously you can see the scope and suppressor”, she says. You can hear the enthusiasm in her voice whenever she’s talking about firearms, and you want to keep going for now. “Can you tell me about the pistols? Are these the MOS thingy?”, you ask. “The right one is, but this one isn’t”, she says as she picks up one of them, “this is a Glock G45 with an Omega 9K suppressor and extended mag—Nighthaven gave me this gun as a parting gift”. Junhee puts it back after inspecting it and closes the shelf, “that’s enough gun talk for today, love. Let’s do something else”. “Such as?”, you ask. “Such as giving me your cum before breakfast”, she bites her lip naughtily.

She asks you to sit on the edge of the bed while getting down on both knees in front of you. You pull your boxers down to help her get what she wants, and she strokes your cock immediately; “do you never get tired of having sex, baby?”, you ask. “How can I get tired of sex when my fiancé has such a perfect cock? Not to mention that you were my first and my only”, she says. You keep your eyes on her as she does your favorite thing: tying her hair into a ponytail, even going as far as bending backwards slightly to show off her tits. “God, you look so hot every time you do that”, you comment.

Junhee unbuttons her pajama top and throws it to the side, her tits now free from their restraints. “Love, I know I’ve asked you this before, but what do you think about my tits?”, she says as she holds them with both hands. “If it was up to me, love, I’d carry you in my arms and just suck your tits all day everyday while my cock is deep in your pussy”, you lick your lips at the thought, “would you let me do that?”. Junhee reaches down and starts touching herself, “oppa, I need you so bad—ah, oh—please, oppa”. You pull Junhee onto your lap, your cock pressing against her stomach while your hands are busy fiddling her nipples, “what’s the password, baby?”. “Ah, nghh—please, daddy”, she says with a moan.

You wanted her to say “love”, but “daddy” works just as well if not better. You lift Junhee up by her thighs and impale her pussy with your cock, earning a loud moan from her. “Daddy—ah, fuck, hng—daddy, I love you—ahhh—I love you so much”, Junhee says between noisy moans. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight”, you praise her as you grit your teeth, “wanna cum for your daddy?”. “Yes, yes, I—AH, FUCK”, Junhee cums as soon as she lets out a scream, and you’re trying your hardest to not bust despite the tight squeeze.

You pull out and ask Junhee to lie on her stomach on the edge of the bed, and unsurprisingly, she obeys right away. You hold your cock and push forward until you feel the warmth of her pussy again—Junhee’s moan is even louder this time, “God, how are you even tighter, baby?”. Junhee screams very loudly at the first contact, seemingly in pain, “tha-that’s my ass, daddy; you-you’re in my ass”. You rub your eyes in disbelief and take a closer look: you are indeed in her ass; “but how did I get in your ass so easily?”, you ask. “I-I’ve been training it, love”, she admits, “I-I wanted to give you my last cherry—ahng, so big, fuck”.

You pull out to process her words, “do you want to say it again?”. Junhee stands up and hugs you, falling limp in your arms like she usually does; “I-I wanted to give you my last cherry, love. That way I’ll be yours entirely”, she says in a weak voice. “But it hurts, no? I don’t want to hurt you, baby”, you say to her. “It did hurt, but it’s only right that I give you my anal cherry”, she says, “please, let me be selfish this one time”. You ask her once again and you’re met with her unwavering determination, so you decide to play along.

Junhee returns to her previous position on the edge of the bed and spreads her cheeks for you, “please, daddy, grant me my wish; I want to be yours enti—FUCK, GENTLY, DADDY”. Your cock is halfway in her ass when she screams it out, “God, baby, you’re so tight”. “Ah-ah-ah—I’m yours, daddy. I’m yours—oh, fuck”, she chants as you fuck her ass at a slow tempo. Once you feel like her rear muscles has relaxed and is stretched enough to accommodate your girth somewhat comfortably, you start fucking her faster. Junhee screams as she feels the increased pace, “YES, YES, I’M YOURS, DADDY”. Her loud chants rile you up even more, and you quietly wish that a household assistant doesn’t happen to be outside the bedroom right now.

The tightness of her ass is different than her pussy’s, and you feel like it’s trying to milk your cum out of your cock. “Baby, I’m about to bust”, you announce to her with a groan. “FUCK, YES, GIVE IT TO ME—GIVE IT TO ME IN THE ASS”, she yells, straining her voice cord—you hope that she won’t lose her voice after this and promise yourself that you’ll give her some water. “AH, FUCK”, you scream out as you release your load in her ass for the first time ever, and you feel splashes on your thighs—Junhee is squirting from anal sex, isn’t that crazy?

You try to pull out, but Junhee tells you to stay inside. “It’s so hot, daddy”, she says, “now I belong to you entirely”. You bend forward and peck her on the nape, “thank you, baby. It was an honor to be your first. I love you, darling”. Junhee then asks you to pull out, citing the pain from the stretch, so you do as she asks and inspect the result of your work. Your cum is dripping out of her gaped asshole that is trying its hardest to return to its original shape. You keep an eye on it until it closes perfectly, and pecks Junhee in the ass, making her gasp in surprise. “Did you like it, daddy?”, she asks. You pull her into a hug before answering, “yes, baby, I liked it a lot. Thank you so much”. “I’m yours now, daddy—like, yours yours, you know?”, Junhee says before pecking you in the cheek. “I know you mean well, but you’re not my property, love”, you say with a smile, “I love you, baby”. “But you get what I mean, right? I’ll do whatever for you, daddy”, she says. You chuckle at her words, “can you eat well and stay healthy for me, love?”. “Aaaaah, you’re not cooperating with meeeeee”, she whines, “you’re so lucky I love you”. You hold her head with both hands, “I know, baby; I’m grateful for you every single day”. Your sweet words make Junhee blush, “I-I’m grateful for you as well, love. I can’t thank you enough for the love you’re showering me with”.

It is now 2 hours before you need to leave for dinner. You’ve been busy looking for clothes in the walk-in closet, even going as far as asking Mr. Kang for ideas; “I suggest a white shirt, a three-piece suit in navy-blue, and an orange striped tie, sir”, he said over the phone earlier; his love for those colors is second to none. “I’ll go along with your idea today, Mr. Kang”, you say to yourself. You fetch an orange tie from the shelf and a navy-blue three-piece suit that is tidily kept in cover bag. After putting them on, you grab a box of shoes and head towards the bedroom to check on Junhee.

“Baby”, you knock on the bedroom door, “have you chosen a dress yet?”. Junhee opens the door and walks out, and your jaw drops to the floor right away; she has put on a very fancy white dress and has a matching handbag in her hands. “Dear Lord, you’re so beautiful”, you comment as your eyes roam all over her body from head to toe. “You remember this dress, don’t you?”, she asks—how can you not remember? You gave her that dress as a gift after establishing the first mine under OreQuest Co. last year. You take her hand and peck it, “I can’t wait to get married to you, baby. I love you so much”. “I can’t wait to get married to you, love. I love you more”, she says with a lovely smile, copying your line.

Mr. Kang greets you as you and Junhee walk towards the row of cars, “looking sharp, sir and madam—I see that you’ve agreed to my suggestion, sir”. You shake his hand in appreciation, “I trust your sense of fashion, Mr. Kang. I must say it’s very on-point”. Mr. Kang accepts your thanks with a smile, “may I know which car we’re taking, sir?”. You look around your collection of expensive cars, “can we take the Ghost? That’s armored too, right?”. “It is, sir, just not as thick as the Cadillac”, he says, “please, have a seat”. You open a door for Junhee before getting in yourself, followed by Mr. Kang. “The Sapphire, please, Mr. Kang”, you say to him. Mr. Kang turns on the car and starts driving out of the garage, “certainly, sir”.

During the ride, Junhee pulls out her trusty G45 from her handbag and puts it in the compartment in the center of the seat, “I’ll be unarmed tonight, Mr. Kang; we’re relying on you”. “Understood, madam. Speaking of which, I have an AR-15 in this bag next to me as well”, he says. “Is that a 16-inch, Mr. Kang?”, Junhee asks as she takes a peek. “11-and-a-half, madam; I recently came up with a new build and have been training with it”, Mr. Kang explains. Mr. Kang used to be Junhee’s subordinate during her Nighthaven days, and she was the one who convinced you to hire him as a chauffeur. “You’ve always been the creative one, Mr. Kang—I’ll need a list of the parts you used for it, by the way”, she praises him.

Mr. Kang drops you off in front of The Sapphire and opens the door for you with a press of a button. “Director Han”, a staff greets you at the door with a polite bow, “your reservation is ready, sir. Kindly follow me, please”. You hold Junhee’s hand as you follow the staff to your table, secluded from the rest of the visitors. You pull out some money from Junhee’s handbag (since you don’t carry much cash) and hand it to him, “thank you for your help”. “Thank you for the visit, director. Your appetizers will come out soon. Have a good night, sir and madam”, the staff bows again and walks away with a smile. “How did he know that you’re a director, love?”, Junhee asks. You chuckle at her question, “I mean, almost everyone does, whether they hate me or not. Not to mention that The Sapphire’s owners have been good friends with my parents since I was a kid”.

A waiter sets some plates with fancy food on your table while another pours some wine into the glasses. “How long is this dinner, by the way, love?”, Junhee asks as she eyes the food. “9 courses, I think”, you answer her and turn to the waiters and one of them gives you a nod, “yes, 9 courses. Thank you very much, we will be enjoying this”. You lift a glass of wine for a toast, “to us, baby, until the end of time”. Junhee lifts her glass and clinks it with yours, “to us, love, until the end of time”.

“Here’s your final course, sir and madam”, the waiter says. “Ah, the last one already?”, you comment, “where has time gone, baby?”. Junhee smiles at you oh-so-warmly, “time flies like a fighter jet when you spend it by talking and laughing with those you love, honey”. Truer words have never been said before and they make you realize how blessed you’ve been throughout your life; “I love you so, so much, baby, but I can’t come up with the words to express myself”, you say with glassy eyes, “I want to get you a gift right now—you know, like a symbol”. “You are my gift, honey—one that never stops giving”, she says with teary eyes as well.

You walk out of the restaurant hand-in-hand with Junhee and head towards the car. You open the passenger door and ask Junhee to enter first. You hear a commotion from your left, but initially pay no attention to it and keep minding your business. That is, until the source of the commotion, a man who has a shirt with your face crossed out, appears from around the corner and aims his gun at you. You scream in pain when you feel hot lead hit your left shoulder, and Junhee screams in panic and pulls you into the car. Mr. Kang gets ready to jump out and shoot back, but you tell him no; “don’t, Mr. Kang—just get us out, please”, you say before grunting from the pain.

Mr. Kang plants his foot on the gas and speeds away to get some help for you, and you hear some more shots land on the car. “Love, love”, Junhee calls out to you as tears flow down her cheeks, “stay with me, stay with me, please. Faster, Mr. Kang!”. Your eyelids feel like they weigh a quintal, and you feel powerless to keep them open.

You’re lying flat on your back with a bright light shining right in your eyes, and you wonder if you died and is seeing God right now. “God, please protect my fiancé; watch over her and bless her like you’ve blessed me”, you mutter to yourself. “Oppa! Oppa!”, you hear Junhee’s voice coming from God-knows-where, and you can’t help but shed tears. “I’m so sorry for breaking your heart, love. I never meant it to end like this. I love you, baby”, you say to yourself.

A higher power places your soul back into your body as if telling you that this isn’t over yet, and you jolt as if you were electrocuted. You look to your right and see Junhee sitting on a chair next to you: she’s crying her heart out with her hands on her face. “Junhee-yah”, you weakly call out to her, and she gasps in shock before rushing to you. “Love! Love, you’re awake—oh God, thank you—thank you so much”, she says in tears, “I’m so sorry, love. I-I was supposed to protect you. Oh, God, I failed you”. You try to sit, but Junhee holds you down, “no-no-no, please, just lay down. You’re safe here; Mr. Kang is guarding the door”. You wipe her tears with your thumb, “are you okay, baby? Are you hurt?”. Junhee shakes her head as she presses your hand against her cheek, “I-I’m fine, love”. You show her a gentle smile, “then you didn’t fail anyone, love; this is simply an accident”.

You take a good look around the room and the IV drip and heart monitor tell you that you’re at a hospital. “Thank you for bringing me here, love”, you tell Junhee, “I hope no one gave you trouble”. Junhee exhales deeply before answering, “this hospital is secretly owned and run by Nighthaven; they don't ask questions”. You suddenly feel a sharp pain in your shoulder area, and you let out a grunt because of it; “do you know where he hit me?”, you ask her. “Somewhere here”, she points at her own shoulder, under the collarbone, “the bullet is still sitting in your body, by the way—it’s fine, though, you’ll live”.

Junhee sits back down in her chair and texts Mr. Kang and your parents, telling them that you’re alive and well—minus the bullet wound. You chuckle while looking at her, “I was about to ask if you’re hungry, but we literally just had dinner”. Junhee pecks you in the cheek, “I haven’t even thanked you for taking me to dinner—thank you, love”. Since you can’t sit and peck her back, you opt to peck her hand instead, “happy anniversary, baby”. “Happy anniversary, oppa”, she replies with a merry smile.

You’re cleared to go home after spending 3 days in the hospital, and you finally see Mr. Kang since the shooting as you’re walking to the car. “Director, pleased to see you again”, he says with a bow, “my apologies for not reacting in time, sir”. You pat him on the back, “it’s fine, Mr. Kang. As long as no one else got hurt, I’m content with it”. He nods and smiles, “one more thing, sir; your secretary received a message from your parents saying that they’re inviting you to dinner on the 21st”. “Dinner, Mr. Kang? Did they forget what just happened?”, you let out an amused chuckle. “The dinner will be at their house, sir, and your fiancé has arranged for Nighthaven to guard the area—she might not be one of them anymore, but she’s still the highly-respected Head of Personnel Development in their eyes”, he explains. “Aaaah, I want to go hoooome”, Junhee whines, “love, please; can we not go home already?”. “You heard the lady, Mr. Kang; let’s go home”, you say to him.

Junhee drags you to the bedroom and asks you to sit on the edge of the bed, presumably because she desperately wants your cock after spending a few days without sex. “Are you that horny, baby?”, you ask Junhee, who is seemingly in a rush to strip. “You have no idea”, she says, “I would’ve sucked your cock and have you cum in me that night if it wasn’t for that fucking bastard”. She turns away from you and holds your cock as she lowers herself, “I want it in my ass, daddy—can I have it in my ass, please?”. You both know that your cock and her asshole are dry, but you don’t want to ruin Junhee’s mood, so you let her do what she wants and agree to fuck her ass again.

Hearing your approval, she starts lowering her butt until your tip is at her entrance. Once she manages to get the tip in, you pull her down roughly and fill her ass with your entire shaft. She throws her head back and screams, “ah-ah—daddy, so full—ah-ah, yes”. You then yank her hair and ask her where your cock is; “it-it’s in my ass, daddy—FUCK, YES, PLEASE”, she answers with a scream because you’re getting impatient with the slow pace and thrust up into her ass.

You feel tired after a few minutes, so you pull out and ask her to get on her hands and knees on the bed. Junhee’s arms become limp as you’re fucking her from behind, causing her to drop her torso onto the bed. You spank her multiple times as you’re fucking her ass hard and fast, making Junhee scream both in pain and pleasure. “Daddy, daddy, yes—fuck, yes—do me, daddy”, she chants repeatedly. “I hope you like it rough”, you say to her as you plant your feet on the bed to get a better posture to fuck her.

You finally blow your load in her ass with a groan, but unlike last time, Junhee isn’t squirting. She also doesn’t resist when you pull out, choosing to drop her ass flat onto the bed due to exhaustion. “You were so rough, daddy; I don’t think I’ll be able to walk after this”, she comments with heavy breaths. “I’m so sorry, love. You made me really horny, and I went off the rails”, you apologize as you pat her back gently.

You roll Junhee onto her back and cuddle her, “I know I technically didn’t go anywhere, but I’ve missed you so much, baby”. Junhee steals a peck from your cheek, “I’ve missed you too, love. I’m so glad you’re okay now”. You glance at the clock hanging on the wall and see that you still have a lot of time until bedtime, “love, are we ready to call it a night or do you have other ideas?”. She gathers her might and straddles your thighs, “you haven’t filled my pussy, love; one more round, please? I want you to make me sore”.

Her words arouse you, and you feel your cock hardening again instantly after hearing that you’ll be doing another round. Junhee holds your cock in one hand and starts stroking it, “always so hard for me, aren’t you? I love it”. You close your eyes and enjoy the handjob she’s giving you. That is, until she asks for your attention; “eyes on me, love”, she says with a smile. You look at Junhee in the eyes, and she immediately stuff herself with your cock. “Fuck, the size catches me off guard every single time”, she says before taking the entirety of your cock in her pussy, “oh, fuck, so full again”.

You don’t want to miss out on Junhee’s heavenly soft moans, so you pull her down and keep her in your arms while her hips are busy going up and down your cock at a relaxed tempo. “Moan for me, love; you know how much I love the sound”, you say to her. Junhee nibbles your ear before moaning right into your ears. “Ah-ah—honey, I love you so much”, she says softly into your ears, “everything about you is just perfect, honey—take me, honey, yes”. You want to reply to her with your own words, but your low voice doesn’t sound as sexy as hers, so you decide to do something else. You latch your lips on her neck and start sucking and nibbling, feeling keen on planting hickeys on her pale skin. “Yes, mark me, love—I’ll show them who I belong to”, Junhee eggs you on. With her encouragement, you suck on her neck harder until it’s red.

Rough sex is fun and all, but nothing beats slow romantic sex with very minimal profanity, as you’re able to rejoice in the sensations and show your significant other how much you love them, just like how you and Junhee are doing it right now. “My love, I want to cum with you”, she says softly between moans. “Kiss me, baby”, you say to her as you guide her chin towards you. Junhee plants her lips on yours and starts kissing you lovingly and passionately, adding a bit of tongue wrestling on top of it. Junhee breaks the kiss to deliver some news, “I’m so close, my love. Please, please finish with me”.

Orgasm is finally at the door again after what felt like half an hour, and your cock twitches in Junhee’s pussy. “Yes, love, give it to—OH, GOD”, Junhee cuts herself off and yelps as she reaches her peak. You follow closely behind her and blow your load inside her pussy. Junhee kisses you again as she rides her high, only breaking it after it passes. “I love you so much, honey”, she says. “How much?”, you say with a teasing smile. Junhee straightens her posture and makes a big circle with her hands, “thiiiiis much”. You laugh at her antic, “I love you more, baby”.

There are stray strands of hair all over her face, so you do your best to tidy them up for her. She lies on your body after you’re done, “thank you for everything, love”. “You’re welcome, baby. Thank you”, you reply to her, “you want to let me out, or no?”. “No, let’s just stay like this until tomorrow, that way I’ll be able to ride you first thing in the morning—would you consent to that, by the way?”, she says. You smile at her, “of course; it’s not like you’ll cut my penis off when I’m asleep, is it? What makes you want me to stay inside, though?”.

She plants her hands on your chest and looks at you, “I don’t know if other men’s penis does this, but yours doesn’t shrink; you’re just limp—you’re very big, by the way, if you haven’t noticed already. I’d love to keep your penis in my mouth or vagina all day long if it was up to me”. You laugh at her words, “it feels like you’d do a lot of things if it was up to you”. She slaps your chest playfully before resting on your body again, “I really want to be naked all day and let you do what you want to me, though”. “What about the household assistants, love? You don’t want them to see you run around the house naked, do you?”, you ask. “Oh, you’re right”, she says as the gears in her head turn, “we can give them a day off, no? That way the house will be empty. Please say yes, love”. You smile and shake your head in amusement, “sure, baby. Just tell me when, okay?”.

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