#mainly with the passwords

[rg11]

whats your fav aspect(s) of jadekat?

anon im sorry but i had like 40+ notes prepaired for my thoughts on jadekat but i lost all of them proof-reading it and this is all i got

they are the ultimate yuri to me

[ohsua]

at a certain point of being an insomnia you start being able to identify not only what year and era a picture is from but also what specific date it was which might make you react to a pic by saying somthing like ohh 180210 was so good. this makes other people think you are insane but Do Not Worry. you're normal. that's a normal thing to do

[finalism]

hey hey like for a little 2.1-centric starter.

[rejaytionships]

btw sorry for being mega inactive. i have lost a whole lotta steam in just about every facet of my life but maybe 2025 will be different for me..........

[kxkarot]

I will be resurrecting my Gogeta (Primary) and Vegito (secondary) blog.

[reputationindentation]

Hi I'm sorry if this is weird but were you on tumblr before with other url(s)? I remember someone else named Krupa on here but I'm not sure if y'all are the same person... Hope you have a great day! I love your writing :)

hey! its not weird at all. yes i was on tumblr then deactivated multiple times between may 2022 and last week because of some personal (mental health) issues. i'm surprised u remember me because i lost a lot of mutuals because of it. also i'm glad you liked my writing, that means a lot to me <3

[cattafang-the-third]

found this after the poll closed so i'll just put it in the tags

[passionfruitmango]

OOF I also recalled another side account of mine (neopets) and cannot for the LIFE of me remember or find the password for it????

Tried doing the thing to reset password like okay guess that side was on a different email?? (Definitely not the case)

Then tried getting neo to email my my usernames and ah yes I forgot, my aged Gmail account can't receive neopets emails for whatever reason???

So now I have a running notepad list of all potential combos I've already tried 🥴

[friedfisha]

Ah ok that's chill, its not like I'm trying to report unusual activity on my account or anything

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

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

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

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should feel like an accessory.

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

You can’t tell which is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who possibly could?

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

“I’m not even fifty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch it.”

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry doesn't answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

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

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

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

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

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

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

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hairy

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

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

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

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

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

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

See you at 8.

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

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

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

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

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

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

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

Maybe it’s better this way.

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

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

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

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

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

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

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

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

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

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

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

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

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

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

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

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might as well.”

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

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

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

You also play your role perfectly.

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

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

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

You clap until your palms sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give him your hand.

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

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

You 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!

[radrobotz]

i miss bitstrips but only cuz the comic builder was fun to fuck around in

[invincibledc]

>⩊<𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝:

Puking all over the couch all because they ate too much food. Very not cool, couldn’t sit on the family couch for days. 0/10

Runs outside late at night to fight real raccoons… 6/10. Go to bed.

Go into raccoon from just to rummage through the garbage in disguise and then being caught by Damian because he knew the patterns of your fur. 3/10, very stinky and had to clean you twice.

Brought trash inside and stored it in a closet, making the manor stink up so bad they thought it was some kinda gas leak. Turns out they found the trash inside your closet and grounded you from going in trash and outside for 2 months. -100/10, had to smell like trash for days to weeks.

Fighting real raccoons and winning the battles at times but also losing when getting scratched on your face, making Damian almost box the damned rodents for your justice just to have you and Damian put against a wall for punishment. 100000/10

FNAF 2 foxy jumpscare jumping at people when they angered you. 3/10. You were in animal control before they busted yon out, more like Damian as he literally busted you out along with a few animals.

Jumping on the chandelier and falling onto Jason’s face when. 7/10, he was already giving up on life.

Going on Tim’s computer and accidentally looking up porn. He already knew who did this, and made a password only he can get in. Don’t worry, he knew you didn’t mean it.. but he made sure you weren’t too traumatized. -1/10. No future phone for you.

Biting Bart on his ankle after Tim brought them over to visit the young Justice. 5/10, very funny but dangerous as he’s a meta that goes fast and you’re just a raccoon child.

Accidentally pissed on dick’s bed. Banned immediately from his room due to his anger at that moment. They would’ve thought to potty train you in animal form as well. 1/10

Stole one of Jason’s guns and shot randomly thinking of the gun as a laser gun they seen off of a commercial. 0/10. Almost killed Tim and Jason was banned from having guns in the manor and you were banned from his room.

Had a wicked stomach ache and had the whole family scared thinking it was serious when it wasn’t. Grounded from the kitchen. 1/10

Being found by the boys, mainly Damian and being into the family, being loved, cared for, giving them chaotic moments, but mostly being their cute new animal hybrid sibling that’s cute but evil in their own way. ♾️/10

[skvrpion]

Familiar [M] Prologue

tw: references to porn & masturbation (f), swearing, drug paraphernalia

Saturday 1:00AM

Kendall blacked out as her body convulsed over her freshly washed comforter, acrylic toes curling and thighs clamping around the pink rose toy tucked in her palm. Her phone? Probably somewhere across the bed as she lost her grip on it to mewl and pant into the cold air of her room. Every other night for the past two weeks and counting, the twenty eight year old found herself in the same position: restless and horny out of her mind with no one there to put her to sleep. Her friends were right she needed a new man - more specifically - some new dick in her life, but she was too damn busy with work and kicking her stupid ass ex to the curb to get it.

So, it led to this - spending nights alone in her apartment masturbating to porn on Twitter

At least the guy she got off to was hot, well from below the neck he was anyway - his username was scvrlord and he never showed his face full online. As much as she frequented his page Kendall knew his half naked body from a mile away: a painfully thick frame accented with toasty skin, the aforementioned surgical scar running the length of his torso, and a delicately done black and grey sleeve trailing the exterior of left arm.

When it came to size, he wasn’t monsterish like his costars, but thick enough to make anyone squirm - simply put with the way he moved, he would leave even the most experienced performers seeing stars, shaking and bottomed out. Besides the physical, his voice was a deep baritone that softly rose every now and then when the sex he was having was amazing.

Something Kendall personally adored about him was his rarely seen and rather deadly set of eyes rimmed in thick lashes; his iris’s never quite settling on a color they bounced from a warm hazel to deep shade of blue, complimenting whatever color balaclava mask he donned for the evening.

Kendall knew it was entirely stupid to have a crush on someone she'd never met, especially a porn star with hundreds of thousands of followers, but something about him - even his tweets in between the back to back smut - reeled her in.

Whether he posted cellphone videos of him getting head or angled flicks of him dicking down a girl in his living room, Kendall found herself enamored by him and the spontaneous sex life he had. Maybe if she had someone like him in her life she wouldn't be as stressed about half the shit she was now.

A girl could only dream.

Right?

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Monday 11:40PM

"Yes I turned those files in yesterday, they should all be in the OneDrive link I sent you. No you don't need a password... yes - I double checked this time, so it should open up fine." Kendall uttered as she clicked down the foyer. If it wasn't her boss driving her up the wall at work, it was her fellow co-worker Jackson. He never stayed out of her hair and insisted on contacting her over the most minuscule things. It was mainly because he wanted to fuck and his advances in the office weren't getting him anywhere but back to his cubicle - alone.

On this lovely night it was nearing 12 in the morning and his pestering had yet to cease from the time Kendall had clocked in that morning.

"Jackson I'm about to get in the elevator and my signal is gonna go out, I'll call you when I get in okay?"

"Ah forreal? Aight, bet."

"It's not like that," she sneered, "this is corporate business remember?"

"Yeah yeah ye-"

She hit end and pretended that her signal had gone out when in reality she had four full bars. The elevator door pinged open and to her surprise someone else was inside. Inhaling deeply she slid in across from the stranger, keeping her eyes glued to a new text message from an unblocked number that slid across her screen. It was like all the annoying ass niggas wanted to get on her nerves tonight.

I know you up right now. When you gone let me get the rest of my stuff??

"What fucking stuff?" she thought out loud, pressing number 15 on the lift and watching the doors close back. Devin had gotten kicked out of her crib over a month ago, and for whatever reason he insisted accusing her of having his stuff hidden away. A loud hiss escaped her lips as she rapidly clicked out a reply.

Idk wtf you on about but I can promise you ain’t shit of yours here. Whatever I didn’t put on the curb prolly somewhere in Alabama rn, check Craigslist and block this number💯

Before she could end her text with a hearty ‘fuck off’, her screen cut to calling and Devins new number flooded the screen. Kendall softly thudded her head off the elevator wall and audibly deep sighed for the millionth time that day.

"Can a bitch catch a break? Goddamn." she said aloud, prompting the stranger next to her to let out a deep chuckle. It made her ears perk up and her body freeze a little. The laugh was familiar, one she'd heard way too many times before to not know.

'There's no way in hell...No. You just bugging out right now.' Thought Kendall.

To her relief the lift promptly stopped on 15, and she made no hesitation to get out and beeline to her apartment. As she stepped out, however, her keys hit the elevator floor and landed by the strangers foot. Before she could fully whip around and snatch them up, he’d already beat her to it, her eyes making a deathly slow trail from the floor to the hand holding her hot pink key ring.

Kendall’s heart went straight to her ass as she caught a full view of who she'd been standing next to.

He had the same tatts, the same voice, the same eyes.

"Here you go."

"Oh shit - thank you. Have a nice night."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

When Kendall got inside her apartment, she let out a loud expletive-filled exhale and contemplated running straight for her room. Either she was losing her mind or fate was one hell of a thing. She knew she couldn't do it - whatever it was – sober, so she grabbed a bottle of Patron off of her kitchen counter and mixed the strongest margarita she could muster. After half an hour of contemplation and small sips of tequila Kendall finally caved in and headed to her room. Her heart was thumping out of her chest as she logged in and clicked on the profile she'd often visit. In a blind rush she navigated her way to his DM's and felt her heart skip a beat as the small dot next to his picture was green - he was awake and online, probably uploading a new video given the time.

"Don't be a pussy Ken, you already here." She mumbled

Before she could fully chicken out the liquor kicked in and forced her fingers to type.

k3nlaflair: you live in Av. 76?

…

…

k3nlaflair: I think I just ran into you.

k3nlaflair: on the elevator

…

scvrlord: oh shit, that was you?

Bingo. She held back a scream and composed herself as she thought of a decent reply back.

k3nlaflair: this is mad weird lol sorry

scvrlord: nah baby you good, you beautiful btw.

…

k3nlaflair: 🫠 thank you

k3nlaflair: and sorry for bothering you so late, this is crazyyyy lol thanks for the save

scvrlord: nah you good I promise

scvrlord: rs you the first person my age I’ve seen since I moved 😂

k3nlaflair: yeahh Av. is a nursing home if you squint hard enough lol they don’t really tell they yuppies about it either.

scvrlord: I def see now. since ion really know anybody around here you down to grab lunch this weekend? on me.

Kendall couldn't believe her eyes. Not only was this man living in the same building as her, he was now casually asking her out for a chat. If she fumbled this her friend group would never let her live this down. Heart fluttering, she quickly tapped away at her keyboard and blindly hit send.

k3nlaflair: I know a chill spot in K-town that’s real lowkey. foods to die for and the drinks are stiff as you can get lol!

scvrlord: bet. meet at mine Friday night. that cool?

k3nlaflair: bet.

Kendall was every bit of speechless. This was the clutch of the year - no the century - all thanks to her shitty roster and butter fingers. As she reread her final three letter text for the hundredth time in those fleeting minutes, a sheepish grin curled across her face.

‘Kendall: 1, Devin: 0’

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

first and foremost big thank you to the gang for inspiring (and gently bullying me) to get back in the writing field again, love y’all downnn 😭🫡

pls don’t be shy to leave a comment, suggestions for part one, whatever you like my friends 🫶🏽 see you in the next one

TAGS: @kimuzostar @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @yassbishimvintage @melaninpov @planetblaque @jenlovey @ranikyani

[hencheri]

▸ 18+ mdni.

haechan catches you peeping on him.

| pairing. haechan x peeping tom!reader

| warnings. dubcon, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, mean!haechan.

| wc. 2k

haechan’s house is really neat. even the rooms you expect to be a little messier, like the bathroom and kitchen, are perfectly organized and clean. apart from some used dishes in the sink and a book on the couch, everything is put away in its respective place. 

it’s as if his home is unoccupied at how neat it is, but the decoration here and there, and the opened mail on the kitchen counter tell you otherwise. 

it’s chic, pearly white walls with some touches of grey and black on the furniture. really modern too, with big windows that allow the sunlight to illuminate the house during the early hours of the day. 

there’s no more sunlight now as it is late in the evening, but it’s still really beautiful, the living room being lit up by the street lamps outside and the bright moon in the sky. 

haechan always keeps a spare key hidden in a pot beside the backdoor. that’s how you managed to get inside without triggering the safety alarm. you’re careful to not turn on any lights, but you’re also grateful he has the habit of keeping the ceiling light of the kitchen on, so you can walk through the first floor without any issue. 

you don’t touch a lot of things there, mainly because you don’t want to take the risk and what really interests you is upstairs. you quickly look through the bathroom, but most of his personal stuff is in the other one where you know he has his expensive shampoo and cologne. 

you eventually go upstairs. you first enter his bedroom and it’s really cozy, smelling so much like him. his bed is made, his laptop sitting on top of the thick covers, and his slippers are beside the nightstand, ready for when he returns.

you’re tempted to open his laptop, and so you get on his bed, placing the electronic device before you, pulling the lid up. 

unfortunately, it’s protected by a password. before you can even try to type something on the keyboard, you hear the front door opening. 

you immediately start to panic, closing the lid of the laptop hurriedly, stepping on your feet and searching for a hiding spot. you don’t have much time as you hear the sounds of him walking upstairs, reaching for the door of the closet.

he enters his room with a groan, dropping his phone on his bed. 

you cover your mouth with your hand so he doesn’t hear your rapid breathing, watching him through the blinds of the closet’s door.

he goes to the dresser in front of his bed and looks at himself briefly in the mirror, passing his hand through his long black locks. he licks his lips before pulling his t-shirt over his head by the collar and putting it in the laundry basket. he remains in his grey sweatpants, hanging a bit low on his hips.

you feel your face heating up at the sight of haechan shirtless, his honey skin revealed to you. he’s literally breathtaking. 

he disappears to the bathroom, you assume to take a shower as you hear the water running. he comes back 10 minutes later, now laying down in bed, picking up his laptop. 

he first types out things on his keyboard, and you think that he might be answering emails. then, you’re not sure of what he’s doing, browsing through the internet, clicking on some things you obviously can’t see from where you’re hiding. 

you’re thinking about how you will be able to leave. perhaps when he’ll be asleep, but you know he’s a very light sleeper, you could wake him up. you come to the conclusion that the safest way will be tomorrow when he’ll be off to work. you’ll have to stay in this closet for a couple of hours…

your attention is back quickly on haechan as he starts palming himself over his sweats, feminine moans being heard, coming from a video playing on his laptop. it doesn’t take you long to understand what exactly he’s watching, his hand gripping and squeezing his cock still trapped in his pants.

he wets his pink lips with his tongue, eyes staring at the screen of his computer, a mix of squelching noises and high-pitched moans echoing in the room. he reaches into his sweatpants, stroking his engorged cock and letting out a groan. 

your cheeks are definitely on fire now. they are burning, and so is your core, heating up more and more at the sinful scene in front of you. you try to calm down because you really don’t want haechan to know you’re here, but it’s so difficult, feeling the urge to ease the ache between your legs. 

the urge to come out of the closet and finally do what you dream of everyday…

he pushes down his sweats, bringing his briefs with them, freeing his pulsating erection. his hand grips his cock again, and he parts his legs wider, stroking himself at a slow pace. his mouth is ajar to let out shallow breaths, having to lick his lips multiple times to hydrate them. 

you can’t believe this is really happening right now. after all, you’re into haechan’s intimacy, and he doesn’t know that you’re here… you should have anticipated something like that could happen, but to be honest, you’re not displeased, quite the opposite. 

his breath has become more erratic and the pace of his hand goes faster. the head of his cock glistens under the light of his bedroom, spreading his pre-cum all over his girth. 

“fuck,” he curses under his breath as he comes too close to his orgasm, stopping his movements and squeezing the base of his cock while throwing his head back. 

his chest heaves up and down rapidly, and after a few seconds, haechan looks back at the screen of his computer, stroking his cock with his fist. 

you can clearly feel the pulse between your legs and the sticky feeling in your panties is almost embarrassing, your face burning hot. there’s no way your panties are not soaking in your arousal right now.

his bangs get into his eyes, so he passes a hand through his hair, pushing the strands away, but they fall right back in front of his eyes when he moves his head slightly down. he lets out a moan, slowing his pace when he feels his high coming, starting up once again as he can’t help but pleasure himself. 

your eyes travel his body, and the need to touch your own is too strong to ignore, your hand lingering over your core. your gaze goes up to his chest, a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. you look down to his subtle abs, then to his crotch, the area that catches your attention the most. 

you know haechan is about to cum when he accelerates the pace of his hand, rubbing his cock until his thighs tense up as well as his stomach, reaching his high. a low and high-pitched moan escapes his mouth as his cock spurts out long ropes of cum, landing on his abdomen, more coming out and dripping down over his hand. 

at this, you quickly rub your clit over your panties, cumming at the same time as him with your hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. 

but you’re too lost in your own lust that you accidentally make a hanger fall, alerting haechan of your presence. you internally curse yourself, not even down from your orgasm that you already get caught. 

you pray in silence, but after whipping his cum off his stomach and pausing the video, haechan gets up from his bed, pulling his sweats up. you watch him approaching the closet, absolutely terrified. 

you shut your eyes, hoping that he doesn’t see you, but you have to be really dumb to think he won’t. 

“who the fuck are you?” 

you’re in trouble.

you open your eyes and slowly look up to see him staring down at you with a confused—no, furious—expression on his face. he’s not even freaked out or weirded out, he’s mad.

“were you watching me? you fucking creep,” he insults, and you won’t lie that it hurts you a little. you didn’t mean this to happen. 

you don’t say anything, a knot in your throat forming as you feel tears appearing in your eyes. oh, god… this is so not how you wanted it to end up. 

“come here…” he says through gritted teeth, grabbing your arm and pulling you up to your feet. he towers over you and you can feel how pissed off he is just by the way he’s looking at you. 

he drags you out of his room, not addressing you a single word as he brings you to the first floor and to the door leading downstairs. 

“wait-” you choke out as you realize what he’s going to do, “please, don’t!” 

he opens the door and shoves you inside, almost making you fall down the stairs. when he lets go of your arm, you rush to get out, but he closes the door before you can. 

“no, no… please! i’m sorry!” you yell and cry, banging on the door that separates you from him.

he locks you in and he leaves you there, turning the kitchen’s lights off. you scream for him all night, but he never comes, having you sleep there without any food or water. 

in the morning, you hear him preparing himself to go to work. you scream at him again, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you. you stay by the door all day crying and sniffling, hiccuping at how intensely you cried. 

when he comes back from work, you don’t have the energy to call for him, and so you look under the door to watch his shadow. after what felt like hours, his feet finally stop in front of the basement, and you’re absolutely relieved to hear him unlocking the door.

you immediately look up at him when he opens it, but you don’t dare saying a word, too afraid to say something wrong, something that would make him lock you up in there again. 

he grabs the same arm as yesterday and you wince at the sore feeling. he held you with so much force that he left the mark of his fingers on you.

he walks you down the stairs, lighting up the basement and pushing you on the dusty couch. 

you raise your hands in front of you as defense, wanting him to calm down. “please, i didn’t-” you begin, but get cut off by him. 

“you didn’t what, huh? what haven’t you done?” he asks ironically, straddling your body sprawled out on the couch. “‘cause you broke into my house, watched me jerk off, and… snooped through my shit,” he says while tugging on your top, recognizing it as his own t-shirt. “so honestly, there’s nothing you didn’t do.”

“i’m sorry…” you only manage to respond.

he scoffs at that, shaking his head. “shut up,” he says, “you’re only sorry because you got caught, bitch.” you swallow, looking at him with glossy eyes and trembling lips. “i should call the cops on you, you know? you gotta be a fucking freak to watch me jerk off,” he laughs, mocking you. “bet you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

as if to confirm his words, he sneaks a hand under your skirt, pulling your panties to the side. he immediately feels your wetness from last night, gliding his fingers through your sticky folds. you can’t refrain the moans from slipping past your lips.

“yeah, you fucking did, nasty whore.”

he purposely rubs your clit with his finger and you flinch at the contact, seeing that you’re still very sensitive from your ruined orgasm. he removes his hand from between your legs, bringing his wet fingers to your mouth. 

“come on, open,” he instructs, and you do, welcoming his digits in. “see, i think i'm gonna keep you… gonna give you the real thing, must be boring to only always watch, no?”

[hotchnersangel]

PASSWORD

Aaron Hotchner

cw; illusions to toxic relationships, implications of lost trust but also much trust, going onto Hotch's phone.

short one because yesterdays lowkey drainedddddd me, kisses to u all xxxxx

You had never been in a relationship as healthy as it was between you and Aaron. In a way, it felt wrong to be treated with so much respect? He was always so kind to you and so understanding of your going-ons and no matter what he stood by your side and supported you. He understood your trauma in regards to past relationships which is why it was so important for him to shower you in love. You had been dating for only a few months and you had really started to trust Aaron, which shocked you. Though, it was so strange for the idea of Aaron trusting you. You had never done anything to make him not trust you, never even thought about it. Just, you were used to being accused of actions you never did.

After a long case, Aaron was driving you both back to his apartment, he had told you that you were staying with him tonight and that you didn't exactly have a choice. To which, you smiled.

While you were in the car, Aaron had given you the aux to play the playlist he made for the both of you. It was full of songs you both liked, mainly you though, he made sure they were your favourites.

Aaron's phone buzzed from besides you, multiple times and you side eyes it, trying not to look but noticing it was there. You knew Aaron would never cheat on you, it was just a natural instinct for you to assume your partner was delving into infidelity.

"I think you're getting a few messages..." You tell him, starting to panic now at what he will think. Maybe he will think you're snooping, God, you always have to ruin what is finally good, don't you? Fuck. "I- I didn't look or anything- that's your privacy I respect and understand that I can just feel it-"

He places his hand onto your thigh, cutting you off as you fall silent at his touch. "Can you check it for me?" He interrupts you and you fall silent. What? "My password is 5225."

You look at him like he grew a third head. "What?"

'My password is 5225." He repeats and you freeze again, causing Aaron to look at you for a split second before looking back to the road.

"You are letting me on your phone?"

"Well to check my messages yeah, but you can go on it whenever you like honey." He introduces casually, squeezing your thigh as you place your hand onto of his and joining them together.

"Thank you." You say with a smile, hesitantly grabbing the phone. "You're sure?"

"So sure, you can go on it whenever you want to baby." He repeats and you smile at him. "Don't ever thank me for that."

"It's from Jessica, she said she's got Jack and they're on their way to his friends house now."

[distantdarlings]

A FAMILIAR ACHE // t. nott

RATING: R / 3.2K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* It’s been a week since you broke up with your boyfriend, Theodore Nott, but the urge to resist him is getting harder and harder.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! (P in V) unprotected, mean!Theo, dom!Theo, sub!Reader, fem reader, oral (f!receiving), (1) spank, very light bondage, degradation, bit of praise, name-calling, choking (f!receiving), descriptions of fem masturbation (but no actual), slight voyeruism, Theo keeps pushing even when the reader says no (but she’s mainly just teasing him, not actually disinterested), language, not proofread (lmk if I missed anything!)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Ultraviolence - Lana Del Rey (have I already used this song?)

- - -

You were fucked. Absolutely, totally, royally fucked. Everything that had led up to this moment implied that you’d be totally okay without Theo. But you were so very wrong.

It had been a week since you’d broken it off with him. His flirtatious, possessive nature had finally pushed you to your limit, and you’d called it quits.

You had thought you’d be okay, but you were wrong. You needed him—more now than you ever did before. The ache that filled your chest and your stomach and everything in between was becoming too much to bear. He was a jerk, but he was your jerk. And, right now, you were fidgeting in class from the amount of desire coursing through your veins. And it was all due to the boy sitting across from you.

He was watching you with those oceanic eyes, just as he always did—with a lidded, demanding stare. And if the two of you were still together, you would know that it meant you would be begging for mercy later today. But you weren’t together, and he was only doing it now to fuck with you.

He obviously hadn’t wanted to break up. That day, he’d sworn that he’d change everything about him you didn’t like. But you’d heard that lie one too many times. Every time you threatened to leave him, he pulled up that old story. That he loved you and would do whatever it took to keep you. But he’d proven time and time again that he was incapable of keeping his eyes and hands off other girls.

You knew that this was the right thing to have done, but you couldn’t help it. The want he forced into you was too much. You were too weak to handle it.

But you couldn’t break—you couldn’t run back to him like you did every single time. It was pathetic, how much you depended on him. And the way he looked at you now, he knew that you’d be coming home soon.

By the time the professor was announcing the end of class and you were gathering your things to head back to your dorm, Theo was brushing past you like he hadn’t even known you.

You were shocked at his nonchalance toward you and barely was able to keep your jaw from flying open. You almost wanted to say something to him, but you kept your mouth shut.

He was obviously just trying to get under your skin. The shitty thing was that it seemed to be working so far.

You cleared your throat and attempted to hide the blush on your cheeks by staring down at the floor as you got ready to leave the room.

If he was waiting for you to come sprinting back to him, he’d be disappointed. He was going to have to come back to you this time, or you would be done with him permanently. Besides, the only way you’d ever actually take him back now, was if he truly changed his ways—which was unlikely.

You rolled your eyes at the effect the stupid boy was having on you before deciding to head back to the dorm. With the heat that was running through your body, you figured it’d be smart just to take the rest of the day off.

Perhaps Theo was burning just as much for you as you were him. That thought kept you a bit calmer as you stopped before the entrance to your dormitory, whispered the password, then pushed through.

You jogged up the stairs with nothing but your bed and Theo in your mind. Unfortunately, that tended to usually be what was on your mind when your head was whirling and your stomach was hot.

No one else would be in the dorm at this time of day. One locked door and a slip beneath your satin sheets would have you completely set for the next few days.

As pathetic as it was, you had been insanely dependent on Theo in more than one way. Besides emotionally, no one had ever taken such perfect care of you sexually…and you feared that no one ever would.

It was almost as if he knew your body more than even you did. But you were just going to have to work for now.

You burst through the door of your dorm, murmured a quick locking spell, and sprinted toward your bed. All of your things dropped from your hands in the wake of your rushing body, clattering loudly and echoing like a drum. But nothing compared to the volume of your heart pounding in your ears.

A quick glance around the room allowed you to see that it was completely empty, just waiting to capture your suppressed moans like a net of stone.

Your stomach twirled with anticipation as you jumped onto your bed. In a rushed manner, you dropped your skirt down, leaving your stockings the only thing covering your legs. You loosened your tie, and ripped your shirt apart, allowing the cold air to caress your bare skin.

The only thing remaining on your buzzing body was an intact bra and bottoms, your loose stockings, and the ghost of Theo’s tongue and teeth.

You sighed aloud as you slipped beneath the sheets, letting the swirling material cool your hot flesh. If you could have, you’d have thought you’d start steaming.

“Fuck,” you shuddered, letting your hands slide down your aching hips. Nothing felt like Theo but you knew that you were the closest substitute.

One hand inched down towards your lacy bottoms, while the other toyed with your chest through the fabric of your bra. The rough material scraped against your nipples just enough to pull them into a standing position.

You’d only been here seconds, but a thin sheen of sweat had graced across your chest.

As your fingers began to slip beneath your pantyline, a choked moan left your lips as you granted yourself the relief you’d been waiting for ever since Theo’s eyes had met yours.

It was fucking stupid how dangerously he affected you.

And just as the tips of your fingers had begun to sink into your core, the door flew open with a force like lightning.

You gasped loudly and scrambled to cover your body with your blankets.

“What the hell?” you shrieked, your hair gathering around your face messily.

Through the curtains draped over the canopy on your bed, you glimpsed Theo walking toward your bed.

“Hello, darling,” he purred. His eyes met yours cruelly as he dragged them up the length of your scantily covered body.

Your uniform shirt was still wrapped around your elbows and your tie settled loosely between your cleavage. The air still kissed the tops of your thighs.

He eyed you like a predator, and you watched him like prey as he circled ever closer. He stopped at the foot of the bed.

“Theo, you need to leave,” you whispered, your body practically vibrating with want. His scent was beginning to curl around your nose, threatening to overtake you as if you were drowning. It took everything in you not to tackle him.

“Mm, tesoro,” he breathed. His fingers slipped down to brush against your bare ankle. The contact pulled a gasp from you, and you quickly yanked your leg away from him. “I’m surprised you haven’t begged me to take you back yet.”

“Me beg you?” you scoffed. “You should be begging me! You’ve treated me like shit ever since we got back together last time.”

“No, my love,” he said, beginning to slowly move around the edge of the bed. “It’s nothing to do with you, you know I just like to flirt a little.”

“That’s not okay, Theo! Why would that be okay?”

“You could flirt a little too, if you wanted,” he suggested. He was now standing over you, just to your right. “I know Mattheo’s been dying to get a taste of you. And I wouldn’t mind sharing…just a bit.”

Your stomach burned with his words. Your core seeped with excitement as every cursed syllable twisted its way into your mind.

Still, you refused to say anything. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction by begging him to take you like you wanted him to.

He leaned down and pressed his lips against your ear.

“Come on, baby,” he growled. “Take me back and let me fuck you. I can smell how badly you want me.”

His words sent shivers down your arms. He huffed a laugh against your neck as he trailed the top of his nose from your temple down to your collarbone.

Your eyes slipped shut at the feeling as you wondered how you always got yourself into this situation. Every single time you’d gotten away from Theo, you always fell right back into his hands. It was like a game to him.

“It’s alright, darling. Let me take care of you. We’ll forget about all this. Everything will go back to the way it was, except I promise I won’t flirt with anyone else.”

Merlin, wasn’t that what he always said? Wasn’t that the very thing you swore he’d say? You should be running away. Why weren’t you?

Because the bend of his knuckle was creeping over your nipple, slowly and easily. You gasped slightly at the sensation. He knew what he was doing. He always knew.

“That’s it, my girl,” he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Fuck, he was perfect at making you like him again. That was the way he’d locked you in in the first place.

“Now, my love,” he said against your skin. “What was it you were going to do to yourself?”

You said nothing, your eyes still clenched shut, still trying to refuse his seduction.

“What was it you were going to do while thinking of me?” His fingers slipped down your chest and traced the lines of your stomach.

Once he’d reached your panty line, he traced the edges of the thin lace, allowing the scratchy material to rub against his skin. The slight noise that echoed from the motion had you lightheaded.

His finger gently slipped beneath the waistband and tugged on them just a bit, pulling the bottoms up against your core. The sensation pushed black spots in front of your eyes.

“Fuck, Theo,” you whispered, a whine building up in your throat.

“Just tell me what you need,” he sighed against your cheek, “and I’m all yours.”

“Swear you won’t flirt with any other girls,” you demanded, eyes finally opening to meet his cold stare.

“I already did, my love,” he chuckled.

“Swear it again, Theo! Please! All I want is for you to be for me only.” You begged him with a clenched fist against his chest.

“I’m only for you, bella,” Theo smiled. “Can I fuck you now? Please, baby. Please? Just say the words, my love. Please, let me fuck you. I want to make you feel so good.” He begged relentlessly.

“Yes.”

And he was breathing a sigh against your lips, then pressing them to his. His tongue was slipping between your teeth and messily claiming your mouth just as he always did. Your lips were panting his name through choked syllables as his fingers were pushing further into your bottoms.

He was lifting you with his free hand and scooting you over so he could take his place beside you on the bed. He was separating his mouth from yours, only to start kissing down your neck. Then his tongue was on your collarbone, then your clothed breast, then your stomach, then your covered core.

He was swirling his mouth over you and marking you so beautifully.

Your fingers were curling into his hair as he consumed you through your bottoms, teeth scraping and tongue dripping.

You were breathlessly whining his name to the cold air, begging to be heard by anyone around. Your knuckles were turning white as he pushed his hot mouth farther against you.

Then he was pulling away and helping you slip out of your bottoms. He was quickly replacing his mouth against you again, the lack of material in between you and his lips now sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. Your back arched against him, pleading for more.

Then he was turning you on your stomach, and letting the cold air hit your sweating back. His fingers massaged your ass roughly as he pushed your hips forward to see his dirty work covering your core. The beginnings of your finish mixed with his spit slid down through your folds. The sight alone had his pants tightening significantly.

“So beautiful, my love,” he whispered. With the hand that held your hips forward, he brushed his thumb down your core, marveling at the way you reacted so vividly.

His free hand trailed up your spine until he reached the back of your neck. He pushed your face roughly into the pillow. You whimpered at the sudden aggression.

“I hope that what I’m about to give you will teach you not to fucking break up with me,” he growled into your ear, all of the sugar in his voice completely dissipated.

You knew this was coming. It always did.

He slammed his hand down against your ass cheek, the pain rippling up your back and down your thigh. You screamed into the pillows, your fingers gripping into the fabric.

His hands wrapped around the tie still dangling around your neck, and yanked your head back to rest against his chest. You yelped at the sudden movement, the force of the tie pressing tightly against your throat.

Tears threatened the edge of your eyes. “I’m sorry, Theo.”

“Oh, it’s too late for ‘sorry,’ baby.”

He dropped the tie and your face fell back into the pillows. His hands wrapped meanly around your hips and yanked you closer to him.

With rough hands, you could hear him undoing his belt and yanking his pants down around his knees. He pulled your body up by the waist, pulling you into an awkward position. Your breasts and throat still pressed roughly into the mattress, but your hips were smashed against Theo’s now bare core. He was hot and heavy against you, enough to make you shudder at the sensation.

He grabbed your wrists from where your arms were flailed flimsily above you, and pulled them tight behind your back. With one large, structured hand, he clutched both of your wrists together, and pinned them against your lower spine.

“You want me, baby? Is that what you want? Yeah?”

“Yeah…,” you whined, tears trailing down your cheeks. Because despite the pain and the malice Theo exuded, it never failed to turn you on so painfully. This was the kind of love you wanted, yet couldn’t find anywhere else.

“Yeah? Yeah? Beg for it, bitch. Beg for it a week after you said you didn’t need it.”

“Please, Theo,” you moaned. “Please, baby, I need you so bad. Please, I was wrong!”

“That’s it,” he chuckled meanly. “Such a good girl.”

And then he’s collecting all of the moisture around himself then pushing into you in one smooth movement. His hand is clenching around your arms and the tension is stretching your shoulders so far, they burn.

You could taste salt from your cheeks and lust from the fingers that he suddenly shoved into your mouth. You gagged around them pitifully as he forced more stimulation on you than he ever had before.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groaned, letting his hips sink deeper into you with every thrust. He kept you occupied from every angle, even going so far as to trap your legs tightly together between his own. You were secured and you couldn’t move. But why was it so perfect?

“Merlin, you’re so fucking pathetic,” he murmured. The pace he was beginning to set threatened to unravel you within the next few breaths. Every push of his hips against your core had your legs trembling and chills shooting across your arms.

“You think you can just leave me and move on? Huh? You think someone else could fuck you like this?” he demanded, bordering a shout.

You shook your head as well as you could with his fingers still curled against your tongue, reddened cheeks scratching across the mattress.

“Use your words, baby. Who could fuck you like this?” He freed your mouth.

“You! Nobody else, Theo! Just you!”

And he was quickening his pace and holding every part of you tighter. With the hand he’d just pulled from between your lips, he slipped around you and began to rub tight circles across your clitoris, allowing the last wave of pleasure to build to a height it’d never reached before, then crash down over you.

And you were coming all over your legs and his dick, and it felt better than anything he’d ever given you before.

You were screaming his name tied in with a refrain of curses and swears. It was the most pleasure he’d ever made you feel and, if it weren’t for the burning in your arms, and the eyes rolling back into your head, you’d have imagined it was a dream.

Once he had milked your spend, he was pulling out of you and flipping you over onto your back. He seemed to have no regard for the deep ache echoing in your entire lower half due to his violent assault of your core.

He reentered you as quickly as he’d pulled out, lighting your abdomen on fire. You helped at the sensation, the oversensitivity burning in your core.

“I’m going to come in you, sweet girl,” he said, placing his hands over your nipples. “Just to remind you who you belong to.”

His thrusts quickened and quickened before they slowly began to become sloppy, hips clapping lazily against the backs of your thighs. Then his built abdomen was tensing and his eyes were rolling back.

You were crying out his name and begging him to paint your insides, and he was groaning and releasing into you at a rate you’d never seen him do before.

Then he was collapsing onto your chest, bodies still within the other, while you panted unevenly.

“If you ever break up with me again, I’ll do the same thing but worse.” he murmured against your chest.

“Then you shouldn’t flirt with other girls,” you argued. “It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t flirt with other girls, I just talk to them.”

“That is not the truth, Theo,” you scoffed, glancing down at him. Despite your annoyance with his words, your fingers still rose to caress his curls.

“I would just appreciate it if you didn’t do that any longer,” you explained. “Anything that could possibly be mistaken for flirting, just don’t do.”

“Oh, yeah? Or what? It’s not like I can’t just pull a couple orgasms out of you, and snatch you right back up.”

He glanced up at you, chin resting on your chest and eyes staring meanly.

“If you flirt with another girl ever again, I’m going to let Mattheo get that taste you were mentioning earlier.”

- - -

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