#say it with me...
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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!
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àłââ· PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader
àłââ· WC: 10k
àłââ· 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 iâm 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.
àłââ· NATâS NOTE: i usually donât like to write for a new character before iâve 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? iâm just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think itâs a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so heâs 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 yâall love it, mwah!
àłââ· NATâS HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
an architect and his assistant walk into a galaâŠ
Youâve 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 nameâs 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 canât 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.Â
Wellâtechnically, 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.Â
And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.
Harry had been New Yorkâs 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 âarchitectâ was synonymous with âcelebrityâ.
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.
Youâve 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 âBLACKMAIL MATERIALâ on your desktop.Â
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 youâre on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.Â
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 heâs quit, and that when heâs stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases thatâll never pass code.
Itâs morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.Â
He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simpleânot 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.
Harryâs careful with you, in a way thatâs 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 mightâve mistaken it for something else.Â
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 centerpieceâlike youâre the sun that his life revolves around.Â
You canât 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 doesnât ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.Â
Thereâs 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. Itâs 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 jobâbursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.Â
The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasnât stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, itâs strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after itâs been blown out.Â
Itâs 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.
Youâre 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. âGood morning, sunshine.â
You donât look up from your screen. âYouâre late again.â
âNo,â Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. âYouâre just early.â
âI work here.â
âFunny, so do I.â
âDo you?â You finally look up, brow arched. âI forget.â
Heâs 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. Itâs fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.
He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. âIs that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?â
Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You donât need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.
You donât have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. âRemind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.â
You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. âYou said that last week, and the week before that.â
âAnd yet I keep doing it.â He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. âThatâs insanity, isnât it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.â
âThatâs Einstein,â you say, pointedly ignoring the way heâs looking at you. âMaybe you just like the punishment.â
Harry huffs, amused. âI pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.â
You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. âYet you donât pay me enough to deal with your ex-wifeâs lawyer hassling me before seven.â
That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. âShe didnât.â
You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. âShe did.â
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. Castilloâs Castle Crumbles. From Manhattanâs Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?
âChrist.â Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. âShe promised sheâd keep you out of this.â
âShe lied.â You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyerâs number across the front of a Post-It. âShe wants her name off the Lakewood project or sheâll go to the press about the Montauk property.â
He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. âFucking hell.â
You slide the Post-It note across the desk. âDonât shoot the messenger.âÂ
He doesnât thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.
âI donât deserve you,â he says, and itâs almost a throwaway commentâbut 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. âYou say that a lot, but I donât see any new raises.â
His grin is lazy, charming. âYou know Iâd bankrupt this company to keep you.â
You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. âPlease donât. I like having dental.â
Harry laughsâreally laughsâand itâs 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. âYou have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and thereâs some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.â
Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. âWell, Iâve got my marching orders.â
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. âI mean it.â His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like heâs trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. âThis place doesnât work without you.â
You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but heâs already goneâdoor shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you canât shake.
This is how it always isâbusiness talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he werenât who he is, and if you werenât so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it mightâve 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.
Donât fall in love with your boss.
That last oneâs 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, itâs 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 youâre standing just outside Harryâs 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.
âCome in,â came the replyâhis voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.Â
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 donât let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. âYou got a minute.â
He looks up, relaxing in his chair. âFor you? Always.â
You hold up the invitation like itâs a warrant, shaking it gently. âYouâve been summoned.â
Harryâs eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, âThe gala.â
You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. âYouâre being honored.â
He shakes his head with a laugh. âI was hoping theyâd forget about me.â
Who possibly could?
You arch your brow. âItâs a lifetime achievement award.â
âIâm not even fifty.â
âApparently, theyâve run out of old white men to honor.â
Harry chuckles, but itâs a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. âTell them weâre busy, send a fruit basket.â
You canât 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, thatâs it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.Â
You also know deep down itâs not the company that you care about.
âNo.â You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.
He looks up at you, brow raised. âNo?â
âNo,â you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. âYou may think this is pointless, and that youâre too youngââ
âWatch it.â
ââBut you deserve this,â you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. âYou deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that youâre you.â
Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesnât say anything at first. He just looks at youâreally looks at you. And for a second, itâs too much. Too focused, too quiet, tooâŠtender. Itâs the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.Â
But you donât flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. âOkay.â
You blink. âOkay?â
âOkay.â He nods, lacing his fingers together. âIâll go.â
It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fightâmore 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 itâs simple. Like you arenât the reason heâs saying yes.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. âJust like that?â
âYou make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. âBesides, you know I love it when you compliment me.â
You huff, shaking your head, but you canât fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âSo Iâve been told.â Harry nods, but heâs 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.Â
You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details youâve 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 heâs done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. âAnd who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?â
You tilt your head. âI can get you someone,â you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. âYou want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?â
Harry doesn't answer right away.
He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle heâs not quite finished solving. Like youâre a building heâs 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.
âI donât want someone,â he says finally.
The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.
âYou should bring someone,â you deflect, professional, clean. âItâll look good. The press will be there.â
âIâm aware,â he says, still watching you. âWhich is why I donât want just anyone.â
You donât respond. You canât. Not with the way his voice soundsâquiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.
Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. âI donât want someone,â he says again, voice even. âI want you.â
He says it like itâs the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesnât trip itself up three times over.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. âExcuse me?â
âCome with me.âÂ
Itâs too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.Â
Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. âHarryââ
He cuts you off. âDonât make that face.â He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. âYouâll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plusâone theyâd set me up with.â
You shake your head, brows pinched. âThis isnât just some client dinner at Nobu Iâm playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. Itâs the goddamn Met for architects.â
Harry just smiles, squinting at you. âWhen have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?â
âIâm being serious.â
âSo am I.â
You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.
Harry doesnât look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. Itâs 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 heâs already won.
It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labelsâbut in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.Â
Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.Â
You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like youâre putting up a real fight.
Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. âOkay.â
He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. âOkay?â
âOkay,â you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. âIâll go.â
âReally?â His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. âThereâs no catch?â
âYou made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. âBesides, you know I love it when you compliment me.â
Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. âI shouldâve known.â
âIâll need a dress,â you say, slowly making your way to the door. âI think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, donât you agree, boss?â
Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. âIâll take care of it.â
You pause, hand on the doorknob. âTell me youâre not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.â
He arches a brow. âIf the shoe fits.â
âHarry.â
âOkay, okay.â He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. âIâll handle it. Trust me.â
You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. âDo I really have a choice?â
Just as you go to leave, he calls your nameâsoftly. It stops you mid-step.
You glance over your shoulder.
He doesnât say anything else right away. Just looks at you like youâre something heâs still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.
âThank you,â he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.
Your throat tightens. Not because of the wordsâeven if you give him shit for it, heâs said them beforeâbut 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. âYouâre welcome.â
And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.
Youâre not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at youâlike you were both a solution and a problemâmakes your chest ache in a way you donât quite know how to ignore anymore.
Youâll go to the gala. Youâll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, youâll 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.Â
Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that youâd recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.
âMake them think I built you myself - H.â Â
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 itâhow it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didnât 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 itâlike this wasnât 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 heâd touched it before it left the boutique. If heâd looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If heâd smiled when he imagined what youâd 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, pretendingâjust for a secondâthat 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. Iâd 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
Iâm 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.Â
You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.
God help youâyou 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 normalâjust another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach donât 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 canât 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.Â
Maybe itâs better this way.
Now, youâve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.Â
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, youâre the one who hung them.
You do your hair and makeup on what feels like autoâpilot, 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.Â
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.Â
It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe thatâs 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 lastâsomething deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.
Youâre not just the assistant tonight. Youâre 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 youâre 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.
Heâs 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.Â
You make your way down the stairs until youâre 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.Â
The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.
You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. âIs it too much?â
Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. âNo,â he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. âItâs perfect.â
Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. âYou donât look half bad yourself, Castillo,â you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.
He smiles at thatâslow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.
âWell,â he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. âWeâre already late, we might as well make an entrance.â
Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.
âWe might as well.â
The Met is bathed in glowing opulenceâdecked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. Thereâs 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 hereâeffortless. 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.Â
The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.
âYou do realize they all think Iâm sleeping with you,â you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.
âLet them,â he says, not missing a beat.
âIsnât that bad for business?â
Harry looks at you sideways. âWhoâs going to call us on it?â
You donât answer. You donât look away either.
Thereâs champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancĂ©e. Harry doesnât correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You donât miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.
Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. Youâre 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 âegregiously derivativeâ even when the rest of the table frowns.
âYouâre such a snob,â he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.
You smile behind your glass. âAnd yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.â
He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. âLucky me.â
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 donât move. He doesnât either.
Itâs 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.Â
Itâs just for you.
The awards are handed out shortly after.Â
Harryâs 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.
Itâs not that you werenât enjoying yourself, that you werenât 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 didnât help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.
Youâre maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.
âYou never smoke.â 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. âI also donât usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who wonât stop calling me âdarlingâ while they openly stare at my tits.â
Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. âYou handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.â
He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until theyâre nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his. âIâm very good at pretending.â
His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. âI know.â
Thereâs 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. âYou didnât have to come find me.â
âI know,â he says again, softly this time. âBut I wanted to.â
You turn to face him fully. âBecause you couldnât remember Natalie Rebuckâs name, or because you were worried Iâd throw myself off the balcony?â
He doesnât smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. âBecause youâre the only person I wanted to see.â
That stills everything in you. Justâstills it.
Thereâs nothing ironic about the way he says it. Itâs not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, thatâs more disarming than anything else he couldâve said.
âYou saw me fifteen minutes ago,â you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.
âYeah.â He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. âAnd I missed you.â
Itâs 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. Youâre just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. Itâs something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You canât 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. âDance with me.â
You canât help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. âYouâre kidding.â
âI just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.â He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. âYouâre telling me I donât get one dance?â
You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. âI donât dance with my boss.â
He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. âGood thing Iâm off the clock.â
You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. Thereâs something so deeply unfair about the way heâs 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. âOut here?â
âNo,â he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like itâs nothing. âInside. Just one song.â
You give him your hand.
You hesitate again. Not because you donât 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 realizeâof 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 Metâs 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. Youâre 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 smellsâTom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But thereâs something else, something hidden under it thatâs 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.
âYouâre trembling,â he says suddenly, quietlyâwhispered against the shell of your ear.
âNo Iâm not,â you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. âItâs probably the nicotine.â
Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. âIs it?â
You nod. âIt is.â
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 youâre almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.
You canât 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 heâs seeing you for the first time.
âYou look so beautiful tonight,â he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. âYou always do, but tonightâŠâ His voice tapers off as if he canât quite land on the word. He doesnât need to.
âHarryâŠâ
He shakes his head. âI mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.â He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. âAnd thatâs the least interesting thing about you.â
It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words wash over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.
You wonder if this is how it startsânot with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.
Itâs nothing. Itâs everything.
âWell,â you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. âYou did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesnât work without me.â
It should ruin the moment, bringing up workâwhere your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a nightâbut Harry doesnât let it.
He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like heâs deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, heâs so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.Â
Can he feel yours?
âWhen I look at you, and I think of all that you areâŠâ Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. âThat doesnât even cross my mind.â
Your breath stutters, and you knowâyou knowâthat if you speak, itâll all come tumbling out. Everything youâve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings youâve 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 youâve told yourself this canât happen.
âIâŠâ
And then he kisses you.
And then you canât speak at all.
Itâs slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsureâdeliberate. Harry kisses you like heâs been carving space for it, like itâs been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.Â
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. Itâs so simple, the shift. Youâve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost canât believe how easy it isâhow perfectly you fit together.
Itâs 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. âChrist,â he whispers, forehead touching yours. âYouâreââ
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 coreâthe sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.
When you finally pull apart, itâs 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. âWe should leave.â
Your voice is barely a whisper, but itâs just as firm. âYes.â
The ride back to the office is a blur.
Youâre 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 Harryâs 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 hasnât even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like itâs blistering beneath your dressâyour pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.
âCome here,â Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.
Two words. Thatâs all he says.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like itâs the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuckâheâs hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.
âYou have no idea,â he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, âwhat you do to me.â
âTell me,â you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him
Harry groansâdeep and pained and real. âYou walk into a room and I canât think. Not clearly. Not rationally. Itâs all static, itâs all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mindââ He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. âYou kill me.â
You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harryâs throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.
âAre you wet for me?â
Youâre nodding your head before you even realize it. âYes.â
He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. âI havenât even touched you properly, and youâre already making a mess.â His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. âWhat do you think that says about you, sweetheart?â
âThat I want you,â you breathe, already half-gone. âSo fucking badly, Harry.â
Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. âWhat I wantâŠâ He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. âis 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.â
His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. âFuck.â He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabricâjust enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. âThis all for me?â
You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. Thatâs not enough for Harry.
His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. âUse your words, baby. Who made you this wet?â
âYou,â you whisper. âYou did.â
âThatâs right.â 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.
âHarryââ you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.
âMm, I know,â he murmurs, kissing your throat. âI 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?â
Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. Youâre 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.Â
StillâŠ
You nodâbarelyâbecause your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.
âI said use your words.â Itâs not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. Itâs strong, rich with the same power and authority youâve seen countless times over the past few years.
âYes,â you whisper, your voice trembling. âIâll be good. Iâll wait.â
âThatâs my girl,â he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like heâs proud of you, like heâs already rewarding obedience.
He keeps his hand there the whole driveâjust 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. Itâs maddening.
Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. Itâs not enough. Itâs torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.
It would be so easy, youâre pathetically close to the edge as is.Â
But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.Â
You promised to be good, and youâre dying to see what it gets you.
Getting up to Harryâs 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 heâs trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.
Youâre the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harryâs already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.Â
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 liftedâeffortlessâonto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.
âLean back,â he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. âLet me see you.â
Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like heâs 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.Â
His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. âFuck,â 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. âSo beautiful.â
His mouth is on you in a secondâhot, wet, consuming.
He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like heâs tasting something decadent.Â
âShit.â Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. âHarryââ
âChrist,â he groans against you. âYou tasteâJesus. I could stay here all night.â
He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours youâthereâs 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.
âFuck, yesâright thereâdonât stopââ
His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like youâre the thing getting him off.
Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. âGodâHarryââ
âThatâs it,â he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. âUse my mouth. Take what you need.â
You donât even realize youâre doing itârocking forward, grinding down on his face like itâs instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew youâd lose control, like he wanted it.
Youâre already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.
âLook at me,â he demands, voice muffled. âRight here. I need your eyes on me, honey.â
You do.
You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. Heâs never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, yankingâhe groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.
âHarryâHarry, Iâm gonnaââ
âCome,â he commands. âLet go for me.â
And you do.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal waveâsharp 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 heâs just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.
âBeautiful,â he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. âYouâre so beautiful like this.â
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. âPlease.â
Harry doesnât hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you againâfilthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. âI need to be inside you,â he says, voice wrecked. âNow.â
You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.
âNo,â he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. âNo, I want to see you.â
Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. âOkayâŠâ
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. Itâs thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like heâs imagining exactly how youâll take it.
âYou ready?â he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. âI need you to say it.â
âYes,â you breathe. âI want you, Harry.â
He pushes in slowlyâso slowlyâand your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. Heâs thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. âYou feel like fucking heaven.â
You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. âOh godâHarryââ
âThatâs it,â he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. âThatâs my girl. Taking me so fucking well.â
He doesnât wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third heâs fucking into you like he canât 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 softnessâhis 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 donât knock it into the glass.
Itâs all too much. Too much and not enough.Â
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.
âYes.â He kisses you again, bruising and messy like heâs trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. âSay my name.â
âHarryâfuckâHarry!â
âThatâs it,â he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. âYouâre mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?â
âYesâyesâoh my godââ
âSay it.â
âI'm yours, Harryâyoursâfuck, Iâmââ
He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep itâs like heâs imprinting himself inside you. âCome for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.â
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.
âIâm gonna come,â he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. âWhere do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.â
âInside,â you whisper. âWant to feel it. Please, HarryâŠâ
Thatâs all he needs.
He spills inside you with a groanâdeep and rawâthrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.
New Yorkâs skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.Â
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.
Harryâs hands donât 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.Â
âFuck,â you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. âHarry, your award. You left it on the terrace.â
Itâs quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.
âItâs not funny!â You slap his shoulder, but youâre still smiling. âThat was the whole fucking point of tonight.â
Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. âWas it?â
You look back, puzzled. âWasnât it.â
Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. âIâve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.â
Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. âWell, this is definitely going in my yearly review.â
Harry hums. âI look forward to reading it.â
You donât muffle your laugh, you donât turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.Â
Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.
Youâll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.
MINI NATâS 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 shipâŠbut 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!
#â đŻđąđ”đąđđȘđą đžđłđȘđ”đŠđŽ âĄ#áŻâ
đ§đđ'đŹ đ©đđ«đŹđšđ§đđ„ đĄđđ«đ«đČ đđđŹđđąđ„đ„đš!#natalia cant write anything under 1.000 words#say it with me...#this was so fun to write#it always it lmao#love you!#mwah mwah mwah!#the materialists#harry castillo#harry castillo x reader#harry castillo x you#harry castillo fic#harry castillo x f!reader#harry castillo smut#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal x y/n#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal smut#materialists#materialists 2025
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Thunder are only down by 4...
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Blue Team Beach House: Overview
So you're a supersoldier in the UNSC and you're being ordered to take mandatory R&R and for the first time in his life, your squad leader doesn't finagle some way to avoid this. But you're sick of being shipped off to places that aren't built for you (because there was that one time you broke a whole couch) but the UNSC hasn't gone out of its way to make a vacation resort for Spartans (because when do they ever go on vacation, right? Ha.) And you're sitting on a lifetime of hazard pay, more money than you know what to do with, but hey...actually, this time you do know what to do with it. You're gonna build a house on the prettiest white sand beach in the galaxy, specifically for you and your Spartan siblings because if the brass is forcing you to take some shore leave, then goddamn it, you're gonna take that literally.
Welcome to the (actual, official) series of Blue Team Beach House posts. If you made it through that whole opening paragraph and still don't know what I'm talking about: I want Blue Team to fucking relax, so I imagined a (beautiful, unrealistic) timeline in which they'd be able to custom-build a vacation home to use when they need a break (and to eventually retire to? Like I said, unrealistic).
The idea is that they'd do their best to tailor it to their own preferences and truly make a place designed by and for Spartans. And then I started thinking about this so hard I had to build the dang thing in Sims. So that's what this is. It's me showing off pics of a fun beach house build and bullshitting about why the architecture and design are (mostly) Spartan-Approved(tm) based on what we know about them from Halo canon. And if you're wondering, yeah, I do things like this for fun more frequently than you'd think.
CONSIDERATION 1: LOCATION
Spartans are always thinking strategy. They can't turn it off. So naturally, if they were making a place where they'd be relaxing - somewhere they'd have their guard down - they'd want it to be naturally, geographically safeguarded, in case there were an attack (hey, you never know). What's better than a narrow strip of land from the front and a reef in the back to discourage access from the water? They wanted to have an anti-aircraft missile system on the roof, but their design team said no. They settled for solar panels instead. (Note that the roof edging the third floor is also made of solar paneling. We know green energy is standard in the 26th century.)
CONSIDERATION 2: FUNCTIONAL ARCHITECTURE AND EFFICIENT USE OF SPACE
They might have the funds to make this a reality, but that doesn't mean they're going to build superfluous balconies when they can just use the roofs of the floors below for deck space. It keeps things compact without being cramped.
Also, see those pretty wood slat facade pieces on the corners of the first and second floor? Not only are they a nice design touch, but they're also makeshift ladders. Need to get to the roof very quickly from the outside? Climb the fucking walls. Let's be honest, they'd do this for fun.
CONSIDERATION 3: OUTDOOR SOCIAL AREAS
It's canon that John is a little claustrophobic. Yeah, he can fight it off, but he doesn't like spaces that are too small for him. I'd venture a guess that this is common for most Spartans, just by virtue of them being nearly seven feet tall. That said, given the options, I think they'd much rather be outside than inside, even if that inside was built to their standards of comfort. What's better than a nice big porch to hang out on and enjoy the gorgeous tropical weather?
Glass railings keep their view open and unobstructed - great for defense (again, you never know). The furniture is sturdy, either sculpted metal or durable wood (with the exception of some pieces that don't have to support a Spartan's-worth of weight). These themes will show up in other areas of the house, too.
Oh, and the vertical wall planter in the corner? Strawberries. What's better than a self-sustaining food source to cut down on trips into the city for groceries? This is only the tip of the iceberg on edible plants, by the way. Just wait.
Things stay well-lit at night, because even though they can see near-perfectly in the dark, it's easier to relax when you know what you're looking at. And while those palm trees are nice landscaping, they're also great for climbing (and coconuts).
#guess what guys i have pages of notes about the design of this house#because i'm...#say it with me...#n o r m a l#yes. good.#i've put a regular amount of thought into this#blue team beach house#if you think the header of fred floating alone in the blue abyss is funny#i do too#it's got meme potential#next up: the kitchen (and related areas)
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Yeah Mr. Darcyâs proposal was a complete turd and a half but you gotta understand. You got your life together. A good career, stable income, retirement plan, all that shit together. And you meet this girl. And sheâs everything. Clever, outspoken, funny, calls you on your bullshit. Grade A cutie, right? And she doesnât go out of her way to spend time with you but sheâs nice, and sometimes you catch her looking your way in a way that makes you think you might have a shot.
But her family. Holy shit.
First off, itâs p much ALL women, and mostly UNMARRIED women, which at this time means of something happens to her dad then youâre financially responsible for like. Four grown ass adults, potentially forever
Because mom in law is DEFINITELY gonna need someone to take care of her when dad in law kicks it, and they have like. NO money. So already youâre accepting that if all goes well, youâre gonna be one random old bagâs retirement home. Thatâs expensive and exhausting, yeah? Imagine asking someone on a first date knowing that if they say yes and things go good her high-strung chihuahua mother is gonna move in with you. IMAGINE.
And girlyâs other sisters. Well, one is a sweetheart, yeah, so she probably wonât be an issue, but that still leaves three more, and two of those ones are INSUFFERABLE. Never went to school, dumb as rocks, spend cash like itâs toilet paper
And while one of the two is young still and might grow out of it the OTHER one is actively torpedoâing her entire familyâs reputation by wandering off with random dudes and chasing ass. Sheâs never gonna work, she canât build connections, sheâs a fucking sinkhole, and sheâs being led on by the same goddamn con man ass leeching tit whoâs been bleeding you dry while telling anyone whoâll listen that your family is full of ratty thieving bastards.
And if he dumps her after a week- WHICH YOU KNOW HIS BITCH ASS IS GONNA- youâve got a SECOND UNMARRIABLE GROWN ASS ADULT TO PROVIDE FOR. And you KNOW sheâs gonna be a tantrum-throwing little shit about it, and itâs not like you can lock her in the basement or something, youâre gonna have to bring her fucking. Everywhere. And give her an allowance and shit while she contributes zero, because again, she NEVER GOT EDUCATED AND HAS NO MARKETABLE SKILLS. Sheâs not even good to TALK to. FUCK
And youâre looking at this girlâs father like âplease for the love of fuck get your spawn under control, marry them off, get them working on their rĂ©sumĂ©, learning to sew or be nursemaids or manage staff or SOMETHING, yall got no money and one foot in the graveâ and that old man just laughs like âhaha yeah, what can you do. lolâ
So youâre looking to the mom and finally itâs making sense how she got that twitch in her eye and as MUCH as she is youâre starting to realize sheâs the SMART one, desperately throwing her armloads of girls at random men like theyâre a bunch of fucking lifeboats bobbing around a sinking ship, like yes Jesus Christ sweetly that life boat IS old and ugly and kind of boring but for FUCKS SAKE PICK ONE
And you look back at this girl who is ALSO REFUSING THE LIFE BOATS BY THE WAY and god damn it sheâs still the most radiant thing youâve ever seen so fine, fuck it, Christ alive, youâll do it. Youâll shoot your shot. Sheâs everything youâve ever wanted in anybody abut itâs not even just about that anymore, itâs about being her best fucking shot at a future, and even if she doesnât like you all that much sheâs still gonna say yes and that might break your heart a bit knowing itâs about the money but who knows, maybe it will at least be civil, or companionable, and even if she doesnât LOVE you at least youâll know sheâs well and cared for
And so youâll do it. Youâll take on the neurotic stress mess mother in law, the absent father, the broke ass wingnut no brain no money no future airhead sisters, the bad mannered relatives and the embarrassing behaviour and the impending future of sharing your entire shit with a clown parade of freeloaders, youâll risk it all and accept the absolute certainty of financial ruin and emotional exhaustion for the rest of your whole ass life and youâll make your own family deal with it too, youâll do it, youâll fucking DO IT, you stupid lovesick motherfucker
And so you go to this chick like âlook. Your whole familyâs a shitshow. Youâve got fucking nothing and youâre gonna die on the street. But for some reason- and I donât get it either- Iâve fallen in love with you, and I wish I didnât, but I did, so Iâm telling you that whether you like me or not, Iâll give you everything. Iâll give you everything even if itâs the dumbest shit I ever done. Fuck my stupid Baka ass, Iâll marry you.â
And she looks at you- having heard or considered absolutely none of your months-long internal debate and monologue- and goes âThe fuck did you just say about my family, you son of a bitch?â
And the shock of that is enough to jolt you back into a reality where you are able to actually hear and process what just came out of your damn mouth And yeah
Yeah, I think I kinda get it
#Pride and prejudice#fuuuuuuuck#Yeah you both kinda stupid#I forgot some shit donât hate me#Also yes I forgot Mary but Iâm gonna say Darcy did too just to cover my ass#Self edit
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People still tend to lump JK Rowling in with the category of ~problematic artists~ and I need everyone to understand that is not the problem with her. She is not comparable to anyone who wrote a piece of fiction you hate, or someone who made rude comments in 2015 and has since learned better.
She is far more like Elon Musk. She is a radicalized person with an extreme amount of social and financial power, and for YEARS she has been using that power to try to influence her government into hurting vulnerable people, on purpose. And she has succeeded. THAT is the problem with her, and THAT is why spending money on her books is so dangerous, not because her books aged badly.
Critiquing her work is fine, of course (I personally was never a fan so I really donât care) but you NEED to understand that fiction is not the main issue here. And I truly think acting like sheâs the same as the rest of any giant list of ~problematic creators of the week~ waters down how dangerous she is.
#cw jk rowling#i try not to talk about her bc i already hear enough but i did really want to say this#ik no one might see it but itâs important to me
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me when someone abruptly asks me if i want to go and do something fun together but the fun thing wasn't part of my daily plan:

#you could approach me on a day when i have nothing on and say d'you want free tickets to a theme park and lunch at your favourite restaurant#and i'd be like [sweating] can i think about it#be shh now#containment breach
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I find it so funny, in light of TikTokâs imminent American demise, that even now they arenât considering moving to tumblr. The last two social media refugee crises (Twitter -> X and whatever happened with Reddit) prompted a wave of wide-eyed new baffled tumblr users to flood this app and yet last I heard all of the tiktokers are flooding en-masse a Chinese social media app. That is entirely in Mandarin. Instead of moving to tumblr.
#mads posts#TikTok#tumblr#thatâs just so funny to me#Iâm on TikTok watching this go down and itâs like#everyone is saying âno WAY weâre moving to instagram reelsâ like tumblr isnât even a possibility in their minds
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no i don't want to use your ai assistant. no i don't want your ai search results. no i don't want your ai summary of reviews. no i don't want your ai feature in my social media search bar (???). no i don't want ai to do my work for me in adobe. no i don't want ai to write my paper. no i don't want ai to make my art. no i don't want ai to edit my pictures. no i don't want ai to learn my shopping habits. no i don't want ai to analyze my data. i don't want it i don't want it i don't want it i don't fucking want it i am going to go feral and eat my own teeth stop itttt
#i don't want it!!!!#ai#artificial intelligence#there are so many positive uses for ai#and instead we get ai google search results that make me instantly rage#diz says stuff
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characters going âwe were lovers onceâ: eh, itâs okay i guess. itâs nice enough
characters going âwe were friends onceâ: absolutely devastating. one hit knockout iâm gone
#maybe itâs cause iâm arospec#but this just hits so hard for me every time#we were once friends. we once chased each other in the playground. we held one anotherâs still beating hearts in our palms#not to say u canât have that as lovers but idk. friendship just hits rly hard for me#on friendship#tropes#writing#aromantic
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Suzanne Collins just said fuck you to everyone whoâs ever critiqued the Hunger Games as being a âteen girl saves the dayâ story. She said oh, Mockingjay didnât make it clear enough? Hereâs a book about how people have been rebelling for decades only to have their efforts suppressed and propagandized. Rebellion takes time and it takes failure and Katniss may have been the spark that ignited the wildfire but she did so standing atop the doused flames of everyone who came before her.
#she said if you canât handle basic media comprehension I will just spell it out for you#i have so much to say#this book broke me in all the best ways#the hunger games#sunrise on the reaping#suzanne collins#katniss everdeen#haymitch abernathy#spoilers#sotr spoilers
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all the "x with mama" posts are getting to me i just drew a butch girl with her mom (who is also butch) and thought "let's look like men with mama"
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one time I used the ben affleck smoking reaction image in the family group chat and my mom replied with the funniest possible response which was: "mommy doesn't know who the guy is???" and that phrase has not left my brain since. I'll see blorbos on my dash that I don't recognize and I'll be like well it seems mommy doesn't know who the guy is.
#the funny thing is she DOES know who ben affleck is#mom you're the one who made me watch good will hunting!!!#ah well. mommy doesn't know who the guy is#I'm gonna start saying that as if it's a popular meme phrase that everyone knows. maybe i can gaslight pple into using it#....you know what. please reblog this actually. it's what mommy deserves
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shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this
#and by 'everyone' i mean me. im just hoping other people relate lmao#someone asks me about a thing i like and im just like h..................#been thinking about The Character for a solid 6 months+ and let me tell you. expldoeing soon#this is about ffxv btw . how am i supposed to say how much it lives in my brain . i cant think#text#1k#5k#10k#15k#20k#great googly moogly#30k#40k#50k#60k#boooy what da heeel#70k#80k#90k#will this be my first ever post to hit 100k... it remains to be seen#good lord. we did it#100k
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i adore being confronted with the staggering breadth of what individual people can get obsessed with. there's nothing better than having That One Mutual with an advanced degree in ancient greek tragedy who writes minecraft youtube fanfiction to remind you that anyone can love anything
#the extremely specific person who prompted this post: i say it with love#and that's just one example of a principle that applies so broadly!#ignore me#winning tumblr roulette
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cannot stop thinking about the french man who during dinner responded to a person asking "should we be naughty and get desert" by pulling a face and going "naughty? it is chocolate, it is not an, uh, threesome"
#more beautiful quotes from the beautiful man include#'sorry for crying talking about getting fucked in the ass makes me so...how you say....nostalgic'#and#'i am so sad you have diseases i want to exchange blood. with youâ#t'adore that fucker
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