#stack finance

[2spentt]

@imspent

[dopestilllives]

Always Reblog The Money

[marketingtraininginchandigarh34]

Unlock High-Paying Jobs with Advanced Marketing Training in Chandigarh

In the digital era, the demand for skilled marketing professionals is skyrocketing. As businesses shift their strategies to align with modern trends, the need for expert marketers has surged across industries. From digital marketing and brand strategy to analytics and content creation, marketing has become one of the most versatile and rewarding career paths. If you're based in Chandigarh or its neighboring areas, this is your moment to shine. Advanced Marketing training in Chandigarh can open the gateway to high-paying, future-proof job opportunities.

This article dives into how marketing training can shape your professional future and why Chandigarh is the perfect destination to master these skills.

Why Marketing is the Career of the Future

Marketing is no longer about handing out flyers or cold calling prospects. Today, it involves data analytics, behavioral psychology, search engine optimization (SEO), and automation. Businesses require professionals who understand how to run campaigns across various platforms and track ROI. With the right training, you can tap into the global marketing ecosystem, working for local brands, startups, international corporations, or even as a freelancer.

High-paying marketing roles include:

Digital Marketing Manager

SEO/SEM Specialist

Content Marketing Strategist

Social Media Manager

Marketing Analyst

Brand Manager

Each of these roles offers immense growth, both in responsibility and salary. Entry-level positions may start from ₹3–5 LPA, but with the right skills and experience, you can quickly scale up to ₹10–25 LPA or more.

Why Choose Chandigarh for Marketing Training?

Chandigarh is fast emerging as a hub for professional education and training in North India. With its clean environment, quality infrastructure, and a focus on educational development, the city offers a peaceful yet dynamic environment for learning. Several reputed institutions now offer advanced Marketing training in Chandigarh, helping students and professionals upgrade their skills without needing to relocate to metros.

Chandigarh has also seen the rise of several startups and digital agencies, providing live project opportunities, internships, and placement support for trained marketing professionals.

Core Components of an Advanced Marketing Training Program

If you're aiming for a high-paying job, a basic understanding of marketing isn’t enough. An advanced training program typically includes:

1. Digital Marketing

Master all aspects of digital marketing — from SEO, Google Ads, and Facebook marketing to email automation and funnel building.

2. Content Strategy

Learn how to craft compelling content that converts, including blogs, social media posts, ad copies, and video scripts.

3. Marketing Analytics

Understand customer behavior through tools like Google Analytics, Hotjar, and CRM dashboards.

4. Social Media Marketing

Develop skills to create campaigns on Instagram, LinkedIn, YouTube, and more using organic and paid strategies.

5. Email & Mobile Marketing

Create personalized campaigns using email marketing tools and mobile platforms like SMS and push notifications.

6. Marketing Automation

Learn how to use tools like HubSpot, Mailchimp, and Zapier to automate repetitive tasks and scale campaigns.

Complement Your Marketing Skills with Payroll Knowledge

While marketing grabs the spotlight, another high-paying domain that goes hand-in-hand with business growth is payroll management. Understanding Payroll Training in Chandigarh not only makes you more versatile but also opens up opportunities in HR marketing, employer branding, and compensation analysis.

When companies look for HR professionals with a marketing bent, or vice versa, they highly value those who understand both domains. For instance, a recruitment marketing specialist needs to understand compensation structures and payroll basics while promoting jobs.

To explore this domain, check out this Payroll Training in Chandigarh which equips you with the tools to manage salaries, tax deductions, compliance, and employee benefits. This combination of payroll and marketing skills can dramatically boost your career trajectory.

How to Choose the Best Marketing Training Institute

When investing your time and money into a training program, choose an institute that checks all these boxes:

Industry-Relevant Curriculum: Updated syllabus aligned with the latest market trends.

Live Projects: Hands-on exposure to real-time campaigns.

Certification: Industry-recognized certificates from Google, HubSpot, or Facebook.

Placement Support: Strong network with companies for internships and jobs.

Mentor Access: Guidance from experienced marketing professionals.

One such trusted provider is Marketing training in Chandigarh, offering advanced modules, real-time project experience, and certification support.

Who Can Benefit from Marketing Training?

Advanced marketing training isn’t just for fresh graduates. Here’s who can benefit:

Students: Kickstart your career with market-ready skills.

Working Professionals: Upskill to switch or grow in your current job.

Freelancers: Win better clients with high-demand digital marketing services.

Business Owners: Learn to promote your own business online.

The best part? You don’t need a background in marketing. With a willingness to learn and consistent practice, anyone can master the art of modern marketing.

Real-Life Success Stories from Chandigarh

Chandigarh has seen hundreds of success stories where individuals with little to no marketing background transitioned into high-paying roles. Here are a few highlights:

Ritika Sharma, a graduate in arts, took up digital marketing training and now works as an SEO manager at a multinational company, earning over ₹12 LPA.

Amit Kalia, a commerce student, combined marketing and payroll training and landed a role in HR marketing at a SaaS firm.

Preeti Thakur, after years as a homemaker, completed her certification in content marketing and now freelances for US-based clients with a monthly income exceeding ₹80,000.

Career Opportunities After Marketing Training

Post completion, you can explore roles such as:

PPC Executive

Inbound Marketing Strategist

Lead Generation Expert

Campaign Manager

Email Marketing Specialist

You can also work with digital marketing agencies, startups, e-commerce businesses, or even launch your own consultancy.

Final Thoughts

Marketing is evolving at an unprecedented pace, and only those with advanced, practical skills will thrive in this competitive industry. If you want to secure high-paying jobs, unlock career mobility, or explore freelancing and entrepreneurship, enrolling in Marketing training in Chandigarh is the smartest move you can make.

And for those who want to future-proof their skillset even further, integrating Payroll Training in Chandigarh gives you an additional edge in HR tech roles, employer branding, and business operations.

Don't wait for the opportunities to come to you — go out and create them. Your journey to a high-paying, fulfilling marketing career starts with a single step: the right training.

[worksmarter4yourfuture]

Grad’s and Dad’s Silver & Gold Celebration – Galena IL June 14th

Join us for our upcoming Grad’s and Dad’s Silver & Gold Celebration happening Saturday, June 14th in Galena, Illinois!

This special event blends financial education with real-world value — showing grads, dads, and families how to start building true wealth through gold and silver savings.🪙 

Whether you’re celebrating a milestone or planning for legacy, this event is about protecting your future one coin at a time.

📍 Event Location: Galena, IL, Worksmarter4u / Silver And Gold Solutions 🗓️ Date: Saturday, June 14, 2025 at 2 p.m. CST ���� Free giveaways and silver & gold tips for all ages

Please RSVP if attending in person

To register for the livestream visit https://sandgsolutions.org/2025Event

[smartstepstrainingacademy]

Launch Your Finance Career with Smart Steps' Full Stack Finance Program for MBA Freshers

Introduction:

Landing your dream finance job after your MBA can feel daunting. The competition is fierce, and employers demand a strong foundation in both theoretical and practical skills. That's where Smart Steps Training Academy's Full Stack Finance Program for MBA Freshers comes in. Designed specifically for recent graduates, this comprehensive program equips you with the in-demand skills and knowledge to kickstart a successful career in the finance industry.

What Makes Smart Steps' Program Unique?

Comprehensive Curriculum: Our program covers a wide range of essential finance topics, including:

Financial Modeling & Analysis: Learn to build and analyze financial models, perform valuation, and conduct scenario analysis.

Corporate Finance: Gain a deep understanding of key concepts like capital budgeting, mergers & acquisitions, and risk management.

Financial Markets: Explore the intricacies of equity, debt, and derivatives markets, including trading strategies and market analysis.

Investment Banking: Acquire the skills and knowledge required for roles in investment banking, such as deal execution, financial due diligence, and presentations.

Data Analytics in Finance: Master data analysis techniques using tools like Excel, Python, and SQL to extract insights from financial data.

Soft Skills Development: Enhance your communication, presentation, and teamwork skills – crucial for success in any finance role.

Industry-Relevant Training: Our curriculum is designed and delivered by experienced finance professionals with in-depth industry knowledge. You'll gain practical insights and learn from real-world case studies.

Hands-on Projects & Case Studies: Gain practical experience through hands-on projects and real-world case studies. You'll apply your learning to solve challenging business problems and build your portfolio.

Placement Assistance: We provide dedicated placement assistance to help you secure your dream finance job. Our team will guide you through resume building, interview preparation, and networking opportunities.

Flexible Learning Options: Choose from a variety of flexible learning options to suit your schedule and learning style, including classroom training, online courses, and blended learning programs.

Who is this Program for?

This program is ideal for:

MBA graduates seeking a strong foundation in finance.

Aspiring finance professionals looking to enhance their career prospects.

Individuals interested in pursuing a career in investment banking, corporate finance, or financial analysis.

Benefits of Enrolling in Smart Steps' Program:

Gain in-demand skills: Develop the skills and knowledge most sought after by employers in the finance industry.

Boost your career prospects: Increase your chances of landing a high-paying finance job.

Learn from industry experts: Gain valuable insights from experienced finance professionals.

Build a strong professional network: Connect with other aspiring finance professionals and industry leaders.

Invest in your future: Gain a competitive edge in the job market and set yourself up for long-term career success.

Ready to Launch Your Finance Career?

Don't let your MBA go to waste. Enroll in Smart Steps Training Academy's Full Stack Finance Program for MBA Freshers today and take the first step towards a rewarding career in finance.

Contact us today for more information and to schedule a free consultation.

[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!

[dante-mightdie]

I think price gets a huge heart boner when he watches you act all thrifty when it comes to shopping

‘bloody cost of living’ he’s thinking when you’re at the checkout, watching the price of the weekly food shop rack up with every item scanned by the cashier. you don’t seem phased whatsoever, is this always what it costs when you come shopping?

john’s snapped out of this thoughts by you making a grabby hand gesture at him, asking for your purse. he trues to protest but you just roll your eyes and grab it yourself. he watches you pull out a stack of vouchers, passing them over to the cashier. his heart rate slows considerably when he watches the pounds drop like flies, it nearly bursts out his chest again though when looks over at you to see you beeming with pride, happy with your savings

he’ll see you eyeing up a nice item of clothing next, flinching when you flip the price tag over. he furrows his brow when you walk back over to him, without the clothes

‘I’ll buy it, dove. don’t stress about the price.’ he says, reaching to grab it but you intercept his hand before he can, shaking your head

‘that top was in style twenty years ago, the charity shops down the road will have a similar one for pennies, john.’

he doesn’t have faith but you prove him wrong within the hour. it’s obviously not the same but it’s actually better quality than the one you originally saw. besides, you also managed to find two pairs of trousers, a dress, some shoes, and a bag for what you said was half the price of the original top

‘clever girl’ he hums, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as you tap his card and put his wallet back in your bag

he has no problem spending money on you whatsoever, but he adores how considerate you are of his finances. the smile on your face when the planning pays off. he’ll find another way to spend that money on you though, buying you the designer item you’ve been trying to thrift forever because of the price but you just can’t find anywhere :)

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[harmonysanreads]

Silly things Phainon does when he's bored/wants your attention.

Places one pancake under your chin, another on top of your head and declares that he's going to “eat this stack of honeycakes in one bite”.

Plops down beside you belly up and keeps on dramatically sighing.

Calls out your name, when you acknowledge him, he goes quiet, when you return to whatever you were doing he calls out your name again with more urgency ; repeat until you stomp towards him.

Picks you up, shakes you like a salt shaker, sets you down somewhere with a cushion, goes away like nothing happened.

Makes you wear all the antique jewelry in his collection and eventually, makes a barricade around you with everything else he owns, too. Then says, “This is the culmination of my whole life's finances and yet, you remain the most invaluable.”

Pokes you.

Plays with your hair. He thinks he can pull off that one over-complicated hairstyle he saw online.

Tells you jokes and puns.

Pretends to be your shadow and follows you around everywhere wordlessly. Whoever laughs first loses.

Rage-baits you with atrocious outfit suggestions so that you'll start debating with him.

Tells you that he knows a magic trick and detaches his ahoge (it was a fake one).

Calls you (you're literally just a wall apart) but, he's stealthily taken your phone with him. When you're close enough in search of it, he pounces.

Starts mentioning random facts about things.

Starts gossiping about the Council of Elders and that one annoying classmate he had.

Asks you questions like, “How do you think the fishes at Styxia taste?”

Tickles you.

Doodles his neck tattoo, little stars, leaves and flowers on your palm.

Talks about all the adventures he wants to do with you in the future.

Gently headbutts your arm, thigh and cheek to suggest that he demands pets.

Aggressively rubs his face on you when you still don't get/ignore the hint.

Can and will bite you.

Pretends to get hurt so that you'll pay attention to him.

Wrestles titankin, stacks them on top of each other and proudly shows off his ‘hunt’ to you. Please praise him.

[hearts4hughes]

dbf!rafe who’s low key flirting with you while you guys clean up after a summer backyard party 🫣🫣

(also, love your writing!!)

your dad’s already gone inside with a bourbon in one hand and half a cigar forgotten in the other, leaving just you and rafe in the backyard to deal with the mess. summer’s bleeding into the edges of the sky, gold and navy, and the fire pit’s just embers now. a few string lights flicker tired above your heads. the party’s over, but rafe’s still here.

you don’t know much about rafe. to be fair, you spent most of your life with your mom in the city. backyard barbecues weren’t exactly in the rotation. especially not with the beach less than a mile away. it wasn’t until last fall, when you graduated college and decided to live with your dad, that you even remembered rafe existed.

he used to be a name in old stories. rafe cameron, your dad’s wild friend from college. the one with a million dollar grin and a reputation for knowing how to talk his way out of anything. the one who inherited a billion dollar company and still shows up to cookouts with dirt under his fingernails and a six-pack in tow.

you figured he’d be some middle aged finance guy with a comb over and a golf addiction. you weren’t expecting him. you weren’t expecting the way his jaw ticks when he’s thinking, or how he holds eye contact a beat too long. you weren’t expecting the way he looks at you sometimes. like you’re something new, like you make him nervous.

and now here you are. summer night tickling your bare legs, plastic cups sticky with dried lemonade, and rafe calling you sweetheart like it’s a challenge.

he nudges an empty beer bottle with the toe of his flip flops, glances at you. “you always clean up after everyone else, sweetheart? or is that just for me?”

you blink and straighten up from where you’re crouched by the cooler. “you think i’m cleaning for you?” you shake your head with a grin. your dad’s older friend flirting with you was a foreign situation for you.

he shrugs, slow, all smug posture and damp hair from when he dramatically ripped off his shirt and jumped in the pool. the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled just below his elbows, revealing tan forearms and a frayed woven bracelet that looks older than you. “wouldn’t blame you if you were.” he smirks and your eyes can’t help but fall to the scrape of his stubble.

your stomach flips. it’s stupid. you hate how he talks like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. like his voice isn’t doing that low, scratchy thing that curls around your spine.

you shove a stack of used paper plates into the trash bag between you. “and what would you be doing if i wasn’t here, huh? letting raccoons do the clean up?”

he chuckles, low. “maybe. though i doubt the raccoons would be as pretty.” his white shirt clings to his back, contouring his muscular back. his smirk deepens as he follows your gaze.

your eyes snap to him. he’s watching you shamelessly. all calm, relaxed confidence. as if he’s not your dad’s best friend. like you’re not half his age with your life ahead of you. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble talking like that,” you say, voice a little quieter now. your eyes burn holes into the grass. you avoid his gaze like wildfire.

he leans on the deck railing, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “you think i’m scared of a little trouble?”

you don’t answer right away. you chew on the inside of your cheek and focus too hard on picking up a fork from the grass. and then, because you don’t like the way he makes you feel small but warm all at once, you throw it right back. “no. i think you like it.”

his lips curl upwards in a warm grin. he smilies with his mouth, but you felt it through his stare. your knees began to buckle under the weight of it. “there she is,” he says, voice low and a little amused. “knew there was some bite in you.”

you look at him for real this time. your voice still soft, still unsure, but your chin’s lifted. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“mm,” he hums. takes a swig of his beer. “no. but i’d like to.” he holds your gaze just a second too long. then, he moves, walks past you with the lazy ease of someone who knows he’s being watched. he grabs the last two red solo cups and chucks them into the trash.

“grab the bag, will you?” he says, halfway up the porch. “it’s gettin’ late.” you swallow. hoist the bag onto your shoulder and follow, heart tripping over itself. just before he disappears into the house, he glances over his shoulder and adds, “don’t worry, sweetheart. i won’t tell your dad how you’re blushing right now.”

a wink, a grin, and then he’s gone. you’re left standing there, cherry cheeked and fuming. because a part of you is buzzing. because you liked it.

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[kumkaniudaku]

Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night. 

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas. 

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that. 

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night. 

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact. 

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon. 

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here." 

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?" 

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded. 

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation. 

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. 

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture. 

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?" 

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?" 

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago. 

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?" 

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now." 

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?" 

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth. 

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense. 

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl." 

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me." 

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?" 

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving. 

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth. 

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?" 

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money. 

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame. 

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here." 

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson. 

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain. 

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me." 

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters. 

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form. 

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout. 

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public. 

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now." 

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better. 

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect. 

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers. 

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him. 

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?" 

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task. 

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?" 

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that. 

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time." 

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad. 

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside. 

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft. 

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for." 

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?" 

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy. 

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear." 

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke. 

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back. 

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else." 

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done. 

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens." 

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear. 

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable." 

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time. 

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister. 

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway. 

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal. 

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack. 

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips. 

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?" 

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

[ktownshizzle]

Honey & Citrus | an myg drabble

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not

✎ ˎˊ˗  Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~

Series Masterlist | More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist

There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.

Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).

But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.

And then there’s him.

“Iced Americano for Yoongi…” 

He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.

A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.

But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by. 

Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession. 

Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.

One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.

Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?

You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.

Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.

You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.

Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.

The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.

This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.

By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.

You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.

Not until—

“Fighting~”

You blink.

He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.

A real one.

The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.

Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.

And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.

A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.

Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.

You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.

Small wins.

The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.

And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.

The next day, though, he beats you to it.

You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”

You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.

Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.

You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

And so it begins.

For a week, you play the game.

One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card. 

You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.

Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.

Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.

You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:

Shit. No winner today.

You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.

“Are you always this competitive?”

“Are you?”

You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.

“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”

Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.

As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.

“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”

Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.

“What?” you ask.

“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.

The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”

Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.

His ears are bright red.

The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.

You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.

But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.

He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,

“How about we have that first date right now?”

Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious. 

Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.

His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”

Huh.

You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it. 

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”

His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”

The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...

:)

A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!

Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list.  Caved! Here's the H&C masterlist

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo

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Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

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