#Basic name. but you know what? it works. I think.

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

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

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

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should feel like an accessory.

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

You can’t tell which is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who possibly could?

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

“I’m not even fifty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch it.”

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry doesn't answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

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

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

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

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

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

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

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hairy

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

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

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

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

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

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

See you at 8.

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

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

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

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

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

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

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

Maybe it’s better this way.

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

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

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

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

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

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

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

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

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

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

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

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

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

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

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

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might as well.”

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

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

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

You also play your role perfectly.

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

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

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

You clap until your palms sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give him your hand.

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

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

You give him your hand.

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 wash 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!

[secret-third-thin]

This activated my better call saul sleeper agent codes, so I’m gonna yap about that

Smoilers below

It’s been long enough since I’ve seen it that I could be misremembering parts, but iirc Saul’s days at Cinnabon were close to the healthiest part of his life at the time. Like, he gets along with his coworkers and feels something close to belonging with the people he’s gotten to know. He’s making an “honest living” (ignoring the fact that there’s no way he could afford that massive house without his blood money). It’s tricky to say where the show leans on the morality of things, but considering the ending I think it’s fair to say the key element to a happy ending for Saul is taking accountability. His job at Cinnabon, while not the final goal consider he hasn’t owned up to anything, is an important part of growing towards that point as he’s responsible as the manager and genuinely seems to care about his coworkers. There are a few instances of him risking his own position to prevent his coworkers from getting tangled up in his life, mostly because they were being nice and checking in on him. Yeah he’s unhappy there, but lowkey the show almost implies that he *should* be able to be happy there (even if it’s not as exciting as being a criminal lawyer), and that it’s a character flaw that he isn’t. In the ending even, I’m pretty sure he ended up taking some work in a prison baking program? I don’t think those parallels are a total coincidence. A less exciting sense of purpose, with little controlled elements of risk like that last cigarette, is what the show concludes makes up the path to a better life for Saul.

(Also lowkey the Cinnabon scenes aren’t nearly as miserable as they could be, like most of his problems are anxiety about the Wanted Criminal stuff, rather than long and repetitive work shifts and terrible customers)

Basically I’m saying Better Call Saul depicts Cinnabon as a supportive community that, if you aren’t addicted to scamming, is the ideal path to a peaceful life. Is it effective Cinnabon recruitment? Maybe! Honestly they’re probably just banking on getting the name out there and on people’s minds, but it’s fun to overanalyze.

The biggest mystery in Better Call Saul is that Cinnabon would allow their brand to be associated with these monochrome scenes depicting a miserable, paranoid life. I never want to eat Cinnabon.

[farfromstrange]

Teacher’s Pet | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Pairing: Professor!Matt Murdock x F!Student!Reader

Summary: Professor Murdock shows you how remarkable you are.

Warnings: Smut (18+), professor/student relationship, age gap, religious imagery, use of pet names (sweetheart, baby, good girl), use of honorifics (professor, sir), praise kink, oral f!receiving, soft!dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, hand on neck, basically porn without plot

A/N: I’m not gonna lie, this is heavily inspired by Charlie’s role as Mr. Teacher in Adults. It may have gotten a little bit out of hand, but it was nice to just write again. I haven’t written in past tense in a while, so I may be a little rusty. Is it my best work? Probably not, but I wanted to post it anyway. I hope you enjoy!

WC: 1.9k

Read Me On AO3!

“You wanted to see me?”

The floorboards creaked under your feet as you stepped into his office. It was dark, safe for the last bit of daylight streaming in through the window front. A storm had been rustling the trees on campus all day, and you barely escaped the rain on your way to class. Even now, the afternoon sun was overshadowed by a blanket of grey, sucking the light out of every room you walked into.

It wasn’t like him to ask you over during office hours—it wasn’t safe, he had once told you—but you wouldn’t dare complain. 

He was sitting at his desk, his silhouette only faintly illuminated. When he picked up on your heartbeat, though, he perked up. Your name rolled off his lips effortlessly. “Yes,” he said, rising to his feet, “Please, come in. Close the door.”

You stepped forward, and the closer you came, the clearer you could see him. Round glasses perched upon his nose, strands of brown hair glinting silver, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone; he was ever the sinful picture of a man that often starred in your wettest dreams.

His fingers flexed around the edge of his mahogany desk. You paid no attention to the mess of legal essays in front of him, not when he looked like that—like he’d had a rough day, but the moment you walked in, it turned brighter. 

“Everything okay?” you asked. 

You watched as he lifted a familiar stack of paper out of the pile on his desk. “I wanted to talk about your essay,” he said. 

“My essay?”

“Yes.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Is something wrong with it?”

“What?” He tilted his head at the frantic change in your pulse. “No, it’s… It’s remarkable.”

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Oh.”

You were so scared of failure, scared of not being enough, and scared of disappointing him that the thought of positive resonance to your work hadn’t even crossed your mind until he uttered it. 

Matt rounded his desk and walked toward you, slowly, as if you were a frightened deer in headlights. “Your stance on the shortcomings of our justice system and its core,” he said, placing a gentle hand over his heart, “I’ve never read anything like it. My first read-through, you actually had me stumped because I… I have never thought about it the way you have, and I’ve been a lawyer for a very long time.”

You brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, blood pulsing in your cheeks. It was wrong, you knew that, craving a man twice your age as if he were the air you breathed. But standing this close to him, all you could think about was how his fingers had felt the last time they were buried deep inside you. 

He cupped your chin. “Hey, look at me,” he said. You did. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m giving you an A.”

Your knees buckled. There was something about the way he towered over you. You could only see your reflection in his glasses, but you knew the brown eyes hiding behind them. How soft they turned and how they crinkled when he smiled. You liked to imagine they were soft now, too, just like his smile. 

“An A?” you breathed. 

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Did you think I was gonna fail you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d never–”

“I don’t want you giving me special treatment just ‘cause you’re fucking me.”

A breathless chuckle rumbled through him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You have no idea how remarkable you are, do you?”

Your tongue darted out, licking the tip of his thumb. All the while, you were peeking up at him through hooded eyes he did not need to see to drown in. “Show me,” you purred. “Show me how remarkable I am, Professor.”

He nearly fainted. 

A shiver ran from his head down to where his toes curled. You were all over him, smelling of vanilla and something so distinctly you he had long grown addicted to. Matt had been to confession many times since meeting you. He tried to repent for what he was feeling, but how could it possibly be sinful to want you and to have you when it felt so right?

He could pray to God all he wanted; when your body was on his or you were under him, writhing on his cock, or even when he was buried deep between your thighs like a man starved, he felt closer to divinity than he ever had before.

His hand wrapped around your neck, and he pulled you in, finally. He knew every inch of you by heart, yet he kissed you as if it was the first time, and he still had something to prove. 

His free hand slipped around your waist, then lower. He read the fabric of your skirt the same way he would read Braille. He brushed the edge, just barely. “You’re wearing that skirt again,” he groaned. “Y’know what it does to me.”

You moaned. “That’s why I wore it.”

“Oh, you wore it for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Matt inhaled sharply. “What’d you just call me?”

“Sir,” you purred again. 

“Oh.”

It was just one word, sir, but it opened something in him—a part of him that was primal and buried deep. It made his cock throb painfully in his slacks.

He pulled your hips flush to his. You could feel how hard he was, pressing against your soaking cunt through far too many layers of fabric, and your words turned into a breathy moan messily against his lips. 

The leg of his desk trembled when he lifted you on it. His lips slipped from yours, down your neck, and the outline of your breasts as he sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t–” do that here, you wanted to say.

He cut you off with a sharp tug to the edge of the table. “Mhm, we shouldn’t,” he agreed, but your legs were already over his shoulders. 

“Matthew.”

He tutted. “Not my name, sweetheart.”

“M’sorry, Professor. Sir…”

“Shh,” he inched closer, “It’s okay. I’m just showing you how remarkable you are. Be a good girl for me and take it, yeah?”

His glasses fell to the floor. Your panties ripped in two. No warning, not a second for you to think—he wrapped his lips around you, and he feasted.

He parted your folds, licked, and sucked, tasted all of you, and drowned in you, completely. The pleasure wrapped a noose around your core, pulling you even closer to the edge. You were sure you would end up with splinters under your nails and crescent imprints of his fingers on your skin, but God, if that meant he was yours and you were his and you could carry that evidence like a tattoo on your body, it was worth it.

You cried out his name. You were right there…

He pulled away. 

You choked on a breath, “No…”

There was no regret in his eyes, though, only desperation in the way he kissed you—devoured you. You could taste yourself on his lips. Every last thought you had dissipated. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “I have you.”

And he did. You should never have doubted it. 

He unbuckled his belt, freed himself from the tight confines of his slacks, and then he filled you. One thrust, and his cock, thick and hard and pulsing, filled every inch of you. Like he was made for you, or you were made for him. You breathed gasps into each other’s mouths and sustained each other like oxygen. You became one then.

Matt cupped your face. He didn’t move, didn’t even think, he just stayed buried so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your throat. Every prominent ridge and vein of his cock had already left their mark; your pussy was his, entirely, the same way his cock—his body and entire soul—belonged to you. Neither of you needed words when your bodies spoke the same language. 

“Please,” you begged. 

He shushed you again. “M’gonna let you come, I promise. Just…” His voice cracked. 

He didn’t look into your eyes, he couldn’t, but the way he held you felt like he had a direct line to your soul. 

“Just need to be inside you.” He gave a tentative thrust. Your name escaped him, soft, wrecked, broken. “Fuck, you feel so good.” Another. “So good.”

His breathy moans, from high to low to high again, were a symphony conducted solely for your pleasure, you were sure. The way they slipped past his lips into your mouth, or echoed off your sweaty skin when he licked down your neck, tasting your pulse through the skin. No one else got to see him like this. 

Your jaw was slack with the sound of your moans. Matt didn’t hesitate; he pushed two fingers against your tongue, deep enough to fill you—fill you everywhere. You gagged, but you endured.

“Good girl,” he said. 

You moaned around his digits, sucking and licking until the salt of his sweat exploded on your tongue. Though he pulled away far too soon. 

“C’mere.”

He rubbed his wet fingers against your swollen clit, tight little circles that made your entire world spin. The heat engulfed you. The earth shook beneath you. Every drag of his cock made it harder to hold on, to keep the wave from crashing in, but it just kept building. 

He angled his hips just right, and the sound you made was barely human. He tucked you into his shoulder, closer, closer. “Gonna come?” he asked. 

You could only nod. 

The kiss he pressed to your temple almost made you cry. 

“Can I–” you choked on a moan. 

He chuckled, the sound a mere breath against your ear. “Can you come?”

You whimpered, yes. 

His hips stuttered, holding onto the last bit of sanity he had left, breathing, “Yeah, you can, baby. Come for me.”

The wave crashed in. Your orgasm tore through you, throwing your head back into the palm of his hand. Matt was right there, though. He caught you, and he fucked you through it like the gentleman he was.

“That’s it. That’s– fuck!”

The dominos started falling, and with your cunt clenched so tightly around him, he came, too.

In the wake of it, quiet settled in. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, through it and into yours. You felt the way his chest heaved with every labored breath he took, face buried in the crook of his neck so he could feel you, all of you. 

He rode out his orgasm with the softest moans you had ever heard from him, his cock twitching until he was sure he had filled you to the brim. Then, he stilled. 

“Jesus,” Matt’s voice came muffled against your skin. 

You slid the essays under your ass aside. “I, uh, think we ruined those,” you said. 

He kissed you. Softly, at first, with a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine. I can’t read the hard copies anyway.”

You wanted to laugh, but before you knew it, he flipped you under him. His desk creaked under the weight of both of you, but he did not care. He didn’t pull out. No, he kissed you, he devoured you, and nothing else mattered but that. 

Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @lucienofthelakes @mochie-is-a-librarian @buckyssugarchick @unclearblur @xoxabs88xox

[thewritingfairy]

𓂃⋆.˚A long day

In which (Name) attempted to wash their hair and Duke ends up helping 

I'm feeling uh so it's a they/them reader with a non-specific curl type (the picture of the lady is just because I think she's so pretty-. I think she's from the interview with a vampire?) Because I did my hair for driving classes today (as you can't drive with clawclips in which I usually wear and I can't use a banana clamp because it can snap open) and I paid the price with my pain levels- SO this is based on my Nobody's child fic as I love that dynamic between Duke and (Name). trigger warnings: drabble unedited, Duke having small yandere-like tendencies but not a lot you ignoring the bats like it's a full time job

main m.list    series m.list   bad ending m.list

You are going to kill someone, specifically Dick. Because what do you mean 'I want to do your hair' when you don't even trust Dick? The only thing you want is to do your hair get to work, have a fun night shift and then go out with your friends.

Washing your hair is already a whole task, especially styling it with how stubborn it is, and you have no patience for Dick and his bullshit. You don't want him around especially with your irritation levels already rising. You are making such a mess and you can't seem to get all that shampoo out of your hair, you can't help but groan in anger as it all gets to much. Especially with Dick still trying to convince you to let him help you outside of your bathroom door. So without hesitation you text Duke;

˚₊IDIOT WITH NO WILL TO LIVE˙⋆

pls come save me from the moron named Dick and help me with my hair if you have the time I can't do this anymore- I'll own you

˚₊MY FAV BROTHER˙⋆

Coming, I get to pick your hairstyle :)

˚₊IDIOT WITH NO WILL TO LIVE˙⋆

I'm fine with that, just pls don't let me do this, my arms are already burning after just shampoo, my pain is having trouble with deciding to be low or so high that I feel like passing out ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

Duke truly is a miracle worker, Dick was waiting outside of your bathroom door attempting to convince you to let him do your hair and the second Duke said; "Please fuck off."

He fucked off.

Truly, he needs to teach you his ways.

When you unlocked the bathroom door Duke winces, the bathroom is a mess and you are basically hyper ventilating with water running down your face and neck. "Jesus, I'm glad that your uniform is a button up-" he mumbles as he grabs a towel to wipe down the floor. "go hang over the bad tub, I'm washing your hair as well as styling."

"I love you," you say as you sigh in relief. "I can not do this on my own."

"You can, just not today," Duke hums patting your back in a comforting matter. "so let me do it."

You hum as you close your eyes. It feels like heaven as Duke rubs in your shampoo, once you feel better you really need to learn new tricks to do your hair on your own. But for now you'll enjoy his help.

But to Duke this is amazing, you hate it when people touch your hair. He had helped you before, as well as your friends but that was only after procedures. Researches that left you unable to care for yourself. Yet here you are trusting him enough to help you even when you can still move, he knows it's because you have to work and you have plans tonight. Plans he'll follow you to ensure your safety

but you still asked for his help

While he was doing your hair you two chatted about your plans tonight. Willow had convinced all of you to try out this new karoake place in some abanoned part of Gotham (truly who starts a Karoake joint in the middle of nowhere?) and all of you thought it would be pretty funny to see Maria fail at singing high notes (something you suck at as well, but that's why you two always sing together, double the fun!).

"Do you want to airdry or diffuse?" Duke asks when he's finished with styling.

"Difusse, airdrying takes too long," you tell him as you grab your diffuser. "I know you hate difussing, but can you help me with the back? I don't care if it's get frizzy."

"Alright, just tell me you have heat protectant." He groans out as he takes the machine out of your hand looking at it like it's cursed.

"uh-"

"Idiot-"

fun fact I never diffuse because it brings my pain up so high I cannot move my arm for a whole ass day- And it makes my hair dry and stringy. like actual straw idk if it is because my hair is a mix of fine to normal to some thick-ish strands. Duke hating diffusers is just me hating on them-

taglist (main story): @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[upon-sunflower-trails]

tenna headcanons

sfw and nsfw relationship headcanons for tenna!

never doubt me because when i have a hyperfixation i don't PLAY

The sweetest to you, he will do just about anything to keep you happy. Giant bouquets of flowers, broadcasts dedicated to you, extravagant dates, the whole works

Makes sure everyone within a ten mile radius knows the two of you are an item. You're so so dear to him <3

Pet names for you consist of sweetheart, honey, sugar, and muffin. He goes overboard sometimes, and probably uses these nicknames more than your actual name

He gets veeery insecure, so he needs a lot of reassurance. Whether it be about himself or your relationship, he will constantly ask you for your favorite things about him, the reasons you're with him, if you would love him if he were a worm

Expect to play minigames with him constantly. He likes to take you on little game dates, where he leads your avatar around the beach and takes pictures of the two of you together

Anyone who asks about you will be subject to a six-page thesis in real time about how amazing you are and everything Tenna loves about you

When he's flustered, blush pops up on his screen and you can swear that you see him switch to static for a minute

He would be the one to confess first, no matter how worried he was that you would reject him

Even though Tenna is flashy, his confession of love would be incredibly personal. He would almost shrink a little as he admitted to his feelings, getting emotional as he accepted the fact that you would most likely reject him

He, of course, was overjoyed when you reciprocated. Returned to normal size as cheerful music blared, scooping you up in his arms and pressing kisses all over your face

He loves everything about you, and he thinks you're perfect. He has to sneak in at least one reference to you every time he's on-air

NSFW BELOW THE CUT

I see him as a switch; he prefers being a service top but he'll bottom when he's feeling particularly down on himself

When he's upset with his employees, dom all the way. Probably the kind of guy to bend you over his desk to blow off steam

To him, there's no better way to spend his night than with his face between your legs. Much prefers giving oral than fingering, in my very humble opinion

Will lightly toy with the idea of exhibitionism, in the way that he'd have you under his desk and sucking him off while in a meeting or something

Horrific praise kink. Please tell him how good he is, what a great job he's doing, how badly you needed him. He will increase his efforts by tenfold.

I headcanon that his antennas are super sensitive, which you likely either find out by accident or in the heat of the moment. He'll beg for you to touch them while you ride his face or fuck him

Vocal as hell (especially if you play with the antennas), he is practically incapable of staying quiet. He whimpers and moans when he's being more gentle or subbing, and lets out groans and hisses while pounding into you during his more dominant moments

Loooves to tease you, both with pet names in the moment and overstimulation. He can be unrelenting when he wants to be

Not big into pain (both giving and receiving), but will tug on your hair when particularly lost in blowing off steam

Lowkey has a breeding kink, even if he may never acknowledge it. Just can't get enough of filling you up.

Whether his comment to Mike about kids is true or not, if you are able (and want) to carry children, it'll become his newest fixation. The second you give him the go-ahead, yeah, he's creampie-ing you for weeks

He prefers to actually fuck you instead of just jacking off, but if he doesn't have any other options, he'll gladly pump himself to the thought of you while at his desk. Free hand covering his mouth while his monitor practically burns, whines of your name spilling from his lips

Size kink is basically a given with him. I mean, he towers over everybody, so you are of course no exception. Holding your much smaller hands over your head as he pins you against the wall to obliterate your insides is one of his guilty pleasures

hope you guys enjoyed reading :) tenna my beloved i hope i did you justice

[nizhspo]

cloud 9.

chapter one: wipeout

m.list | next

synopsis: you had it all, until one mistake landed you at a rundown kennel, working for the boy who thinks you’re all shine, no substance.

pairing: megumi fushiguro x reader

you were always the girl with the perfect landing.

hair curled under your helmet. lip gloss tinted just barely enough to catch the light. a signature move—not that it was hard, it was actually pretty basic, but it was sharp, and it looked good, especially when you slowed the footage.

you knew your angles.

you grew up snowboarding instead of skiing—even though your parents begged otherwise, just so you could hang around your older brother and his idiot friends, all of them shirtless in the snow and shouting over each other in the half-pipe like it was their birthright. you were twelve, maybe thirteen, teeth chattering under a pink helmet, and already moving like you belonged.

while some snowboarders dreamed of redbull caps and burton gear, you wished for sponsorship deals with cerave and posted unboxings in your dior snow boots. you learned how to tail press before you could even hold a proper carve. you did what looked cool. you did what was cool. and in iron mountain’s skating circuit, that was enough.

until it wasn’t.

they never told you directly.

tsukada just started pulling you off rotation. at first it was just practices. then it was the small showcase downtown. then it was qualifiers.

you knew what it was before he ever said anything, and he never really did. he just looked at you the way people do when they’ve already decided something. when they don’t want to feel bad about it. when they’re hoping you’ll make it easy and step away first.

and sukuna? oh, sukuna.

he thought it was hilarious.

called you princess, but said it like it was a slur. told anyone who would listen that you only made the team because of how your ass looked in leggings and because coach “definitely wanted to fuck you.” said it right in front of the assistant coach once, too. didn’t even flinch.

“maybe if she trained as much as she posted,” he said one afternoon, voice raised just enough to slice across the ice like a blade. it echoed through the rink, caught the tail-end of your landing. you pretended not to hear. everyone else didn’t.

you hated him. thought he was a prick. an arrogant, red-eyed bastard who coasted on raw talent and treated everyone like they were background noise.

and then you dated him anyway.

there was something gratifying about being chosen by someone like him. someone so good it was cruel. someone who didn’t just win, but dominated.

he was the kind of skater who never practiced full out until the day of a comp and still scored higher than everyone. every. single. time.

he had status. medals. fame. followers. rumors that he once landed a cab 1260 during warmups just to prove a point. the team called him a prodigy. outsiders called him an asshole. you called him yours.

three months of high-altitude highs.

of smugly holding his hand in public like it was a trophy. of bragging that you were the one who tamed him, of being the girl he let close, the one he let in.

he’d lean against the boards during your drills, smirking behind his hood, arms folded, red eyes trailing every twist of your body. after practice, he’d crowd into your locker room with that half-lidded look, eyes dragging over you like flame on tissue. on your hips and his mouth at your throat, breath hot, voice low and mean.

“you looked so fuckin’ good in that bodysuit at practice,” he’d murmur, lips brushing your jaw. “i know you saw everybody staring.”

his grip would tighten when you didn’t answer. like he needed to remind you who you belonged to. who chose you.

and sometimes in the quiet that came after, you wondered if the two of you were just reflections of the same shallow thing.

if he only wanted you because of the way the other snowboarders looked at you. the name your family carried. the resort your father owned. the fact that everyone in the circuit whispered about you, watched you, envied the way you landed even your weakest tricks like you’d rehearsed them in a mirror.

and maybe you only wanted him because he was untouchable. because he didn’t need anyone and still picked you. because when you walked into a room with him on your arm, people looked. people stared.

maybe you were both chasing something. attention. status. power.

but you let him kiss you anyway.

and you called it love.

but love with sukuna was like skating blindfolded on thin ice: thrilling, doomed, and just one crack away from collapse.

you caught him texting other girls. not just one, but three. maybe four.

he laughed. actually laughed. like it was a game, like you were being dramatic.

“you know it’s not serious,” he said, eyes barely lifting from the screen. “they’re just bored. i’m bored. who cares?”

you felt the sting hit your throat before it reached your eyes. blinked hard. clenched your jaw. your lip started to tremble and you bit down on it before it could. you didn’t want to give him that.

you just stared at him, chest hollow, fingers shaking as you handed him his phone. your hand brushed his. it made your stomach turn.

“first of all,” you said, voice raw, cracking, “the girl you were just texting isn’t even as pretty as me.”

you waited for him to cut in. he didn’t.

“and you’re a dick.” softer this time. final.

he scoffed, turned his back. “good,” he said. “your prissy ass was starting to get clingy anyway.”

he didn’t mean it. not really. but you left anyway.

you cried the whole ride home, windows up, and music off. just the sound of your own breath catching and the windshield wipers dragging across glass like they were tired too.

your makeup was ruined, mascara clumped, glitter pooling at the corners of your eyes. your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing, lit up with texts from the girls on your team.

wtf was sukuna on today?

why was he flirting w that junior girl??

are u guys still together or?

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your hands were clenched so hard around the steering wheel, one of the swarovski rhinestones on your acrylics popped clean off and skittered somewhere under the seat.

you stared straight ahead and thought, briefly, about how every rapper and singer lied. they made it sound glamorous: crying in a mercedes. like the leather seats were supposed to cushion the heartbreak. like tinted windows made it softer.

but the sting in your chest still hurt like shit.

but the worst part?

it didn’t even feel like heartbreak. it felt like embarrassment. it felt like being the punchline to a joke he was already telling to someone else.

you ignored his story likes. his half-baked apologies. the screenshots he sent of those girls blocked with captions like see? they didn’t mean anything. you ignored him when he tried to talk to you after practice, when he lingered at your locker, when he grabbed your board without asking like things hadn’t changed.

and then he showed up to your door.

roses in one hand. venti iced matcha in the other. the most apologetic he’d ever looked, eyes soft, hoodie half-zipped, voice low.

you didn’t even like roses. lilies were your favorite.

but you took him back anyway.

you went to a party with him that weekend. let him drive your car because he said “the benz drives better than my corolla.”

you’d laughed. let him flex the keys. let him promise to be DD so you could drink with your friends, just for once, just to breathe.

at some point, you stumbled over to him, cheeks flushed and warm from wine coolers, and blinked at the bottle in his hand.

“wait… babe,” you frowned, voice slurred just a little. “weren’t you supposed to drive?”

he looked at you like you were being cute. smirked. shrugged. “you can drive, babe.”

“i’ve never driven drunk in my life,” you snapped, a little clearer now. “and if i fuck up my car, my dad’s gonna kill me. he just got it for me—”

“i’ve driven drunk so many times,” he said, voice lazy, one hand grabbing your waist and pulling you closer, breath hot in your ear. . “trust me. you’re gonna be fine.”

you flushed, but still pushed away. crossed your arms tight against your chest.

“sukuna, why can’t you drive?” you muttered, voice quieter. “i don’t want to.”

he stepped back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded. “because if you get pulled over, your dad pays off the judge, boom—end of story. but me?” he tapped his chest. “i get a DUI, and that’s it. say goodbye to every deal i’ve got lined up. every brand, every team. they’ll drop me the second my name’s in that report.”

you frowned. not just because he made it make sense, but because of how he said it. like your future didn’t matter. like you didn’t have contracts coming. tryouts next month. a whole season you were fighting for.

like it would only be his loss.

but he just smiled. dangled the keys in front of your face, silver glinting under the floodlights of the backyard. pressed a kiss to your forehead, sticky-sweet and coaxing. “baby, you’ll be fine.”

you weren’t fine.

you were swerving five minutes out, in fact.

you kept crossing the double yellow line, blinking too hard, everything feeling half-second delayed. the street felt too dark. too narrow. the sky too big. your knuckles were white from how hard you were gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating through your leather gloves. sukuna’s playlist—some mix of rap and r&b, blasted too loud over the speakers, bass rattling the rearview mirror.

“babe, i think that’s a state trooper behind me,” you said, voice pitched tight, eyes wide, heart thudding like a fucking rabbit.

he glanced up lazily from where he was slouched in the passenger seat, sipping a sprite he definitely poured vodka into. his smirk barely moved. “nah, you’re good,” he said, dismissive. “it’s like 2 a.m. the pigs clock out at ten.”

you didn’t believe him. not really. but you didn’t argue either.

you just breathed in through your nose, kept your eyes glued to the road, fingers locked so tight around the wheel your rings were digging into your skin.

and then the mailbox came.

you didn’t even see it, not until it was too close. your vision tunneled, headlights bouncing weird off a patch of snow, and then crunch.

the sound was loud enough to make your stomach drop. you screamed. jerked the wheel. slammed the brakes too late. the car skidded sideways in the slush.

sukuna? he thought it was hilarious.

“fuck that mailbox,” he cackled, doubled over in the seat, slapping the dashboard like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen. “babe, you smoked that shit—”

and then the blue and red lights lit up behind you, and you froze. blinked at the mirror. no music now. just your breath and the click of your turning signal, still going.

the cop didn’t laugh. the breathalyzer didn’t laugh. the judge didn’t laugh.

and your parents? they were furious.

your dad paced the kitchen in his suit jacket and socks, tie already loose from work. “a DUI,” he snapped, not even looking at you. “are you out of your mind? do you have any idea what that could’ve meant for your record? for your future?”

your mom didn’t yell at first. she sat at the table, quiet, hand clenched around her coffee mug like she was imagining smashing it. but when she did speak?

“do you think your name is a shield?” she asked, voice sharp and calm in that terrifying way. “you think because your father pays for half of the county and your brother’s a national finalist, that you can go around crashing into people’s property and embarrassing us?”

“it was a mailbox,” you said, small. wrong.

the look she gave you could’ve turned your skin inside out.

“and next time?” she hissed. “what if it was a person? what if it was someone’s child?”

you didn’t answer. didn’t even cry. you just stood there, arms crossed, eyes burning, chewing on your lip so hard you could taste the blood.

your older brother called the next day. but not to comfort you.

“tsk, tsk,” he said, drawling like he was reading headlines. “a dui? crazy. even i wouldn’t do dumb shit like that.”

you hung up halfway through his lecture about how expensive benz bumpers are.

but big money helps.

your dad’s lawyer was a shark. the expungement was fast-tracked, sealed. the fine paid the same afternoon.

but snowboarding? that didn’t survive.

there wasn’t an official announcement. just whispers. your name dropped off flyers. your invite to regionals “postponed indefinitely.”

you knew how these things worked. they had a board meeting—not on paper, but in a room you’d never be invited into again. tsukada. your parents. someone from the athletic committee. a PR rep who kept repeating the word liability.

you were benched. “temporarily,” they said. “a pause.”

but what they meant was: you’re done.

your parents didn’t argue. they didn’t even flinch. they just nodded, and offered a solution. a way to make amends.

“we spoke to the owners,” your mom said over breakfast like she was talking about a donation. “you’re going to apologize. face to face.”

you groaned. “you already took the money out of my account to pay for a new mailbox. what else do they want?”

the look she gave you was terrifying. one brow raised. mouth pinched. a look that said say one more thing and see what happens.

you shut right the fuck up.

she folded the paper, looked you dead in the eye. “some people have less than, y/n. and this?” she tapped her nails against the counter. “this is the least you could do. if your father wasn’t still babying you, i’d take every device in this house, but since we’re being gracious, you’re going to take yourself down to that address and offer to help them however they see fit. no complaints. no eye rolls. you understand me?”

you nodded once. tight. small. bitter.

because the mailbox you hit?

was attached to the fence of a run-down kennel on the edge of town. another thing broken on the property including the fencing and the heating and the warped little sign that read:

ten shadows rehabilitation & rescue

your mother pressed the address into your palm like a punishment. “you’re going,” she said.

so you did.

your mom dropped you off, obviously—no license, no car, no trust left.

she barely said anything the whole ride. just listened to a podcast while you stared out the window, trying not to feel like a prisoner on the way to sentencing. when the GPS announced the address, she didn’t even slow. just pulled into the gravel shoulder, leaned over, and popped the door open like it was an errand drop-off.

“be nice,” she said flatly. “and don’t embarrass me again.”

you stepped out into snow that came up to your ankles, icy mud seeping into the suede of your uggs.

the place was almost hidden from the road. half-swallowed by frost and forest, tucked behind a crooked fence with slats falling out like loose teeth. snow piled high on either side of the gravel path, crunched underfoot with every hesitant step.

the air smelled like cedar and wet fur, and something sharper underneath. bleach, maybe. or ammonia. something sterile trying to mask something wild.

the building looked like it had been built a hundred years ago and never renovated. wood slats bowed from rot. paint peeling. shingles missing like someone had picked them off by hand. the porch light flickered like it was scared to stay on.

you adjusted your jacket, a brown northface from the skims collection, cropped and cute but absolutely not meant for this kind of wind, and knocked.

no answer.

you were just about to turn back and call your mom when a voice drifted around from the side of the building, low and flat, like it came from the trees.

“you here to see the dogs or just breaking more of our shit?”

you froze. turned.

he stepped into view a second later.

tall. sharp. beautiful in a way that didn’t feel soft, like he was carved instead of born. black hair pulled half-up, loose strands falling over a pale, unsmiling face. his eyes were cold, but not mean, just unreadable. like he didn’t care enough to react. like whatever you were about to say, he’d already heard it.

he wore a heavy black hoodie under a gray utility coat. pants scuffed at the knees. boots caked in snow. he looked at you like you were a problem he’d already solved. not a threat. not a guest. just… annoying.

“hi,” you said, nerves catching in your throat. “i’m y/n. i was looking for the owners?”

“i am one of them,” he said, voice like a dull knife. he didn’t move. didn’t even cross his arms. just stood there, letting you squirm.

“oh—uh, hi,” you stammered. “i’m… i was the girl who hit your mailbox last week. i wanted to come here and, um, formally apologize. and also ask if there was any help you guys needed or anything i can do. i’m really sorry.”

his gaze dropped, assessing. you could feel him scanning everything: the leggings tucked into your uggs, the northface, your necklace stack, your ears weighed down in gold hoops and crawlers, your acrylics with little star charms that clinked every time you moved.

he sighed, then called behind him, voice low but clear: “tsumiki.”

more snow crunched. footsteps light and fast. and then another figure appeared, a girl about your age, maybe a little older, with warm brown eyes and a long, dark braid tucked into a faded windbreaker. cheeks flushed from the cold, but her smile was soft.

“this her?” she asked.

megumi muttered, “girl who hit the mailbox,” like it was your new legal name.

tsumiki grinned and stepped forward.

“hi, y/n,” she said kindly. “i’m tsumiki, and this is my brother megumi. thank you so much for your apology, as well as the very large check your family wrote for the damages.”

you gave a little tight laugh. “yeah, uh… of course.”

“we would actually love some help here.”

megumi’s head whipped to her. “wait, huh—”

tsumiki ignored him. “do you have any allergies to dogs?”

“um… no?” you blinked.

“great! come inside. let’s talk about the help we need.“ she turned without waiting, waving you along like this was a spa appointment.

you followed, kind of stunned. in your head, this was supposed to be a smile, a wave, a thanks-but-we’re-good.

not this. not real work.

inside, the place was warmer than it looked, but barely. the smell hit you first. gross. raw. dog shampoo and wet paws and something faintly like rawhide and rubbing alcohol.

before you could even take a full step in, a blur of white barreled out of the hallway, fast, heavy, low growl in its chest. a white akita with mismatched eyes skidded to a stop right in front of you, tail wagging once.

you flinched.

megumi let out a sharp whistle, two fingers in his mouth. “kiba. down.”

the dog obeyed immediately. sat, alert. staring.

tsumiki laughed. “don’t worry. all the dogs here are up to date on their shots.”

you blinked.

shots? what the fuck? there’s a possibility you could get bit?

you forced a smile, nodding along, your grin getting tighter with every word she said.

she wrote you a little makeshift schedule, notes about your shifts, their feeding times. all printed on a half-ripped piece of letterhead.

“thank you again for coming. we really appreciate it,” she said brightly. “mondays through fridays—you don’t have to worry about weekends, we’ve got it covered.”

you nodded, tucked the paper into your sleeve. “of course. um. i’ll see you soon.”

you stepped outside, face burning, and fished out your phone. dialed your mom.

“i’m ready to be picked up,” you muttered. she said on my way and hung up.

you scrolled through your contacts. clicked nobara. she answered on the second ring.

“hey—”

“can i cry?” you sniffled. “like actually cry.”

“oh god. you already went?” she said, voice pitching up. you nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “they want me to take care of dogs, nobara. every day. five days a week.”

“oh i’m so sorry baby,” she said quickly. “you definitely don’t want to know what happened at practice today then.”

your stomach dropped.

“what?” you asked, already feeling the tear welling.

she sighed. “sukuna was definitely kissing that junior in the locker room.”

you broke.

a sob ripped out of you like something physical. you crumpled down onto the curb, hand pressed to your mouth.

“oh my god,” you cried. “oh my fucking god.”

you heard tires crunching behind you. turned.

your mom’s car rolled up slow. she looked at you, hunched on the sidewalk, eyes puffy, phone still pressed to your cheek, and raised one perfectly sculpted brow.

“i’ll call you later,” you hiccuped into the phone, still sobbing. hung up.

you slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

“they want me to take care of their dogs every day of the week besides weekends,” you sniffled, wiping at your face with your sleeve.

your mom pulled away from the curb with a sigh. “at least they gave you weekends off,” she said dryly. “you should be more grateful.”

you sniffled again. hard. she glanced at you and softened. just barely.

“…did something else happen?”

you didn’t answer for a second. then: “sukuna was kissing a junior at practice.”

her face went cold.

“i never liked him,” she muttered. “i always said he was going to be trouble.”

you curled deeper into your seat, biting the inside of your cheek to stop another cry.

“y/n, this is a terrible situation,” she said gently. “but sometimes terrible things are just… doors. ugly ones. but they open to the right place.”

you didn’t say anything.

“and whatever you do,” she added, voice steel now, “do not give him the chance to show you who he really is a third time.”

[starxs-s]

NFI me and you

Michael Gavey x Felix's sister!reader ♡ chapter 1

warnings: semi-public sex, sloppy pussy eating (Michael don't know shit about how to do that, don't fight me on that), unprotected p in v (wrap it b4 you tap it), virgin!Michael, hair pulling, almost getting caught (in the end), virginity loss, premature orgasm, small praise kink, Michael being a little shit.

word count: 5k

minors please don’t interact.

summary: At college Christmas party Michael goes to library just to find someone he least expect to see there. Basically two nerds getting at it.

from Author: This is my first long work in English so please be kind since it’s not my first language. Michael Gavey save me. Wrote it cuz I recently rewatched Saltburn with my mum and her reactions were absolutely hilarious. Also i don't know shit about math so if I'll make any mistake in that kind of stuff please just ignore.

divider credit: @uzmacchiato

It wasn't like Michael actually expected the invite to lay beautifully in his letterbox. He wasn't popular. He in fact was everything but that. With awkward personality, nerdy attitude and his well known dislike towards other students.

But he couldn't help to be petty about it. He was a student of Oxford after all. A good one if not the best. Michael liked to put himself on top, liked to look down at people. He felt like the worst and the best of all of them at the same time.

Oliver didn't seem to care about the invite, he just blankly looked around the library when Gavey told him neither of them received anything. But it was still Oliver who 'went' to the party. He was sitting there, locked in the spare room, alone with only pool table. He was desperately trying to make himself seen, popular and liked. Like a leach he wanted to have more than he was destined to have.

And if not for the lack of invite to the Christmas Party of his own college Michael would think he has everything he needs. A good marks, a 'friend' if he could even label Oliver like that, a peace and quiet. He was doing math at one of the oldest, best and most popular colleges in United Kingdoms.

The only thing that could piss him off was you. Felix Catton's younger sister. With the hair as fluffy and as dark as your brother's but eyes brighter than his. In your mother's or father's color, Michael was often thinking about them while sitting in the class.

Class he unfortunately had to share with you. What were you even doing there? In math class. In his class.

Course wasn't filled with many girls. Just you, one red head freak and a girl that Michael believed couldn't do times table, what was utterly pathetic for him.

And it wasn't like you needed a degree. You had the status, the prestige, ‘Catton’ that followed after your name and a fucking castle. The amount of money you had could keep you, your future children and many generations after them safe from even moving a finger.

You were always sitting in library with wired earphones in your ears, too far and music too quiet for Michael to hear what you were listening to. Always with your head down, gaze focused yet tired like doing all those math examples drained you from all your energy. And Michael couldn't stop watching you from behind his glasses. His pale blue eyes scanning over every mole on your cheeks and the way the dark circles made your eyes stand out even move. The loose strands that fell from your bun when you were leaning over your notebook before quiet tapping on the calculator could be heard if Gavey listened close enough.

You were so different from Felix and Farleigh. And if not the name or the fact that despise spending most of your days in library and classes everyone knew who you are, he would maybe consider you something more than a spoiled brat.

He didn't really liked your family. Rich, entitled pricks. Your brother? horrible. Farleigh? Even fucking worse.

Good that he didn't have to deal with them. It was just Oliver who had to go through your cousin's biting remarks and snarky comments. And Michael would be free from Catton family if not for you. The bane of his existence.

You.

Even now. Your were sitting on the other side of the table, with a lamp lighted up and casting a golden glow on your cheeks that were - as he observed - way paler than right after summer. That's natural after all. Yet he couldn't help but wonder how it would feel like to smooth over the skin of them with his knuckles... or see how they would look when your lips would be wrapped around him. With your eyes up on him, hands propped on his thighs and how hard he would grip your locks.

The shame ate him alive every time he caught himself thinking about you like that. Imagining you, in his dorm, in your dorm or even in a fucking library. Here. Now.

God he couldn't believe how pathetic he was.

He looked from his notebook to you. A soft glow cast on your face, the unchanging, focused gaze and this weird stillness as you sat on one of the chairs near him. What you were doing here? Your brother was enjoying the party, drinking, smoking, flirting. The music was probably blasting and there were bodies rubbing against each other. And you were... here. In the library. In a disgustingly quiet library with him, alone. And if not the earphones connected to your phone with the thin wire you could hear every sharp and uncomfortable inhale from Michael, when he tried to not make all the fantasies and images that made him turn in his bed at night, flow back into his mind.

Not when you were sitting right there instead of acting like he think every Catton did.

His grip of the pen tightened when your phone rung filling the silence in the library. His jaw clenched and gaze raised at you when hurriedly picked up.

“I’m in the library what do you want?” You asked quietly as if ashamed of ruining the quietness of the moment.

He didn’t mean to listen… but how could he not when you were sitting there alone and the only sounds were annoying grumbling of your brother through the phone.

“I’m not coming to the party I’m studying” you mumbled before rolling your eyes at the faint words of Felix.

“Don’t tell Farleigh or he’ll come here and force me to go and drink with him.” His irritation only spiked when you mentioned his cousin. “Felix, stop I’m not—“

“Could you not?” Michael’s words came out unexpectedly and even he wasn’t sure if they left his lips or if it was just his mind playing jokes at him.

Your mouth was agape as the gaze of your eyes raised to him. You looked as surprised as he was.

“I’ll see you.” You only said before hanging up and putting your phone down. “Sorry…”

His heart rate fastened and Michael wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t add some rude comment.

“I know you’re an entitled brat but rules apply even to you” he replied and his eyes narrowed l.

“I already said I’m sorry” you said feeling your irritation spiking. “If you can’t focus on math with sounds that quiet maybe you’re not as good as you think you are” you scoffed and cringed immediately at the words that sounded all too familiar to Farleigh.

"I'm a genius" he said and take a sharp inhale.

"Bet you are Gavey."

This surprised him. How did you knew his name? You were on the same course, yes. You spoke few times, yes. A short meaningless questions for a task results or to borrow a pen. He didn't think you would know his name. Something strange blossomed in his chest. A warm feeling mixed with unease. People never knew his name.

"Ask me a sum then"

"I'm not asking you a sum Gavey." you said and your hand moved to put the earphones back in your ears.

"You're scared I'm right?" he asked scoffing. He really was acting like a brat. Maybe that's why people didn't bother to remember his name. Maybe that's why you did.

"I'm not sc-"

"Then ask me a sum."

You two shared a glance. No, it was way too long for just a glance. You looked into his blue eyes hid behind those nerdy looking glasses. Jesus Christ. Why did he had to sit here, looking like that, bothering you to ask him a stupid sum. You should really ask Felix to start inviting him into those parties so you wouldn't have to sit here with him alone like that. A sharp inhale from you and not even a bother to pull out a calculator.

"Nine times nine." you said seriously; it wasn't serious. Just to make him a bit more mad.

"Oh that's a child's play." he scoffed crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. Your face was serious, waiting for an answer. Damn you. "Eighty one" he rolled his eyes.

"Times eighty one?"

"Six thousand and five hundred sixty one."

"Times nine?"

"Fifty nine thousands and forty nine"

"Times six thousand and five hundred sixty one?"

"Three hundred eight seven milion, four thousands twenty and four hundred eighty nine"

Michael Gavey - you have to be studied.

You scoffed shaking your head slightly.

"Told you." he said calmly. Oh god what a wonderful feeling it was. His arrogance was spiking and you feed his ego like crazy.

"You could just make those numbers up." you said leaning back in your own seat.

"Why would I?"

"Because you're a liar."

"I'm a genius."

You gave him a look before stubbornly pulling out the calculator and then shortly after the fast taps on the buttons. Then a scoff. Michael smirked and his gaze from the papers in front of him to you. Your face was serious and irritated and you bit your inner cheek. Another habit of yours for him to learn about. Then another scoff from you.

"You have to get diagnosed by some fucking doctor, Gavey." you said and moved the calculator away.

"I don't know if being a genius is a sickness" he said and fixed his glasses.

"But you're not" you said irritated. You wanted to win this argument. That didn't worked. So you can at least make him mad.

"We just proved I am, didn't we darling?"

What just came over him? His mouth closed and he wasn't even sure his brain registered the words. And you stared. Not like others. Not like he was some creep or a loser. Your gaze was surprised - not shocked. - just surprised.

And Michael was just as surprised as you were apparently.

"A genius huh?" you said but he could clearly tell that your tone was different. He wasn't stupid after all. He heard the previous softness in it - the one he snapped at when you apologized to him. "help me with that then."

Oh. God.

No. Yes.

Oh.

God.

Micheal swallowed looking as you gather your things quickly to come and sit at the seat on his left. He was sitting by the top of the table. Like always. Not like it wasn't the main part of library. Rather a calm one - where people didn't come to. Or only to make out - what Micheal was unfortunate to see.

Oh. God.

"Y-yeah sure." he said and swallowed again. You raised an eyebrow at his slight stutter. Fuck. "Yeah sure." he collected himself stopping himself from undoing the top button of his shirt.

He suddenly became super aware that he looked like someone's grandpa. Shirt buttoned to the top, sweater on that and that stupid ass haircut he gave himself after he got irritated the brown strands of hair started getting under his glasses. And here were you - dressed into a sweater too, but in the cool way. How in the hell did you managed to look cool and nerdy at the same time? Felix looked only cool, Farleigh looked like some twink and here were you. Looking beautiful in random clothes you threw on to library and in this half up-half down hairstyle you did when hair started getting into your eyes. Because it wasn't like you could just cut it like he did.

"You get it?" you asked laying the pencil down on the wooden desk.

Oh fuck, you were telling him something. He glanced over the task. It couldn't be easier.

"Yes, I'll do it for you." he said mindlessly grabbing your pencil.

"No!... no, can you just explain it?" you asked and he frowned.

"I'm not some tutor." he muttered not sparring you a glance.

"I can pay you 50 pounds." you said like it was nothing, of course it was nothing for you. The Catton in your name could buy anything.

"I don't want your money."

"What is so hard in explain what you're doing?"

He could do it. It wouldn't be a problem for him. He explained things to people before; for example when his little cousins needed help with something.

"Fine" he said and sighed

Your chair moved and your arms pressed again as you leaned on your hand listening to what he will say and he could feel his cock throbbing slightly.

Woman in the name of all that's holy, what are you doing? Move the fuck away.

He inhaled. Get it together.

"It's very easy" he said and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue before fixing his glasses.

Oh god someone save you.

How could he just sit here all sweet and nervous and cute? Looking like he is waiting for someone to just devour him.

And he smelled good too. Like a nerd to be honest. A bit like the library, but you could smell a bit of the after shave. Yeah it have to be that. Your gaze wandered from the paper to give him a side glance, His face looked smooth, he always looked clean, neat. With his hair cut in a silly way and nice looking clothes. If not the top button it would even look really good.

You crossed your legs nodding slightly to pretend you're listening. Jesus Christ his jaw. And his nose.

Jesus Christ his nose.

"Now. Understand?" he asked turning his head to you.

Shit now he'll know you're staring.

"Y-yeah." you nodded. "It's really easy." you added as it would convince both him and you.

You could feel his breath on your face from how close you were.

"Y-you... you want something in exchange for tutoring?" you asked swallowing. "I can get you into one of Felix's parties if you want."

"No." he said seriously and leaned back in his seat looking at the papers seriously. "I don't want to be anywhere close to your stupid brother and idiot cousin." he scoffed.

"Is there something I can do? I don't like to be anyone's debt."

God those big Babmi eyes of you. Michael swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

'Is there something I can do?'

YES. Go down on me or I'll die.

"No we're good... as long as you won't take calls in the library or at least next to me." he said and crossed his legs too hiding his hardening cock. Thank god the light was dim and table let him mask easily.

"I can do that."

God your obedience. How sweet you looked. Like some goddamn bunny or another stupid doe.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

God save you. What have Michael Gavey done to you? The smart Catton, with a brain turned into mush because of a dork, you're trying to get your guts rearranged by. And he probably didn't even know where clit is. Let's be fucking honest, Michael having sex it's not something this world has experienced.

"Can I still give you something?" you asked and your cheeks grew pink.

"If you must." he scoffed rolling his eyes.

Your lips pressed to his fast and hard. His eyes widened as he froze for a moment. His heart thumped as his brain was still proceeding what the fuck was happening. Do. Something. Dumbass.

His hand went up just to stop right above the skin of your cheek and his lips tried to move in sync with yours affecting in pretty sloppy and clumsy kiss. His first kiss.

Michael pulled away to inhale looking at you in shock, before quickly fixing his glasses.

Oh. Fuck.

You looked at him and inhaled too, your mouth slightly agape before his hand pulled you to crash his lips against yours, this time way more desperately.

A clumsy kiss with the nerd Michael Gavey turned into messy making out in the corner of library. Like all those people he despised for interfering with library's peace.

"You should really start being invited to those parties." you breathed pulling slightly away to look at those blue eyes.

"Fuck the parties." he shook his head frowning at you, before his nose bumped slightly into yours and his eyes went to your mouth.

Oh how desperate he looked. Like a needy brat finding the most tasty candy of his life. Michael Gavey the pathetic man you are.

"What do you want to do?" you swallowed feeling his breath on you cheek.

"We can go back..." to his dorm. "... to doing the task?"

You raised your eyebrow looking at him. What the fuck? Did the past seven minutes of making out and having his tongue in your mouth happened or not?

"Or... you can... kiss me some more?" he added, his gaze pleading. "...please?"

A man who yearns is the man that earns. Or... something like that.

"Sounds... like a good plan" you nodded smiling slightly.

His lips pressed against you again. And you were never more happy about skipping a party to go study at the library. His lips were soft and his cupid bow prominent, easily felt under your own mouth. The kiss was greedy, more wanting, more needing than those from before. Not quite desperate as you would think Michael could get but not lazy either.

You pulled away slightly to tilt your head down and rub your lips together inhaling before hesitating for a moment. Deep breaths of Michael reached your ears, the way his body trembled slightly and his glasses were a little bit crocked. He almost followed as you stopped the kiss, pleading for more.

When your lips reconnected a second later, you slipped onto his lap and got surprised by a shocked gasp. His eyes widened and hands squeezed on the armrests as if he were too scared to touch you.

And his hard length was pressed into your inner thigh.

Good Lord.

You tried not to move too much, not to cause him any discomfort or made an effort to somehow let him know you felt it. It was as if your senses decided to focus not on the bulge straining against his pants but his lips on yours.

But God. With every soft twitch your knickers were getting wetter and wetter by your arousal and the desperate need to move even so slightly, to release some tension and simply slide over his thigh was almost unbearable.

His nose bumped against yours and you pulled away again to rest your forehead on his and inhale trying to calm down and somehow downplay the coiling feeling in your stomach.

"You're-"

"I'm so sorry." he said gasping.

Sorry? Sorry for what? For making you want to be fucked on the library's table? Or to suck on what's hiding under those pants?

"Don't apologize dumbass." you frowned looking at his red yet slightly startled face. "Just let me-"

"No."

Your hand stopped midair to his zipper and your eyes went to his as you straightened on his lap.

"Let me... I want to..." he inhaled

Oh god he was adorable. His expression boyish and cheeks pink just like the tips of his ears and maybe another tip too.

Not as adorable when he pushed you up on the table earning a surprised gasp from those lips he was savouring seconds ago. Not as adorable when his; shy at first, hands went to the hem of your pants. To pull on the button, undo the zipper and finally tug onto jeans making them slide off to ankles leaving you sprawled on the table, shocked and wet.

"Pink?" he scoffed quietly, his attitude returning as he glanced at your panties; pink with small bow at the front and very noticeable darker spot where your legs met.

"Shut up." you said only letting your head rest on the table.

"Only if you let me make my mouth busy." how did Michael Gavey, the awkward nerd from Oxford know how talk like that.

Your breath hitched and his fingers worked pushing the soaked fabric to the side. Your cunt was glistening with arousal, lips pink and slightly swollen. He definitely wasn't adorable when he lowered himself between your legs, to lap at your sweet little cunt with uncertainness visible in his moves.

His tongue licked over your opening, inhaling surprised at the taste. It was like nothing he ever had in his life. Because he clearly never done that to a girl.

It could be felt with how unsure his tongue is, how careful, yet you didn't miss how his hands squeezed on your thighs, making them look small in his grip. As if he tried to suppress the need to lap like he was starving; maybe he was.

Your eyes closed at the oh how ironic so shy yet so dirty sensation, before you moved your hips slightly; just enough to guide him higher. A high pitched moan let him know he found what he needed. Your hand covered your mouth quickly as if to try and cover the sound you just let slip involuntarily and those you made when his lips sucked and tongue rolled over your clit. Your cheeks burned as he focused at the bud and his chin grazed over your slit making it glistening with your juices.

Gods how sweet you tasted. Michael could die and go to heaven at this moment. Your little moans, muffled so badly by your hand echoed between the bookshelves made his already hard cock leak some pre-cum on the fabric of his boxers. He was going crazy, imagining how angrily pink his tip must be, how he was twitching every time you rolled your hips over his mouth thinking he doesn't feel it. If he touched himself now he would probably; to his embarrassment, nut at the spot. He lapped on your cunt, his hands squeezed on your thighs, only leaving the flesh to fix his glasses.

Oh God he's gonna die.

He watched with big eyes as your thighs trembled slightly, chest rose rapidly and... oh lord, your hand quickly making it's way to his hair to gently tug and pull at the fair strands, directing him to closer to you as his tongue worked rapidly, still unsure of it's actions.

Now you were desperate and needy. He made you act like that.

His glasses fogged up from the heat between your bodies and his own deep, warm breath blew on your glistening cunt. His tongue was parting your folds from time to time and his mouth sucked at the swollen bud hungrily.

You pulled yourself up to look down on him. Your eyes fell upon his flushed cheeks, nose bumping against your flesh, his puppy eyes looking up at you desperately and hands holding onto your thighs as if his life depended on it. His nails dug into your flesh as you tugged harder at his hair when you felt the tension in your stomach ready to snap.

“Fuck—“ you mumbled squeezing your eyes shut. “Michael.”

His eyes widen as he looked up at you. At your blush, at your trembling thighs, at your hand squeezed on his hair. He felt your orgasm on his tongue, the sweet, sweet release. He made you cum. He. Michael Gavey ate out Felix’s younger sister.

He moved away as your grip relaxed, pulling himself up. His eyes wandered up at the blush on your cheeks, trembling of your thighs, rise of your chest. His gaze was hazed. Pleading. Mouth open, gasping for air and chin dripping with your release.

Oh god he looked so pretty.

When your hand fell from his head on his cheek he melted. His grip on your thigh let go leaving behind red marks that will sure turn into bruises tomorrow. His hands wandered to pull back your panties on before your hand stopped him and frown bloomed on your face. It’s not like you haven’t seen his dick straining against the fabric of his pants, it’s wasn’t hard to miss when you were standing between your parted legs.

“What are you doing?” Your tone almost accusatory made him pause with your panties half in way to cover you again.

“I’m—“

“I thought we’re having sex” you said when your thumb moved to wipe his off your release.

His lips parted slightly as he looked at you. Shocked and flushed embarrassed at the realization that dawned over him.

“I’m… not gonna last” he swallowed leaning closer making your noses almost bump together.

He was reluctant yet needy. So needy and desperate, to feel you around him, the warmth, the wetness he always imagined while jerking off in his dorm.

“It’s okay I already came.” his gaze snapped up to your eyes shocked at your words.

“Are you sure?”

A small nod that you gave him was all it took for him to start tugging at his belt quickly as his lips crashed against yours impatiently. A quiet whine fell right into his mouth as you tasted your own release on his tongue. It was weird this connection you shared, the quiet, desperate need to just continue kissing him as if his dick wasn't throbbing in his pants and your own pants weren't hanging from your ankles.

Michael was shy now as he moved away to reposition between your legs. Vulnerable at freshly given consent or more. Assurance. You with your sweet eyes made him safe and comfortable, despise the fact that he surely won't make you cum like that. Few pumps and he'll be done. Embarrassing really. But not now, not to him. Not when you let him so close to you already, only to agree to let him even closer.

The movements of his hands were careful; one squeezed on your waist carefully, the other pulled your panties to the side before getting his length out of his boxers.

He was long but not thick. With a vein running underside and this pretty cherry pink tip.

"Pink?" you asked innocently as to taunt him for his earlier teasing.

He inhaled shakily looking at you. "You fucking tease" he grumbled shaking his head.

"Just asking"

"Please, do shut up"

Your mouth opened yet again, but this time instead of words a surprised moan left them. As he pressed between your folds. Michael's eyes squeezed shut at the warmth and wetness caused by your previous orgasm. It was better than he imagined, soft and slightly tight from the muscles still being strained. It was way better than when he was fucking his hand. Better than anything he imagined. He watched as your hands fell from his face to grip at the edge of the table as he moved slowly trying to prolong the whole experience. Your whiny breaths echoed in his ears as he dropped his head on your shoulder, nose nudging the side of your neck.

You felt him moving within, the trembling inexperienced movements getting faster with each second bringing him to the edge and making you curl your toes as the sensitivity from earlier release haven't worn off yet. You pressed your cheek to his head as he once again squeezed the flesh on your hips probably adding bruises to those soon blooming on your thighs.

"Fuck-." he mumbled, his panting against your skin causing a shiver to run down your spine. "You feel so absolutely fucking amazing."

"Michael-." A quiet moan left your mouth when you felt him pressing against the spongy spot inside and your thighs squeezed on his hips. "Just-... fuck... right there."

"It's good?"

"It's amazing." you mumbled and your hand sneaked up into his hair again. "You're so good, so good for me."

A quiet praise, small and innocent, mumbled into his hair caused him to held onto you tightly as his cock twitched, releasing the warm robes of cum. He pulled out quickly cursing under his breath, his release coated your insides, then folds and clit with white spend. His fingers curled on your hip as he watched his softening cock resting between your thighs.

"I'm- so sorry." he mumbled straightening up slightly.

"It's fine." your assurance made his heart melt again as he stand there, feeling guilty and looking like the scolded puppy. "I'll buy a pill tomorrow morning."

You heard the sharp inhale and saw the guilty nod before he released your hips. Your own hand fell from his hair to pull him into kiss by the collar of his shirt. It was delicate, calming after all that just happened, comforting. You let him run his hand up and down your waist, bump his nose against your with each kiss.

You pulled your panties back from the side still following the rhythm of his mouth until quiet and a little wobbly steps interrupted the peaceful moment. Your eyes snapped open and you pulled away from the kiss listening as Michael readjusted his boxers quickly.

"Wrap it up, you fucking nerd." Farleigh's voice came from afar and your cursed under your breath. "Came to pick you up, we have to find Felix-."

Fucking Farleigh, fucking Felix.

Michael clenched his jaw, the quiet and comforting atmosphere was brutally ended by your cousin and he never, never wanted to strangle Start more than now. Even more when you moved quickly pulling on your pants. He stood there with lips parted as you just let his cum dry on you skin and inside.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry." you said looking at him with embarrassment and regret. "I didn't think he'll come here."

Michael nodded silently buttoning his pants again as if nothing has happened. "It's fine" he mumbled and your heart shattered, it wasn't fine. It was very much not fine.

"Just... find me on Facebook alright?" you said and you eyes went to cup his cheek before inhaling.

God how embarrassing it was.

"Y-yeah... I... I'll find you." he mumbled quietly fixing his glasses.

"I'm so sorry." You hands quickly gathered the things laying on the table, like you haven't been just fucked on it few minutes ago.

You'll fucking kill Farleigh.

"Promise you'll text me." you added before hurriedly pressing your lips to his.

He moaned quietly into your lips, closing his eyes momentary. Your hand involuntarily went back to his cheek and you gasped as his hand desperately clenched on your sweater, tugging you slightly towards him, not wanting to let go, not yet. Just a bit longer, just to bask in the afterglow just a moment more.

"Promise." he nodded as your breath mixed together.

You nodded back smiling again. "Good." you inhaled before pecking his lips again and grabbing the rest of your stuff, as Farleigh's steps were getting closer and closer.

You shared the last glance before you disappeared behind the bookcases and then he could calmly exhale starting to slowly process what just happened. The messy kisses, the lingering taste of you still on his tongue and the best fucking feeling of your cunt being wrapped around his cock.

Michael he could die a happy man now.

Could. If he hadn't promised you something.

His trembling hands went to his phone and opened the app at the same moment scrolling through the Cattons.

Felix Catton. No.

Venetia Catton. No?

There you were.

Quickly he tapped add and with blush on his cheeks and ragged breath.

Just to see a notification from you mere seconds later.

He could die a happy man now.

autor note: this chapter is short and kind of shit (especially end, i got lazy). When i started writing this I didn't even think about turning it in the series and the idea popped in my head when i had like half of it written. So... next chapters will hopefully be longer and better lmaoo.

[eriace]

strings of fate ; monoma neito

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which y/n can see everyone’s red strings of fate—except her own. she opens a soulmate matchmaking agency and becomes the cupid of musutafu… until one day, a loud, dramatic blond named monoma waltzes in, and suddenly, her own string lights up—straight to him. ↷ monoma neito ; my hero academia

↳ an order of espresso shot from @sailorstar9 in the comeback cafe event !

Y/N HAD LONG accepted she was the human embodiment of irony.

Born with a Quirk that let her see the Red Strings of Fate—yes, the ones that tied soulmates together—she had the one job that basically made her a magical Cupid.

And yet.

Her string? Invisible.

Not just invisible. Blank. Empty. A tragic red question mark in a sea of intertwined lovebirds. A matchmaking agency owner without a match.

Cruel. Funny. Typical.

“Maybe the universe just knows you’d be too powerful in love,” her friend once told her.

She accepted that. Mostly. Kind of.

Until he walked in.

It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were usually slow.

Y/n was behind her desk filling out paperwork and debating if she should sneak in a nap when the front door burst open like it owed someone money.

“I demand to speak to the matchmaker of legends!” came a theatrical voice.

She looked up.

And nearly choked on her own breath.

There, standing in the doorway with the energy of someone who probably narrated their own mirror pep talks, was Monoma Neito. Loud. Blonde. Probably too pretty for his own good.

“Um. That’s me,” she blinked, setting her pen down.

He marched forward, coat swishing like he was on a runway.

“I’ve heard rumors—whispers!—of your talents. If anyone is worthy of finding someone who can handle my brilliance, it’s you.”

Y/n blinked slowly. “…okay.”

He plopped into the chair across from her. “Make me a match.”

She opened her mouth to reply.

And that’s when she saw it.

A glowing, crimson string shooting from his pinky… and tying itself right to hers.

She stared.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“…what?” she croaked.

“Exactly!” Monoma grinned. “That’s the correct reaction to meeting me.”

She kept staring at the string.

No way.

No. Way.

Her invisible, unattached, traitorous Red String was no longer invisible. It was now glowing like a neon ‘OPEN’ sign… and it was connected to Monoma Neito.

“…I think my Quirk just glitched.”

“Excuse you?”

She stood up, panicked. “Wait right here. I need—I need tea. Or water. Or wine. Or all three.”

Ten minutes later, she sat across from him, string still intact, tea in hand, and brain fried.

He sipped his own drink, unbothered.

“So. Who’s the lucky person I’m destined for?”

She stared.

He smiled.

She opened her mouth.

“It’s me.”

He blinked. “…excuse me?”

“Your string’s tied to me. My Quirk never let me see mine before. But now it’s glowing like a Christmas light.”

Silence.

Then he blinked again. “Are you saying you’re my soulmate?”

“Unfortunately.”

He leaned back with the air of someone who’d definitely practiced this speech in the mirror. “Hah! Of course. Only someone of my caliber would be fated to the city’s most elite matchmaker. It was destiny!”

“You were two seconds away from getting paired with someone named Koji who collects rare rocks.”

He gasped. “Blasphemy!”

She laughed, finally relaxing. The tension in her chest fizzled away like steam.

Monoma was chaotic, loud, and dramatic to the point of cartoonish. But somehow, it… fit. His string was tied to hers. And despite all her complaints, her heart didn’t seem too mad about it.

He leaned forward, smirking now.

“So, does this mean our first date is free?”

“Only if you stop calling yourself ‘matchmaking royalty.’”

“Impossible. I’m soulmate nobility now.”

She sighed, sipping her tea.

“…fine. But you’re paying for dinner.”

“Deal. I’ll bring you a rose too. Soulmates deserve flair.”

She rolled her eyes—smiling.

Yeah. She could get used to this.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[three-cheers-for-green-tea]

Kay, mmmkay... we all agree that the MCU Thunderbolts* all deserve pets right?

Someone wrote a fic where Yelena named the guinea pig Tykva (Pumpkin in Russian) and now I can't stop thinking about it.

They have a whole system of who's baby can't be around someone else's. These are all based on my selfish desire to see these idiots happy and thriving.

1. Alpine. We know Bucky has a fluffy white cat in the comics. Petition to get her in the movies. She's deceptively pretty and well groomed. Will throw hands (paws?) with anyone. Especially Walker.

2. John. Walker gets a dog cause he's the token straight. But it's a female pitbull and she's somehow the most spoiled out of all of them. She's too big to be threatened by any of the other animals but she's also just a really sweet girl. Babysits the Thunderpets* when the humans are out.

3. Ava. This is the outlier. I feel like Ava would want one but not be sure if she's ready to commit. So she basically plays the cool pet aunt. All of the animals love playing with her the most. She phases through shit. They love trying to ambush her. Sometimes it works, mostly when she's just woken up and had no coffee yet. She eventually gets a Chinchilla. Loves it to bits. It kinda vibes with John's dog. Is not allowed to meet anything that could eat it. And this list has a few of those.

4. Alexei. You would think he'd also get a big dog or a cat like the other two super soldiers. The problem is he can't decide on which of the two, so he settles on a dog the size of a cat. Probably a pomeranian. Also very spoiled. Much more of a menace than Walker's dog. Weirdly, vibes with Alpine. It's on site with Bucky and Bob, though.

5. Bob. Bob would absolutely want an "easy" to take care of pet. He scoures the internet and someone is selling a sphinx cat. He goes "Cool! No fur, less cleaning". He does not research sphinx grooming requirements before he takes the kitten. He does a great job with the help of the girls (and Bucky, because cat dads gotta stick together). The Sphynx is secretly everyone's second favorite (only preceeded by their own baby). It's chill, friendly and used to everyone, after a few bathtime debacles. Very protective of Bob. Sleeps in his sweater while he reads. It's on the fence about Alexei and Walker. Mainly because they're both loud.

6. Yelena's guinea pig is what started all of this. Both for them and for me. It gets play dates with Ava's Chinchilla. They're chill. Mostly chasing each other around and snuggling up for naps. The ladies will occasionally make it rain lettuce and parsley while listening to Usher's Yeah! They've only been caught a few times. Yelena will carry it around everywhere with her. She's also the person that does the most reading about Bob's sphynx.

There it is. I'm so back in my Marvel era.

[lau219]

Catching Feelings

Raymond Leon x Female Reader (Y/N)

Part 1 of 2

“You have a date?” Shannon repeated in surprise, her eyebrows rising. “What do you mean you have a date? I thought you were with Leon?”

Despite the pain that hearing his name secretly caused her, Y/N gave a snigger of irritation and disgust at the mention of Raymond.

“Not anymore,” she said then. “He dumped me last month. But then again, I don’t even know if it can be considered dumping when I can’t even say we were actually a couple.”

Shannon tilted her head.

“I’d say you were,” she replied. “I mean, weren’t you guys dating for over a year?”

Y/N sighed.

“I don’t think what we were doing qualifies as dating,” she said. “He would just randomly demand me to spend time with him when he decided he wanted me around for a while, and then he’d kick me out when he decided he was sick of me.”

“Seriously?” Shannon asked. “Wow, I had no idea.”

Y/N nodded.

“It was the same way in the bedroom. He’d call on me whenever he wanted sex, and then he’d basically tell me to get lost when he was done with me. I hated it. It made me feel so cheap and just…like an object he didn’t even care about.”

“Why did you put up with it for so long, then?” Shannon asked. “I mean, it’s been common knowledge around here for the last year that you two were…whatever you want to call it.” She then widened her eyes in emphasis as she looked at Y/N. “Over a year, actually.”

Y/N shrugged her shoulders and gave a shake of her head as she thought back, the pain still very real.

“I kept hoping something would change with him,” she said. “I mean, when we first started ‘dating’, we agreed it was casual, and I was fine with that. But then, after a few months, he started wanting me around more often than he used to, and he’d be changing my shifts to coincide with his and making me tell him all my social plans so he’d always know where I’d be. And then he told me that, even during times when I wasn’t spending time with him, he didn’t want me seeing anyone else.”

“Sounds like he saw it as more than just hooking up,” said Shannon.

“That’s what I thought,” Y/N nodded. “And so I kept going back to him because I thought he would eventually drop the tough guy act and give me something real. I mean, I know we initially agreed it was casual, but when he started getting possessive and wanting me around more often, I thought that meant he cared about me. There were even some moments here and there where he’d be sweet or soft with me, and I thought we were both catching feelings. I mean, I was, but whenever I broached it with him or asked him what it meant, he’d get cold again and tell me to leave.”

“Geez, what an asshole,” said Shannon.

Y/N shook her head as she thought about the day last month outside the station when Ray had told her it was over.

“I kept hoping he’d eventually be real with me. I mean, in those rare moments, it felt genuine, and despite how he is sometimes, I thought he…” Y/N trailed off for a moment, looking hurt. “I didn’t expect for anything to actually develop, but it did. And then, last month, I made the mistake of telling him that I love him.”

Shannon’s brows shot up again.

“You did?! And what did he say to that?”

Y/N gave her a look.

“I already told you. He dumped me.”

“You mean, right after you said that?” Shannon asked for clarification, and Y/N nodded.

“It was right before a shift. We’d driven to work together and he’d gotten all distant again. So I asked him when he was going to finally make up his mind about what I was to him. He didn’t say anything, but then when I told him I loved him but I couldn’t just be an afterthought anymore, he dumped me.”

“What exactly did he say?” asked Shannon.

Y/N sighed again and then answered.

“I said, ‘I need to know what I am to you, because you say one thing but then do another, and I don’t know what it means. You either want me or you don’t. And I love you, but I can’t just drift along like this anymore.’” And then he just stared at me for a moment, and then he said, ‘You don’t have to drift anymore, ‘cause we’re done.’”

Shannon’s mouth dropped open.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“Yes,” Y/N nodded, “and then that was the end of it. He just walked away, and we haven’t spoken since.”

Shannon shook her head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe that,” she said. “I mean, everyone knows he’s no walk in the park, but I can’t believe he could be that cold.”

“I couldn’t believe it either, but at the same time, I realize I should have known better,” said Y/N. “But now I just have to try and forget about him. Hence the date with Nichols.”

“Did you really love him?” asked Shannon.

Y/N nodded.

“Yes, but he obviously doesn’t even care about me. What I thought I felt from him, I was wrong.”

“Does he know you’re going out with Nichols?” Shannon asked then.

Y/N shrugged.

“I don’t think so, but even if he does, he shouldn’t care. I mean, clearly, I’m not important to Ray, so it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re better off without him,” Shannon agreed. “He’s a dick.”

Y/N nodded.

“Too bad I didn’t fully believe that until it was too late,” she said.

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[thedamnqueenofhell]

Rainy Mornings

Pairing: Robby x fem!reader x Jack Abbot

CW: smutty af; 18+; Jack and Robby kiss and a little bit more; subby reader and doms Jack & Robby; anal (f receiving); oral (m & f receiving at the same time basically).

Summary: smut with very little plot. A raining morning in brings back memories of the night before with everyone’s two favorite ER cowboys.

Roughly 825 words.

Note: not beta read. I have not written smut in 15+ years so be nice.

The rain on the window woke you up. Not in an unpleasant way, but the sound still pushed the sleep away. But you didn’t want to leave the bed, or the warmth of the two men that surrounded you. Your body still ached from last night, bringing a smile to your face as memories of the night float through your brain. The mess of it all, the tangle of limbs, and the many, many orgasms that flowed through the three of you.

Your smile must have given you away because you hear Robby whisper to Jack that he thinks you’re awake. You sigh in response, mumbling “barely” as you snuggle into Robby’s arm. You feel Jack settle behind you, his arm on your waist.

“Good thing we all have the day off,” Jack says.

“All thanks to the awesome attending who makes the schedule,” you respond. “I don’t think I could have worked today after what you two did to me last night.”

“Baby girl, was that a complaint I heard?”

“Not at all Michael. Not at all.”

“Good girl,” he replied. The memories of the night before came back to the forefront of your mind with that praise.

The three of you not even making it to the bedroom before their hands were on you. You kissing Robby and then Jack, you between them as they took their turns on your lips. Jack kissing Robby while you ran your tongue down Robby’s neck. You pushing Jack down so you can climb on top of him. Robby and Jack lifting your shirt off, unclasping your bra and playing with your nipples. Soon none of you have any clothes on, Jack even removing his prosthetic. Eventually you’re riding Jack, reverse cowgirl, as Robby knelt behind you, mouth on your pussy and Jack’s cock, not letting up until you were screaming both of their names. Then Jack spinning you around until you’re facing him. Robby’s absence confused you at first, until you realized he was going for the lube.

“You let me know when to stop. If it gets to be too much. But I want to feel you both.” You nod your consent as Robby starts working your ass with his fingers, slowly getting you ready for him. Jack moves your face so he can look in your eyes, see your face as Robby first enters you. You gasp at the sensation, and Robby stops moving.

“She’s fine. Getting even wetter by the moment. She loves being used by us, don’t you?” You nod, not fully being able to form a coherent sentence.

“Use your words baby girl,” Robby says. When you don’t respond right away you feel Jack twist your nipple.

“Answer him.”

“Yes, fuck yes. I love being used by you. By both of you. Fuck, I love being yours.”

“That’s it. That’s our good girl. So eager to please. So eager to be filled by both of us. You like me filling your pussy while Robby fills your ass? You just love coming undone for us, don’t you?”

“Gods yes. Please don’t stop. I’m so close,” you beg as your orgasm builds up.

“I don’t know brother, you think she’s earned this?”

“She is taking us so well. I can feel her pussy clenching around your cock, so eager to give us everything. Come for us baby girl, let us feel you.” Robby reaches around you to thumb your clit. Jack plays with your nipples and the sensation of everything sending you over the edge. You can feel it build up in your stomach, the white heat spreading until you see stars.

“What a good girl, coming undone for us,” you feel Robby’s beard on your neck as he whispers in your ear. The extra sensation proves to be too much, and you feel the heat starting up again.

“Please, I’m going to come again. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.” Robby and Jack share a smile as Jack pulls you in for a kiss. Robby leans down so he can kiss your neck as your second orgasm of the night rips through you.

“Oh, that good girl does something to you, doesn’t it?” Jack asks, bringing you back to the present.

“You know it does. You both know what you do to me.”

“What we do to you? You drive me crazy. You drive us crazy,” Robby responds. You smile at his words, one hand playing with his Star of David necklace, the other reaching to your hip to lace your fingers with Jack’s.

“I guess we can call it even. We all drive each other crazy.”

The rest of the day passes in a quiet, content way. You eventually get out of bed to get food, but once you’re done with breakfast you all crawl back into bed.

“You know, last night was a dream come true, but I think rainy days in bed like this are my favorite,” you mumble. And they were.

[concreteangel92]

Well, so my request is basically what the reblog said. Because it kinda gives dom Noah vibes I think you're perfect for it🤭

"You want my fingers? Here you go, use them." but he literally gives you his hand, fingers loose and smirk on his face. So you do everything in your fucked up state to use his hand and fingers to touch yourself with it, he's no help at all, just smirking and teasing you with his words. Do whatever you want with this it will be good either way, thank you

Noah Sebastian x female reader

18+

Warnings: Dom!Noah, a lot of degradation, slight humiliation kink in a way, dom/sub relationship, fingering (female receiving)

Haha thank you my lovely and I hope this is close to what you envisioned ☺️

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Masterlist

“You want my fingers?” he murmurs, that lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rests his hand over your thigh as you straddle his lap and you nod eagerly.

“Here you go. Use them”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Wh…what?”

His hand stays still, fingers relaxed over your heated skin. “You heard me. You want to cum so badly baby? Then make it happen. While I watch”

The heat between your thighs flares instantly, but your face burns as you shift in his lap, hesitating, but his smug little smirk and that cocky raise of his eyebrow as a silent challenge does something dangerous to your brain and you forget about your embarrassment.

You straddle his hand, reach down with trembling fingers and wrap his middle and ring finger together just right, adjusting yourself as you slid down onto them, his fingers still relaxed.

“Oh fuck”

His eyes are locked onto your face, dark and blown wide as you grind slowly, using his hand to get yourself off and he doesn’t lift a damn muscle to help.

“That’s it” he whispers, watching your thighs tremble. “Such a good girl when you’re this needy. You’ll do anything for it, won’t you?”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Look at you. Fucking yourself on my hand like a needy little slut. You gonna come just like that baby?” he murmurs, watching the way your hips roll, the slick mess starting to soak his fingers. “Just from using my hand?”

You whimper, you’re already shaking, the feeling of his thick fingers against your walls was making your head spin and he wasn’t even moving. Just sitting back, lips parted, his gaze fixed on the place where your cunt is grinding down on him.

“Pathetic. So fucking desperate you’ll use me like a toy”

And when he curls his fingers, just slightly, your whole body jolts with a loud cry.

“Thought you liked it when I did the work?” he taunts you with the degradation that he knows you love, tilting his hand just enough to drag his palm against your clit as you rock. “But maybe you like this better. Getting off while I sit here, watching you fall apart?”

You whimper his name, legs twitching as your rhythm stutters.

“No!”

Noah growls as he grips your thigh with his free hand. “You don’t get to stop now angel. You ride it out, you wanted this remember?”

You sob and whine as you started grinding harder, your legs trembling, breath coming in short, broken gasps as you work yourself on his hand. You could feel the burn in your thighs and hear the slick sound of your arousal coating his fingers, saw the cruel curl of his mouth as he watches you come undone, it’s all too much.

“That’s it….you’re close, I can feel it”

You moaned again, biting your lip, hips stuttering as the pressure coils tighter and tighter inside of you. He shifts his fingers just a fraction, enough to hit that spot, and your entire body locks up.

“Oh fuck…” you gasp and he finally moves, just once, curling them deep.

“That’s it….cum on my fingers like a good girl”

The orgasm crashes through you hard, white, hot and overwhelming, your cry muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder as your whole body trembles as waves of pleasure roll over you, and he holds you through it, his hand never leaving you, fingers still resting deep inside, coaxing every last spasm from your body.

“Good girl” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “That’s my girl”

You sag against him, limp and wrecked, and he finally wraps his arms around you properly, pulling you into his lap.

“And I didn’t even have to lift a finger,” he murmurs, chuckling softly.

[witches-dream]

I'm really curious about what the other beastancient legendary costume pairs will be so here' some theorizing by: ME

So, so far we have 2 pairs but they have different concepts: one is basically a swap au, while the other is something like a bad ending type deal. We can expect the other 3 pairs to either have their own concepts, more fitting for their characters and dynamics, or to continue playing with concepts similar to these two. Since we know nearly nothing about Silent Salt so far, i'm gonna skip on talking about them

The concept where the ancient joins the beast really only works for eternalberry, where Sugar actively wanted Holly to remain at her side. It is also PARTIALLY what happened with Truthless Recluse, but since he already temporarily joins Shmilk in the story, the costume set had a different idea, that being an alternate universe where Shmilk and Vani swap places (while still, interestingly, remaining themselves in their heart, down to having the same motivations as their normal counterparts; just existing on a different side of the narrative). With eternalberry, however, it's less like a parallel timeline where things are different, and more like another way that things could've happened in the main story. Holly even has her doubts about staying in the garden, proving that she's still very much the same person.

So, with these two sets, a pattern already emerges: 1) both costume sets show how things could've "gone differently" and 2) it does so by reimagining the same characters in a new situation, rather than changing the characters completely. That is to say, my first theory is: *drumroll* there WILL NOT be a corrupted ancient or a redeemed beast in these costumes. Because to have either happen, the character's lives must go so differently that they will become entirely different people. Of course, with only 2 sets, this cight as well be a coincidence. But I also think that keeping the former identities of the beasts a mystery adds to their characters and the fun of analyzing them. Basically, I would rather continue theorizing rather than being handed an answer. Although! Corrupted ancients as a costume concept is a bit more likely (given that it's KIND OF what already happened with both sets), but when i say it won't happen, i mean we won't get "ancient if they became a beast". It will be more akin to the sets we already got, where, you can notice, the ancients don't entirely agrre with their beast half (even Holly)

Mystic Flour better get another legend costume that's NOT a part of a set with Cacao, because, since they're already doing sets, it means all pairs will get one, but Mystic is still in the queue for her COTY costume. Give her like a cute Valentines one like they do for COTY winners in CROB, or a Christmas one since they already missed out on Valentine's. As for the set with Cacao, I don't think there's a universe in which they are together bc obv Mystic's goal is to erase the whole damn world. A swap au like in shadowvani's case wouldn't work either, since you can't easily swap their soul jams like you can with shadowvani, as in mysticao's case, their conflict is not a "two sides of the same coin" or a difference in ideologies; their Resolution and Apathy (Emptiness) are polar opposites that i don't think would necessarily work well in a swap situation. So, what could they do? They could swap aesthetics, for one, but that's boring. But here's something interesting they have in common that wasn't explored in the story: their connection to dragons. Dark Cacao is obvious, but, if you didn't know, her gacha background portrays her facing a dragon (on the left)

Som could both of them, like, fuse with dragons and begin an eternal fight like the black and white dragons that Cacao sealed...? Idk, i think that's a sick idea. So that's one theory that I have.

Goldenspice (i'm STICKING with this name, ok) is hard also, bc similarly to mysticao, i don't think you could twist the story for them to be together and whatnot. It's either one survives, or the other. Except, Goldie doesn't kill Spice in the story, and we don't exactly know her motivation (we do know the writers' one tho lol), but i think for her to kill him is to prove him right about destruction being "the only way". So, why don't we go that route...? Goldie's costume is the timeline where she defeats Spice without awakening, killing him because of anger rather than because of her wish to protect what's dear to her, and becoming a lot more of cruel person afterwards. And Spice's costume is one where he kills Goldie, in which he becomes sorta detached and apathetic, where destruction no longer brings him the same joy because he no longer has the perfect opponent to look forward to. In both instances, they get the other's Soul Jam, but the light of theirs fades and they become ordinary gemstones. How's that for a bad ending...? (I gotta say, it's interesting, but i don't think it's gonna happen even remotely, lol).

[eluxurex]

gimmie sooty lore they look cool

Well, that guy is probably one of my least traumatized OCs and that's just because I prefer to keep most of his trauma as a 'what if' scenario that never actually happens in canon.

But I guess before I explain that, I shall explain how his world works.

Well, I like to think that the Earth as well know it (in this universe) has some sort of funnel shaped mist on top of it.

This is just a messy sketch, and probably even accurate too because the mist is so much that you probably won't see the complete shape of it, such everyone just thinks it's funnel shaped

So basically this... thing, generates souls. Nobody is too sure what exactly happens inside it that souls are created, because this mist can only be seen on certain days (If you're someone who doesn't have the gift too see it 24/7) when there's lots of traffic going on (Lots of souls being created or lots of soul 'returning to their origin')

When you die, your soul leaves your body and floats back up into the mist, most people have agreed that when that happens, your soul is broken to its most basic components and recycled, for a new soul to make use of. Sometimes this process isn't entirely clean, as some people have reported having memories of things they don't think they've done, which was something that fueled the idea of past lives.

Anyways, souls are usually given traits on what sort of body they are meant to inhabit (human, monster, animal) but sometimes mistakes happen and they enter the wrong body. When that happens, the current that they are in starts together traits of the sort of vessel that they were actually supposed to be inside (For Sooty's case, he was meant to be a wolf, but his soul entered a human vessel, so the body adapted to the soul and got wolfish traits)

Children who died as soon as they were born, is a result of no soul claiming the vessel during gestation period.

Some souls weren't created from the mist, sometimes two or more very powerful individuals can be able to create a unique soul as they produce offspring, but it's a risky practice, as th mist doesn't accept souls that didn't come from it and the souls would now just be referred to as 'lost souls' floating around until God knows what happens to them. They are other ways a soul can be created, but maybe that will be another topic ig.

Now, enough with that, time for Sooty's lore. Well, since he's technically a wolf, he obviously will have some animalistic behavior. His parents (he never knew them) dumped him in the woods when he was barely a year old, because they got scared by the fact that he was having wolf ears ( there was a time where people didn't accept these sort of things and saw them as failed humans) but luckily for him so ironically got adopted by a pack, because apparently him being in a human body wasn't near to enough to severe the connection between the species he was actually meant to be.

But he didn't really stay with them for long. He wasn't that old when he realized that this sort of thing wouldn't work out in the long run, so he left them, surviving by himself. A lone wolf, if you want to call it. This guy was just around 7 when he did that, btw. That also didn't last for long, because child protective services found him, and were trying to educate him and teach him more human ways. It surprisingly worked out, but Sooty didn't have a legal name so they were still fishing around for names that will good for him.

So after that, they didn't want him to be lonely, so they took him to an orphanage where he met Eli (that one is another story on its own lmao). Eli didn't really like him (or anyone really) but after a while these guys became inseparable. And it was Eli that suggested the name Sooty to him to use.

So ye that's all basically.

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness… 

Workshop (Tony Stark x Reader AU)

word count: ~1.1k

masterlist

Tony Stark was good at flying solo. He was good at getting things done, inventing and reinventing and reinventing, and when he couldn’t sleep at night or didn’t want to think about anything else, he knew that he could tinker, and that was exactly what he did. It was starting to get to the point where the Avengers were worrying about his sanity. Well, it was a bit more like Nat, Steve, and Nick who cared. Everyone else had noticed, but it was Tony. It seemed normal for his hyperactive brain. 

Nick tried sending other people down while Tony worked. He began with Steve, and Steve walked down to the workshop, opened it up with the key Nick had given hi, and offered to Tony to help him out. Tony just quirked an eyebrow, looked over at Steve, and said one word. “You?”

Very seriously, Steve nodded. “Yes. Me. Is there anything I can do to help you out here?”

Tony snorted and returned to his work, ignoring Steve entirely. So Steve went back upstairs. The next day, Nick tried sending down Nat. Nat was slightly less ignored than Steve, but Tony quickly forgot she was there and forgot to give her anything to do, so she went back upstairs and informed Nick of the situation. Nick decided he was just going to run an intervention instead. 

“Tony,” Nick said. “You have spent twenty hours of the past twenty-four down in your workshop. It’s not healthy, and you need to stop.”

“Hey, I slept for those four! That’s pretty good for me,” Tony argued. 

Nick rolled his eyes. “Case in point, buddy. It’s not. Either we get someone down there to work with you so you stop overworking yourself, or you minimize the hours you’re there. What’s it gonna be?”

“The second one,” Tony grumbled.

And Tony tried. He really did. He tried not to be in the workshop every waking minute, tried to stay upstairs, converse with people, bully Steve in his free time instead of working. But then he slipped into the habit of sneaking downstairs into the workshop when Nick wasn’t around, and it did not take long before Nick caught on. 

And so you were hired. 

You walked on in to the workshop like you were walking into work, which, of course, you were, but Tony was more relaxed about these things. He seemed confused at first. His eyes flicked up and down and then he asked, “who are you?” 

“Uh, Nick hired me,” you informed. “He said that you needed someone to help out. I needed a new job. Ta-da! Here I am.” Your tone was laced with a hint of sarcasm that made Tony snort. And while he considered kicking you out, he decided that he really didn’t feel like it, and so he just went back to business. 

You just got in his business. It bothered him at first. Tony, again, preferred to fly solo. But he was starting to get some of your helpfulness. You’d solve problems before he could get to them, just to let him continue working on the project. He was doing things…more quickly, he supposed, and your presence was oddly comforting, despite the fact that he knew little about you. At 6 pm, you told him you were going to leave, and so he walked you out. During this brief time upstairs, he managed to get himself roped into a game of Monopoly. 

The next day, you showed up again at 8:30 am, didn’t bother to reintroduce yourself, and got right back to working with Tony. It went on for weeks. He actually looked forward to you coming, and when you left, he often wouldn’t go back downstairs into the workshop. But then he was starting to realize he didn’t know some very basic things about you. He knew your name, but…how old were you? What was your last name? Middle name? Favorite food, favorite movie, favorite book? He had no idea.

So the next time you showed up and got to working with him, Tony decided to ask some questions. As you were helping him attach two chest pieces of the Iron Man suit together, Tony asked, “so uh…what kinds of stuff do you like?”

“What do you mean?” you inquired, screwing in a bolt. 

“Well, I see you every day, and I don’t know anything about you,” Tony replied as he screwed in the bolts on the opposite side. “C’mon, you’ve gotta have likes and dislikes, a personality maybe?”

You snorted. “Uh… I mean, sure, yeah. I’ve got stuff I like to watch when I get home. Music I like.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” And you get talking. 

Tony’s a hyperverbal guy. He can talk for hours. And he’s actually pretty fun to talk to, as long as you’ve got the energy to deal with him. And you somehow do. 

It’s not long before Nick and the Avengers start to catch on to the fact that Tony likes you. “Don’t date her, Tony, she’s the best thing that’s happened to your mental state, and I would rather you not sacrifice that,” Natasha said. And yes. Tony valued Natasha and her opinion. But he decided to take that specific one with a grain of salt, and he went ahead and asked you out anyway. 

“Aren’t you technically my boss?” you countered. 

“Well, technically, Nick is your boss. I am just your only coworker,” Tony argued. 

You shrugged. “Sounds fine, then.”

The first date you go with Tony on is to a wing bar. You get the spiciest wings off the menu and try to beat each other at who can eat the most of them (they are ungodly hot), and then the two of you get stupider and decide to see if you drink the other one under the table. For a couple of geniuses, you’re both idiots. 

Now, you were both way too drunk to drive, so Tony called Rhodey to come and pick you both up. Rhodey was shaking his head in the front seat while you and Tony giggled in the back of the car like teenagers. 

Nick wasn’t happy about this at first, but he knew there was no way to really fully control Tony, and he eventually learned to let go of it. Besides, you’re Tony’s healthiest and longest lasting relationship in the past decade. Who would he be to break it up? 

taglist @spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624 @yeehawgiddyup13 @wpdarlingpan @puer-aurea

[thelawsofdaylight]

Every single mention of Feuilly ever /Feuilly meta masterpost

Because it's barricade day and because my fixation on Feuilly has only grown these past few months, I've compiled a list of every single time he's ever mentioned in the brick. (Twenty-six times, for those wondering.) Below is a rundown of every single Feuilly mention and what this tells us about Feuilly as a character, with meta from fandom discussions past sprinkled in wherever relevant.

WARNING: LONG POST AHEAD!!!

1. Feuilly's name listed amongst the members of Les Amis de l'ABC, in the following order:

Enjolras, Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle or Laigle, Joly, Grantaire.

Bonus Feuilly fact: Lesgle is singled out as the only one NOT from the South. Ergo, Feuilly is from the South.

Fun information on the meaning of Feuilly's name (spoiler alert: it's a pun) here!

2. Basic Feuilly information from his intro paragraph:

Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day... He had taught himself to read and write; everything that he knew, he had learned by himself.

A lot of information in relatively few words. I won't reinvent the wheel of Feuilly meta and instead I'm going to direct people to posts discussing Feuilly's financial/employment situation here and here and here and posts about fanmakers/the Paris fan industry in general here and here.

3. Information about Feuilly's political beliefs from his intro paragraph:

Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense... In this club of young Utopians, occupied chiefly with France, he represented the outside world.

Key Feuilly fact here: Feuilly cares about international politics. Like, really really really cares. He is not content with only liberating France and will not be satisfied until the whole world is free. He learns about a place's history and politics specifically so he can advocate for the rights and freedoms of its peoples! Ah, Feuilly <3

4. Feuilly's internationalist politics from his intro paragraph:

He had for his specialty Greece, Poland, Hungary, Romania, Italy... Above all things, the great violence of 1772 aroused him... All contemporary social crimes have their origin in the partition of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which all present political outrages are the corollaries... Such was Feuilly’s habitual text.

More internationalism! For more information about why Feuilly is interested in Italy see here. For 1772 and Poland specifically see here. Also this wonderful post about the historical context of Polish solidarity in French Republican circles (+some Enjolras/Feuilly propaganda.)

TLDR; Feuilly WILL find a way to bring the conversation back round to the injustice of Poland's partitioning and he's actually so correct for that! It's so important to me that people understand why Feuilly is so vocal about Poland and that he's not just bringing it up for shits and giggles, it serves a very real purpose in an organisation whose focus often doesn't extend beyond France!

5. Enjolras et ses lieutenants; Enjolras is directing Les Amis around Paris and he asks:

"Feuilly, you will see those of the Glacière, will you not?"

At least, this is how it's translated in the version I'm working from (Hapgood) but there's some interesting meta over this line as in the original French it goes "Feuilly, n'est-ce pas? Vous verrez ceux de la Glacière" Note the use of vous and the strange way the question is phrased! Interesting meta on this here and here and here. There's also a really sweet fanfic about the two of them discussing it here

I know, I know, only point 5 and we've already got contentious translations and multiple meanings. What can you do!

6. Enjolras et ses lieutenants; Enjolras is thinking about his powder-train of friends scattered all over Paris and their strengths:

Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm

(Original French: l'enthousiasme cosmopolite de Feuilly)

Enjolras admires Feuilly's internationalist politics so much he literally cites it as something he wants to draw upon to light the spark of revolution. A win for Enjolras/Feuilly nation. Also, some really really nice meta about the term 'cosmopolitan' and what it means in relation to Feuilly here.

7. Marius waking up the day of Lamarque's funeral and seeing:

Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room with their hats on and all ready to go out

Feuilly being present for the all important preparation the morning of the funeral- he's in the inner circle of the inner circle! I think we as a fandom need more triumvirate + Feuilly shenanigans, we really don't do enough with them!

Bonus link to what Feuilly might've worn in canon as this is the only quote that even slightly relates to it but I wanted to fit it in somehow.

8. At the start of the insurrection:

In the meantime, in the Marché Saint-Jean, where the post had already been disarmed, Gavroche had just “effected a junction” with a band led by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly.

The riot breaks out and insurrection begins. Feuilly is named as one of the leaders, alongside the triumvirate.

9. Describing what weapons everyone has and one of the only things Feuilly says in the entire book:

Feuilly, with a naked sword in his hand, marched at their head shouting: “Long live Poland!”

If you don't have much to say, better make it count right? He was so iconic for this. Also, background behind the cry and why it would've been a rallying call to migrant communities rather than just a funny thing he decided to say here. Yes, he's in France trying to overthrow the French king but Feuilly's a smart guy; he knows that no one is free until we're all free. He has a sword and he practices international solidarity. Feuilly Les Misérables no one is doing it like you!!!!!!

10. On the way to build a barricade:

Behind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded, Bahorel, who was like a fish in water in a riot. 

Not much actually about Feuilly here, but some nice characterisation of Bahorel!

11. Lesgle looking out the window of the Corinthe and paying particular attention to:

Feuilly with his sword.

Just in case you missed it the first time, Feuilly has a SWORD.

(Really sweet fic about how Feuilly acquired his sword here. Read it, trust me, it's so good.)

12. Building the barricade:

Feuilly, with his fingers skilled in painting the delicate sticks of fans, had backed up the barrels and the dray with two massive heaps of blocks of rough stone. Blocks which were improvised like the rest and procured no one knows where.

So that's two more important pieces of lore: Feuilly has skilled fingers and magical barricade building skills. No wonder Enjolras has a crush!

13. Sweet moment on the barricade:

Enjolras, whom it was impossible to divert, kept an eye on the sentinels, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their student life... these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses.

Which is interesting because Feuilly was never a student! I couldn't find any posts that address this but if you know of them, send them my way! My guess is that Hugo is simply using 'student life' in the past tense as a way to remind us that they've left their previous roles behind and have now transformed into Heroes of the Dawn. Or something. Either way, it's a sweet moment they all share before the fighting begins in earnest.

14. Feuilly and his battalion on the barricade:

Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed themselves, with their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.

Hugo tells us there were 50 insurgents total, 43 at the main barricade and Feuilly + his 6 in the windows. 6 men is a decent sized command! And they're stationed on the upper floors, so it'd make sense that they're the men best trained in shooting. Sharpshooter!Feuilly AU when? Also, lovely post about Feuilly and his six men here!

15. Night falls on the barricade. Enjolras tells everyone to sleep but no one listens:

Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:— LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES! These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848."

This makes me so emotional and I'm not okay about it at all. + Hugo's possible inspiration for this scene.

And also I'm going to sneak in a link to the fic I wrote for this year's barricade day focused on this moment here.

16. Courfeyrac bantering with Feuilly:

“I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished,” said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. “That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me. It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles.”

This is during the section where they wait for the city to rise with them. No dialogue from Feuilly here but he is at least present for this little interaction with Courfeyrac.

17 & 18. ENJOLRAS' BARRICADE SPEECH:

"Listen to me, you, Feuilly, valiant artisan, man of the people. I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die, that is to say to triumph, here."

NOW WE'RE TALKING!!!! Quote of all time for Enjolras/Feuilly shippers!! Enjolras giving his all important barricade speech ushering in a new world and he takes time out of all these metaphors of love and light to specifically shout out Feuilly and his glorious political worldview <3 Feuilly is right about the need to see beyond France, the need to encompass all of humanity in the scope of the fight for justice, and at that final moment before the end, Enjolras, our priest of the ideal, the logic of the revolution, literally tells him so. It's all so symbolic and Romantic and I could cry about it way longer than would be healthy.

Also worthy of note: in line with his praising of Feuilly's 'cosmopolitan enthusiasm' in point 5, this part comes directly after Enjolras is talking about the international struggle for justice- Feuilly's influence!!!

19 & 20. A moment of quiet on the barricade:

Combeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by Gavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly: “We are soon to take the diligence for another planet”

First Enjolras and now Bossuet: people are obsessed with telling Feuilly he's about to die soon. Also! Second instance of someone bantering with Feuilly and Feuilly having no recorded response.

21. Enjolras and Feuilly barricade logistics dream team:

"In less than a minute, two thirds of the stones which Enjolras had had piled up at the door of Corinthe had been carried up to the first floor and the attic, and before a second minute had elapsed, these stones, artistically set one upon the other, walled up the sash-window on the first floor and the windows in the roof to half their height. A few loop-holes carefully planned by Feuilly, the principal architect, allowed of the passage of the gun-barrels."

I just think there's so much to be said for how much of a key player Feuilly is in barricade construction. He and Enjolras carefully planning and executing contingency scenarios, doing it so efficiently and with so much thought... and all just to buy them a few minutes more time!

22 & 23. More stunning teamwork from the dream team:

"[Enjolras] issued his final orders in the tap-room in a curt, but profoundly tranquil tone; Feuilly listened and replied in the name of all. “On the first floor, hold your axes in readiness to cut the staircase. Have you them?” “Yes,” said Feuilly. “How many?” “Two axes and a pole-axe.” “That is good. There are now twenty-six combatants of us on foot. How many guns are there?” “Thirty-four.” “Eight too many. Keep those eight guns loaded like the rest and at hand. Swords and pistols in your belts. Twenty men to the barricade. Six ambushed in the attic windows, and at the window on the first floor to fire on the assailants through the loop-holes in the stones. Let not a single worker remain inactive here. Presently, when the drum beats the assault, let the twenty below stairs rush to the barricade. The first to arrive will have the best places.”

Feuilly's longest recorded conversation. Short, sweet, to the point. Also emphasises his leadership and the trust that Enjolras has in him. Both of them staying calm and collected even under the immense pressure of a final assault and their almost certain deaths. The logistics talk right before the end... reference to Feuilly's six men who have now moved to the attic windows... the conviction of it all.... Oh, Feuilly <3

24. A conversation just before the end:

“Can any one understand,” exclaimed Feuilly bitterly, “those men,—[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging to the old army]—who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!” And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile. “There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the stars, from a great distance.”

Longest piece of Feuilly dialogue! I think it's so interesting that Feuilly is the one who shows anger at having been abandoned by prominent figures- and for an idea of who he might've been referring to, see posts here and here and here (and thank you @pilferingapples for those links!)

I also think it's very relevant that his anger is directed at those people specifically and not The People at large. There's no blame placed on other workers, no anger in him for any of his fellow men- he specifically and explicitly blames the failure on a handful of named figures who had the power and influence to secure a different outcome but didn't. It feels hugely important to have this section of dialogue here, right before they all die. Feuilly man of the peoples always <3

25. :(

Feuilly was killed

26. Our last Feuilly mention :( Just a reminder that Feuilly is dead and the barricade has fallen:

When there were no longer any of the leaders left alive, except Enjolras and Marius at the two extremities of the barricade, the centre, which had so long sustained Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Combeferre, gave way.

And that is EVERY SINGLE MENTION OF FEUILLY EVER. If you have more meta or context that you think I've missed, please feel free to add on to the post, or link to other posts discussing Feuilly! I've done my best with the tumblr search feature but as we all know, that is by no means a comprehensive search tool anymore. All English quotes are taken from Hapgood because it's the best available version for copy + pasting online.

Huge shoutout to the various people whose blogs were invaluable in the quest for Feuilly meta, whether still in the fandom or long since deactivated <3

And remember:

VIVENT LES PEUPLES!!!