#anyway i have...............Nothing to say for myself

[docrobinavitch]

if you are taking prompts... I'd love to see Jack or Robby helping the reader decompress after a long/rough day. I have just had such a day myself and I am decompressing through gifs and my imagined conversations with these men lol. Like Robby telling you're a little off just saying "what's on your mind sweetheart?" 😭 so soft

nonnie thank u for the prompt bestie, it made me want to try my hand at dr. abbot. it is on the shorter side, i hope that's ok!!

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dr. abbot x f!reader content: 18+ mdni, swearing, nothing else really, pureeeee fluff words: 1.7k masterlist

You couldn’t get out of the building fast enough when the clock read 4:30. You shoved everything in your backpack and grabbed your badge before walking quickly towards the elevators—

A familiar voice called out your name as you passed and, closing your eyes for a moment in defeat, you walked back a few paces, “What’s up?” You asked as you leaned into his doorway, not even bothering to paste a smile on your face.

“Those letters I asked you to draft, have you worked on them yet?”

Oh, your patience was wearing so very thin, “I emailed them to you last week.”

“Oh… Really? Huh… Must’ve missed them. And how many are there that need to go out?”

You sighed, “Not sure. I’d have to look.”

“And you made those edits we talked about?”

“Yes,” You said slowly, “If we talked about it then I did it, as requested.”

He stared at his computer screen for another few moments in silence and you hated yourself for waiting for a dismissal. You were off the fucking clock and he had been hounding you all day. And he wasn’t even your direct manager. Not to mention, you had had this very same discussion just yesterday. 

“Is that all?” You said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

“Oh, sure, sure. Have a good night.”

You headed for the elevators again, this time making it out unscathed.

Just as you were boarding the T to go home, your phone buzzed with a text from Jack. 

Therapist said we are due for a romantic getaway. Something about how all I talk about in sessions lately is how much I miss you. I think he’s full of shit. I talk about you a normal amount.

You smiled down at your phone and waited, seeing the speech bubbles still moving on screen.

Anyway, how does Punta Cana sound? 

Like a dream, You typed and sent, then, Are you still home?

Your phone buzzed almost immediately with his reply, Yes, making you dinner.

You were embarrassed by the way your eyes teared up when you read that text. You were so exhausted, so on edge, you had planned on just eating a protein bar and rotting on the couch. But Jack was home and cooking. You’d have time to see him off to work, maybe even eat dinner together if you got home early enough. The thought was enough to soothe your frayed nerves.

My hero. You replied, then leaned your head back and closed your eyes.

***

When you walked in the door of your apartment, you were met with the comforting smell of garlic and basil. Jack called out your name in question from the kitchen.

“It’s me.” You called back as you took off your shoes and jacket.

Jack was at the stove, looking to be in the process of plating your dinner, “Excellent timing.” He said with a smirk and slid a now full plate in front of a chair.

You stared at him for a few moments longer, a wistful smile on your face, and he gave you a funny look, “Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

You just shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak in case you fell apart. 

But it didn’t matter much, because Jack saw it all over your face, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head again and he put down what he was doing, walking over to you and pulling you into his arms.

You allowed yourself to be coddled for a few moments before speaking, “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Just happy to see you.”

He pulled back slightly, moving his head so he was in your direct line of vision and you were forced to meet his eyes, “Well I’m happy to see you too. Bad day?”

You shrug, “Irritating day, I guess. But it’s fine, really.”

You could tell he didn’t believe you, but he let it drop, “Okay, go sit and eat, then.”

The two of you ate, mostly in silence. You could feel his assessing eyes on you. This was an occupational hazard of dating an emergency medicine doctor. Or maybe all doctors, you weren’t quite sure, Jack was the only doctor you’d ever dated. He was always trying to diagnose a problem if he sensed you were even a little off. When you first started dating, it had irritated you to no end. But as time went on, you accepted that it wasn’t that he was trying to find fault in you, but that he just wanted to make sure you were okay. And if you weren’t okay, he needed to be a part of making you okay again, even if that just meant sitting next to you and holding your hand.

When you finished your plate, you took both his and yours to the sink, if only to get his eyes off you. But he couldn’t be dissuaded. You heard him behind you before you felt his arms twine around your waist, kissing the spot between your neck and shoulders as you rinsed the dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher.

“C’mere,” He said softly and gently turned you until you were facing him. He placed his hands on either side of your face, calluses brushing gently over your cheeks. Again, he sought eye contact with you, “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

You were embarrassed when your body betrayed you, eyes tearing up at his attention, “It’s nothing, I’m just tired.”

He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at you, “Is it that asshole you work with again? Because, seriously, at the next office party if he talks to you like that again you’ll have to leave me at home unless you want me to make a scene.”

You huffed a laugh through your tears, “Yes and no. It was just really hectic today and he didn’t… help matters.” You sighed heavily, “Sorry, I feel so stupid complaining about my job when you have to leave to go do the hardest job in the world.”

“Hey, come on, don’t do that.” He dragged you by the hand to the couch, “Come lay down with me for a minute.”

“Jack,” You sighed, “You’re gonna be late.”

He laid on his back and beckoned you with open arms, “I have plenty of time.”

You bit the inside of your cheek stubbornly, before finally caving, crawling over him and lying on his chest. He began to gently knead your back and shoulders until you melted into him, “You don’t ever have to feel like you can’t come to me to complain about work, you know that, right?”

You sighed at his touch, “My work and my complaints seem so trivial and insignificant when stacked up next to yours.”

“What, so you’re not allowed to be stressed and burnt out just because you’re not saving lives all day?”

“Well,” You paused, “Yes, actually.”

He sighed heavily, your whole body rising and falling with the movement, “You know, you always take on my burden whenever I come home from a bad shift. No matter how awful or tragic the story is, you never complain, you hold me through it. And it’s the only reason I can get through a shift sometimes, is to know that you’ll be here waiting at the end of it to give me whatever it is I need. So, please, if you could allow me to at least try and return the favor and pretend I’m even half the partner you are, I would appreciate it.”

You pushed yourself up on your hands so you could look at him, “It’s not a burden to me.”

He brought his hands up to each side of your face, pushing your hair back as he looked at you, “I know. That’s why I’m so lucky.”

Gently, he tugged you down slightly so he could capture your mouth with his. Jack Abbot never half assed anything, so every time he kissed you was a damn near spiritual experience. He took you apart and put you back together in just a few moments. You were still leaning into him when he pulled away slightly, smirking, “Now, as much as I would love to make out with you for hours, we are unfortunately short on time, so if you could please tell me about your day?”

You smirked back at him before laying your head down on his chest, “Well, it all started with the dumbest fucking Teams message from Kevin at 8 AM.”

Jack scoffed, “It’s always fucking Kevin.”

Your grin widened and you unloaded onto him the entire day in about five minutes. By the time you were finished, you felt lighter and, of course, validated.

“Why don’t you call out tomorrow?” Jack said as the two of you stood up off the couch.

You sighed, “If I do that, I’ll be even more behind.”

“So what? You’re behind if you go in, you’re still behind if you don’t.” You chewed on your lip, unconvinced, “Come on, I have tomorrow off. We can lie in bed all day and plan our trip to Punta Cana.”

“You were serious about that?”

“Deadly,” He said, hands sliding down your waist until he gripped your backside, “You in a bikini on a gorgeous beach, endless piña coladas, mind blowing sex every night… have I convinced you yet?”

You laughed and kissed him again, hands tangling in his salt and pepper curls. When you pulled away you sighed, leaning your forehead against his, “Alright, fine, you win. I’ll stay home tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” He said and playfully bit at your neck, causing you to squeal, “Then we have a date. I’ll see you at 7 AM, back in bed.”

You pulled away from him, allowing him to grab his things for work, “Have a good shift, Dr. Abbot.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, and then he was out the door.

[gypsi-kat01]

Is anyone else kind of dreading the release of the Good Omens Finale? Because it's not going to be the sequel that Terry and Neil imagined when they were wide awake with jet lag in the middle of the night in that shared hotel room. That story was part of the planned 3 part series that Neil wrote/was writing. That would have accounted for all of the loose ends that were still being woven together, but weren't actually a complete thing, yet. It would have given us all the bits (or most of them, barring budgetary constraints) that were foreshadowed in the first 2 parts of the series. That was planned to be 6 episodes, approximately 45 minutes each. It would have had multiple storylines interweaving with each other, much like the first season. It would have been complicated. In order to reduce all of that to 90 minutes, major parts of the plot development would have to be cut entirely, or at best, reduced to a short summary by one of the characters referring to something that happened off screen, that we don't actually see. Some of the characters that would have been in scenes in the 6 episode version of Season 3 may not actually appear on screen, but only be referenced obliquely. So not only will we not get to see those scenes, but since they weren't filmed the actors who would have been portraying those characters will not be paid, for a scene that was planned but not actually filmed. Amazon did not have to do this. Most (if not all) of the episodes were already written and paid for. Cutting those episodes did not hurt the writer (well, not financially, anyway, as they had already been paid), but did cut expenses for Amazon. The actors and crew had already planned for their time to be available to film all 6 episodes of Season 3, after it was officially greenlighted. After Rob and Rhianna talked Amazon into at least filming a final episode (after the show had been actually cancelled by Amazon), only some of the cast and crew were re-hired. A new writer was hired to create a new script, and we have no way of knowing if that script even includes any of the scenes that Neil had already written, and that David and Michael had read and given their approval of. I'm sure that David and Michael and everyone else have done their best with what they were given, but it's just not going to be what we had originally expected, or hoped for. At best, it will be a severely truncated summarized outline of what was supposed to take place over 6 episodes. At worst, the writer may have come up with ideas and situations out of whole cloth, that have little or nothing to do with the first 2 seasons of the show, just in order to get the main characters to an ending with some semblance of closure. David and Michael and the new director will have to work with the new script; they aren't really allowed to rewrite their own parts just to get the dialogue closer to what they think their characters would say in any given situation.

After Season 2 was released, I (along with many others) immersed myself in fanfiction, mostly on AO3, just to keep my brain from imploding with "what if's". By now I have read thousands of fanfics, bookmarked and downloaded most of them, as well as any accompanying art that I found. It's all saved in a rather complicated nest of folders on my computer. I really need to save it to a separate drive as well, just in case my computer unexpectedly decides to stop functioning correctly. (I bought a drive for this, I just need to copy all those files to it.) With everything that has happened (which I am not going into, as that info has been posted all over social media for months), I am so, SO grateful to all of the amazing wonderful writers of fanfiction who have imagined millions of different scenarios involving Crowley, Aziraphale, and other Good Omens characters, in storylines that are similar to canon; totally dissimilar to canon; depict Crowley & Aziraphale as angels, demons, humans, and all sorts of other creatures; and basically have been acting out that joke about the millions of monkeys with typewriters recreating the works of Shakespeare. Except that, rather than recreating what Neil might have written for Season 3, they are writing all of the possible versions of Season 3 that might have been written in all possible worlds, and in all possible situations. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Regardless of how the "official" Season 3 Finale turns out, we will have almost infinite versions of Crowley and Aziraphale (and their world) to read and re-read, for as long as AO3 shall exist. I don't know the specifics of how AO3 stores the data saved on their site, but I hope that they have multiple servers in multiple countries, so that if they get taken down in one location, they will still continue to exist elsewhere. Long live AO3, Good Omens fanfiction, and all of the amazing writers and artists out there who are contributing in any way to keeping our favorite characters alive in our collective imaginations. Sending virtual hugs out to everyone who is invested in Crowley & Aziraphale's story. Best wishes to all of you.

🌟💖❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍💖🌟

Good Omens 2 + Text Posts

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

I've been thinking about cnc with brat Wooyoung..... thoughts?

➯a/n: i just fainted, hit my head, fell down eight flights of stairs, died, and CAME BACK TO LIFE TO WRITE THIS OMGBEJFOWW i rarely write dom reader cause im rarely feeling dominant myself but GAWWAD THIS WOKE UP SOMETHING INSIDE OF MEE

Ruin Me

❥Jung Wooyoung x fem reader

✈︎queued for: wed 4th

(>ᴗ•)genre: smut

➯cnc disclaimer: CONSENT IS SEXY. all parties are and always will be consenting in my stories. cnc is a way to explore power dynamics and it's attractive to many people, it does not "promote s/a", the first c is CONSENSUAL. you should only ever do it with someone who you trust. be safe and stay freaky !!

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: established relationship, brat wooyoung / mean reader / switch dynamics, the cnc goes both ways and you will see what i mean, unprotected ( booo 🍅 ), use of a cock ring, crying from being edged + hair pulling + slapping + hard degrading + spitting (all wy receiving), biting + choking (reader receiving), sloppy kissing, matching each others freak on a celestial level, fuck-fighting / rough housing, pinning each other down, saying i love you during dirty nasty sex, name calling including: calling woo a brat, toy / dildo, bastard, slut, fuck meat / reader gets called tease, fucker, fuck hole. pet names including: baby ( going both ways ) / baby boy, angel / pretty girl

♡masterlist + tag form !♡

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @everyonewooeverywhere @willowwyy @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy

18+.MINORS GET OUT.

ꕤ

When your boyfriend says, "ruin me," he means it.

He means spit in his face, smother him in your cunt, make him choke on a strap-on, wrestle with him until his roommates have to put on the noise canceling headphones they keep within an arms reach, treat him like the brat he is — ruin him.

"Stop squirming." Slap.

"Fuck!" His hips buck into you from below, his cock twitching inside of you from the sting. "Get off of me and I w- I wouldn't have to!"

You shove his shoulders right back into the mattress when he tries to sit up, pinning him as best you can with your feet over his thighs while you start rolling your hips again. "Just be a good toy and let me use your cock~"

"Shit-" He gasps, head tilting back into your grip on the ends of his hair, "oh~ You little fucker!" He squeezes his eyes shut, tears welling up from the burning ball of pleasure inside of him that has nowhere to go. Not with the cock ring you slipped on him while he was 'asleep' on, anyways. It just stays there. Right in his pelvis and spreading to his stomach as it burns him up from the inside out; making him sweat.

"Shut up," you slap your palm over his mouth, "stupid brat." Your eyebrows push together, breaths heavy against your own fingers as you press your forehead to his. "You can't help that damn mouth of yours, can you, baby? Never shut the fuck up..."

Your voice trails off in a moan as you continue your harsh grinding; driving his cock right into your g-spot. "Good for nothing piece of fuck meat." His eyes roll back into his head, loud moan muffled by your hand as he scrambles for something to hold onto.

His fingers twist up in the fabric of your large sleep shirt. You had stripped him completely, leaving him bare and vulnerable while you still had almost all your clothes on. You only lost your pajama bottoms, your panties pulled to the side.

"Open your mouth," you groan as you still on top of him, prying it open for yourself and shoving two of your fingers in.

"Bratty bastard," you smirk as he instinctively licks your digits while you stroke his tongue, "trying to act like you don't want to be my free use slut~ I feel your cock leaking inside me, you needy toy-" He blinks dazedly as you lean over his face, a loud whine stuck in his throat as you spit right into his mouth. "I bet you want to cum sooo bad, baby boy... Just admit you like it when I use you against your will~"

Even though it's not against his will; and it never would be —

He mumbles a disagreeing 'nuh-uh' under your fingers, making you chuckle. You pull out your fingers and wipe them across his face, "fine. Be like that. You don't get to cum. You really are nothing but my fuck meat today."

A shaking gasp trembles off his swollen lips, hands holding onto your waist tightly as you begin bouncing. "Fu- good god! Baby- Oh, baby, please! S-stop!" You had been doing nothing by grinding, swirling your hips — he doesn't know if he can take this without going crazy. He can feel his pleasure teasing his every nerve; like a cup about to overflow if one more drop is added.

You grab his wrists, canceling out any weak attempt he makes to throw you off. "Mh~" Your moan as you ride his painfully hard member so selfishly makes him cry. You sound so pretty, it makes him want to cum even more. Maybe if he starts begging now you'll let him- "Oh, yeah~ Fuck- stay still, you brat. I'm gonna cum..."

His brain is tingling. Wanting to beg, 'do it, pretty girl, do it! Make yourself cum with my cock!'

"You f-fucker," he groans, fighting back against you weakly as you grab his wrists and pin them to the bed, "don't- don't!"

"Why not, huh? Think if I cream all over you, you'll cum?" You slap his flushed cheek again, panting as you slam yourself down on his length. "Think you'll cum from being held down by your girlfriend and bounced on like a useless dildo?"

You know he would — he would have long ago — if not for the cock ring holding him back.

"I know- know you would," you grab both of his cheeks roughly, cupping his face, "you're such a slut, angel~"

He groans into your mouth brokenly, barely able to breathe as you clench and flutter around him; riding him all the way through your leg-trembling orgasm.

He almost cries with relief when you finally still on top of him, shoving your tongue into his mouth and letting him suck at it as you both moan and breathe heavily.

When you trade, his tongue in your mouth, his soft noise of pleasure is almost a purr.

You rub your thumbs across his stinging cheeks softly, giving your hips one more slow swirl before you lift them off of him. A silent 'keep going'.

When you pull back, the thick string of spit between you snaps and lands on his chin.

"Thanks, baby," you hum as you lick it up before shoving his face and rolling off of him, "you're a satisfying toy for being such a brat."

He pants for a moment, catching his breath as his cock twitches — searching for your snug warmth. "Fuck meat, huh?" He huffs with a smirk growing on his lips.

"That's what you are, baby boy~"

He bites his lip as he rolls the cock ring off of him — he almost cums then and there in his hand.

But why do that when he's got you laying right next to him?

You yelp as he pins you onto your stomach, immediately buried balls deep again with a guttural moan. "Fuuuuck, baby~"

"Get off me, you bastard-"

"If I'm your fuck meat," he shoves your face into the sheets with his hand on the back of your head, leaning to your ear, "then you're my warm little fuck hole."

His immediate, frenzied thrusts knock the wind from your lungs. Even though you had used a silent signal that you were still ready to go — you were sensitive. "You're such a tease," he groans into your ear, biting at the lobe, "thi- think I'm gonna let you get away with using my cock like a dildo and not let me cum? Guess what, love?"

His chest is heaving against your back, balls slapping against your clit as he slams into you as deep as he can; begging for release. He spreads your legs with his, driving deeper.

"It's my turn to use you."

"Ah! You a-asshole, that's too deep!" He's, in reality, been much deeper before.

"What~?" He's chuckles breathlessly, his sweat dripping from his chin onto your clothed shoulder. "What's that, pretty girl? Fuck you deeper? Hm, if you i-insist~"

You shout into the mattress as he snakes an arm under you and presses against your lower stomach. "Oh, shit! Wooyoung!" You thrash under him as he pushes you closer to another orgasm with his palm pressing against his cock through your pelvis.

The sound of his name coming muffled as he keeps your head shoved in the blankets makes him pull away quickly — because his own orgasm almost slapped him in the face.

"Turn over," he growls, his body itching for release so badly that he's crying again; blinking his tears away quickly as he flips you over, "you little fucker, you're a goddamn tease, my pretty girl."

He slaps your hands away as you go to stop him from laying on top of you; your fingers ending up laced together as he slides back into you and starts pounding. "Perfect fuck hole for me- fuck, fuck, yes! Oh, m'gonna cum~ Ah, I love you, baby... Damn- fucking take it."

Your attempts at stopping his hips with your feet only end with him folding your legs over you, making you wail as he slams deeper; your feet dangling over his shoulders. "Please, angel! I can't take it! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You know he's not going to stop unless you say your safe word, and you don't want him to.

"Shut the hell up, pretty girl," he licks up your heated cheek, letting go of your legs to wrap his hands around your neck, "you're gonna take my cum. You got yourself in this mess."

"Wo- ngh~" You gurgle on a moan as he squeezes your throat with both of his hands, letting your eyes flutter shut as he chokes you right into an Earth-shattering orgasm. Your breath trembles under his throat, your legs falling off his shoulders and spreading wide for him to continue his ruthless, hurried thrusts.

The second he lets go of your neck and sinks his teeth into you, you know he's about to cum. And he does. Hard.

Moaning like a porn star rather than an idol, hips stuttering, teeth in your flesh, sweat down his back, cheeks red with your hand print. Lewd, squelching noises fill the air as he fucks you through his prolonged release; his cum all but splashing between you as he slams his hips to yours. The final slap of his skin against yours echoes as he stills deep inside of you and collapses on top of you.

Wordlessly, he starts licking at the indentations on your neck as you wrap your arms around his shoulders; both of you trembling messes in each other's embrace.

When your boyfriend says, "ruin me," he means it.

Ride him until he cries, make him your personal toy, slap him until his make-up artist is concerned for his wellbeing, pull his hair, call him names — ruin him.

Because he will always return the favor.

ꕤ

[svt-luna]

ʚིᵋ ⋆ SEVENTEEN (세븐틴) 5th Album ‘HAPPY BURSTDAY’ LISTENING SESSION ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── now playing…

SEVENTEEN (세븐틴) 5th Album 'HAPPY BURSTDAY' LISTENING SESSION

synopsis: Join SEVENTEEN in this listening session for their 5th Album HAPPY BURSTDAY, filled with heartfelt reactions, behind-the-scenes stories, and playful moments you won’t want to miss.

my family and i have been traveling lately, so i have been busy and haven’t been updating 😭 this is my little token for you, my loves because i simply couldn’t help myself! after watching this video, i knew you guys would love to see the members’ reaction to Luna’s solo song (i do too!!) however, this will be a shorter post because i will not be doing the entire video considering it won’t really change anything plot wise. i will, however, focus on their reaction to Luna’s solo song and Luna’s reaction to Jeonghan’s solo song + JeongNa crumbs because… JEONGNA FOREVER! anyway, happy reading my loves and see you soon!! 💖

oh! and! STREAM HAPPY BURSTDAY!

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ svt youtube

bold dialogues are spoken in english ღ

The studio was quiet, dimly lit with just enough warm light coming from the ceiling panels and computer screens. The equipment around the room gave off a soft hum— mixers, monitors, wires, a few glowing buttons here and there.

The desk in front of the dual monitors was packed, but not messy— everything had its place. There were folders open on the screens already, each one marked neatly with names, tracks, timestamps. The walls were padded, the soundproofing thick enough to make everything feel still. Even the air felt heavier somehow, in a good way.

Behind the desk, a long couch sat against the back wall. A little wrinkled from use. Some bottles of water, a blanket folded up at the side. It looked like a room meant for focus, not fun— but familiar enough that it didn’t feel stiff.

Woozi came in first.

He walked straight in, quiet, like this was just another Tuesday for him. He sat in the producer’s chair without a word, leaned forward, and immediately got to work. His hands went to the keyboard and mouse right away, clicking through files, setting things up. He wasn’t rushing, just moving like he already knew exactly where everything was. The screen lit up in front of him while he adjusted some sliders and cleaned up the timeline on one of the tracks.

It was calm. No chaos. Nothing like how Seventeen usually acted during variety shoots or Going Seventeen. The vibe here was completely different—serious, but not stiff. Comfortable. Like they all knew they could focus and just be themselves without the jokes flying every five seconds.

Then the door opened.

“Woozi!”

Dokyeom stepped in, his voice echoing a little in the quiet room. It broke the silence, but not in a bad way. Woozi answered with a small hum, still not looking up from the screen.

Dokyeom made his way to the couch and sat down, stretching out a little as he got comfortable. He looked around like he was expecting the others to follow soon— and he was right.

Not long after, the door opened again and Seungcheol walked in, holding a cup of coffee. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod as he passed by and took a seat by the end, close enough to keep an eye on everything. He looked chill. Focused. Like he was already settling into work mode without needing to talk much.

Then Dino and Hoshi came in together.

“Hello.” Dino said, soft but clear.

They both walked in like they knew exactly where they wanted to sit, not making a fuss. The room was starting to fill out slowly, like drops of water hitting a still surface one by one.

Minghao and Jun followed next. Quiet, calm, just sliding in and taking their spots. No one needed to say much. Everyone just kind of… settled in naturally.

Then came Joshua and Vernon.

“Hey, hey,” Joshua greeted as they walked in. Vernon nodded, tucking his earphones in his pockets.

People were sitting now— on the couch, on the chairs, leaning against the walls. It wasn’t packed yet, but the energy was shifting a little. More people, but still calm. Still grounded. It was a totally different kind of silence now— one where everyone was waiting for something to start, but not in a rush to get there.

Only twelve of them were present today.

Jeonghan and Wonwoo weren’t here. Still off doing their military service. No one really mentioned it out loud, but it was obvious. The space they left behind felt noticeable in its own quiet way.

“Hello!”

Seungkwan walked in with a burst of energy, like he hadn’t gotten the memo that the vibe in the room was chill. His voice bounced off the walls a little, but it didn’t bother anyone. It just made a few heads turn and smile without even meaning to.

“We just have Mingyu and Jiyeon left,” Woozi said from the desk, still focused on the screen but very aware of the room.

“We’re waiting for Mingyu and Jiyeon,” Seungcheol added, nodding.

“They were taking pictures outside,” Seungkwan said, throwing the two under the bus without hesitation.

A few quiet laughs. No one was surprised.

And then, a few minutes later, the door opened again.

Luna stepped in first, and Mingyu followed right behind her.

Both of them were wearing all black— Mingyu in a black turtleneck and matching pants, Luna in an oversized black jacket with the collar popped just slightly. And of course, they were both wearing sunglasses.

They didn’t mean to match. But they did. And they looked like they knew it.

“Hello,” Mingyu said first.

“Sorry we’re late,” he added right after, both of them still standing by the door for a second like they weren’t sure if they were walking into a meeting or a music video.

“Seungkwannie said you were taking photos, that’s why,” Seungcheol said, tone somewhere between teasing and scolding.

“Sorry,” Mingyu giggled, not even pretending to deny it.

“You two look cool,” Joshua chimed in, glancing over at their matching vibe.

“Why’d you think we were taking photos outside?” Luna smirked, making her way toward the couch without missing a beat.

She spotted an empty space at the other end, right in front of Seungcheol, and took a seat there like it had been saved for her. Mingyu pulled up a nearby chair, placed it next to her, and sat down with his arms crossed and a grin still stuck on his face.

Now they were all here.

Well— twelve of them.

And it was time to start.

Once everyone had found their spot and gotten comfortable, there was a small lull in the room. A few sips of coffee. Some minor adjusting in seats. Woozi tapped something on the keyboard, and the speakers gave off a soft, anticipatory hum.

“That means we’re all here now!” Dino suddenly said, his voice cutting through the calm with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

“We’re all here,” Joshua repeated with a relaxed nod, smiling a little as he leaned back into the couch.

“Everyone’s here now. So let’s hear our songs one by one.” Dino proposed, glancing around like he was cueing them into some sort of group agreement.

From the producer’s chair, Woozi spun his swivel chair around to face them. “We don’t need to listen to the group songs,” he said casually, arms folding in front of him like he was about to explain something technical.

“But we should… Or not? We’ve heard them a lot, right?” Seungkwan offered, head tilted like he was already second-guessing his own suggestion.

“‘THUNDER,’ ‘HBD,’” Woozi listed the group songs off-hand like they were groceries.

“We’ve practiced ‘THUNDER’ a lot,” Seungcheol muttered from the couch, which triggered a tiny chorus of agreement.

“We already know the group songs,” Luna chimed in, backing Woozi’s point.

“We’ve listened to those three so many times already,” Woozi added, looking at the screen again, clicking a few folders open as he spoke.

“Let’s listen to the solo songs!” Hoshi said brightly, like he’d just thought of it, despite everyone already agreeing.

“We’re going by the order of the track list,” Dokyeom offered, sounding like a kid volunteering to be line leader.

“Go by the track list,” Jun echoed quickly, probably just wanting to move things along before someone changed the plan.

“We have the track list order. We can follow that, or if anyone wants…” Woozi began, turning his chair slightly again— but before he could finish, everyone interrupted him.

“Let’s just follow the track list,” they said in a messy but enthusiastic chorus.

“How was the track list set up?” Hoshi asked curiously, eyebrows raised.

“The album… It’s just that’s it was put together based on vibes.” Woozi answered as he turned back to the monitor, scrolling with focused little flicks of the mouse.

“Then, first up is Minghao.” Woozi said, clicking into a new folder.

“I know,” Minghao chuckled nervously, shifting in his seat as the others immediately responded with a collective, dramatic “Ohhh” of excitement and praise.

To test the volume, Hoshi pressed play on their title track, and ‘THUNDER’ blasted through the studio speakers. The bass vibrated a little in their seats— strong but not too overpowering. Everyone blinked a little at the sudden noise.

“How loud do we want the sound?” Woozi asked, adjusting a knob as the thunderous intro echoed around the studio.

“This is perfect,” Luna said, casually running her hands through her hair.

“I think this is good,” Joshua agreed with a calm nod, his voice mellow under the music.

“I think we can make it louder,” Minghao said from his seat, and Woozi— without hesitation— turned the dial up just a touch.

“Okay!” they all said together like a kindergarten class with homework instructions.

“We’ll go with this volume,” Woozi confirmed, giving one last satisfying flick to the controls.

“The sound is great here,” Dokyeom added, head bopping a little like he was already feeling the beat.

“I’m feeling nervous,” Minghao laughed, suddenly standing up like the nerves caught up with him all at once.

“You’re getting up? Why?” Jun chuckled, watching his fellow member start to pace lightly near the front of the room.

“You’re so cute,” Luna giggled from her seat, watching Minghao with an amused grin as he waved his hands slightly, clearly trying to shake off the jitters.

“Then… let’s cut to the chase and go with Minghao!” Woozi announced from the desk.

“I’m so nervous too! It feels like a briefing!” Seungkwan blurted, fidgeting like he was preparing to present a PowerPoint in front of his boss.

“We’ll say the song title first and share our thoughts after listening to it,” Woozi instructed smoothly, already pulling up the first file.

“Then, that person can talk about the thought process behind the song,” he added, glancing around the room.

“Okay!” the members all nodded in unison, ready.

What followed was a surprisingly touching but still fun hour of music and reactions.

In the order of the track list, one by one, each member’s solo track played: Minghao’s ‘Skyfall’, Joshua’s ‘Fortunate Change’, Wonwoo’s ‘99.9%’, Seungkwan’s ‘Raindrops’, Hoshi’s ‘Damage’, Mingyu’s ‘Shake It Off’, Dokyeom’s ‘Happy Virus’, Woozi’s ‘Destiny’, Vernon’s ‘Shining Star’, Jun’s ‘Gemini’, and Dino’s ‘Trigger.’

Each time a song started, all heads turned toward the one who made it. And without fail, that person would let out a tiny nervous laugh, shoot up from their seat, and start pacing somewhere in the room like it was instinct. Some of them circled near the couches. Others just stood behind their chairs, arms crossed or playing with the hem of their shirts. There was something about hearing your own voice out loud in a room full of your members that made even the most confident of them squirm a little.

The upbeat songs made the studio feel like a quiet dance party. Heads bobbed in sync. Shoulders bounced slightly. Some members tapped their knees, while others mouthed along to hooks they were hearing properly for the first time. Luna, in particular, tapped her fingers on her thigh to the rhythm, fully zoned in but still smiling.

When a ballad came on, the vibe naturally shifted. Their bodies leaned back. Eyes softened. Some swayed gently with the melody, others simply sat still, taking it in with thoughtful expressions. A few even closed their eyes for parts of it, not dramatically— just to really listen.

The best part was right after each track ended. That moment where they all immediately turned to the member who made it, faces full of honest surprise and impressed smiles. Every single song was followed by a wave of compliments— some casual, some loud, some over-the-top and playful. Everyone got their moment to shine, and the energy never dipped once. After each round of praise, the member who made the song would take a breath and explain the thoughts behind it— why they wrote it, how it came to be, what it meant to them.

As the songs went on and people kept getting up, sitting down, and scooting closer to or away from the speakers, the seating arrangement kept changing. At some point, no one was in their original spot anymore. Some moved to stand up. Others switched chairs just to sit beside whoever’s song was next. Luna ended up on the armrest of the couch once, and Woozi practically became the DJ-slash-usher for the whole rotation. It wasn’t organized at all— but that was exactly what made it fun. The chaos was lowkey but constant.

By the end of Dino’s track, only three songs remained.

Jeonghan’s.

Luna’s.

And Seungcheol’s.

The room settled a little again. The air wasn’t heavy— just expectant. They all sat, glanced around at each other, and got ready to keep going.

After Dino’s track finished, Seungcheol looked over at Woozi.

“Is Jeonghan next?” he asked.

“Next up is Jeonghan,” Woozi confirmed.

With that, Luna tucked her legs up on the sofa, wrapping her arms around Seungcheol’s neck and resting her head on his shoulder. He ran his hand up and down her arm, a comforting gesture that spoke volumes without saying a word.

“Jeonghan’s song is great,” Dokyeom said, nodding.

“The song is called ‘Coincidence’,” Woozi added.

“We have both coincidence and connection,” Minghao mused.

“Destiny,” a chorus corrected him.

“Oh, it’s destiny,” Minghao said, chuckling.

Woozi clicked a few buttons, and the room filled with the soft, angelic voice of Jeonghan.

What if we had just decided to remain friends ~

How nice it would have been if we hadn’t made eye contact ~

The melody was gentle, a ballad that wrapped around the listeners like a warm blanket. Luna closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into Seungcheol’s side. He patted her arm, understanding the emotions she was feeling.

I’m just saying it’s all coincidence. I need to prepare my heart ~

But on that long day, in that long heart. It’s not our fault ~

The members sat in silence, each absorbing the song in their own way. Some closed their eyes, others swayed gently to the rhythm. A few who had heard the song before mouthed the lyrics, their expressions soft and reflective.

Just like the day we met by chance, we just left by chance ~

It’s coincidence, coincidence, coincidence ~

This is the way I fool myself ~

Luna remained still, her thoughts drifting to the time when Jeonghan had explained the song’s meaning to her. It wasn’t just about his goodbye before his military service; it was a reflection of a period in their past when things had been uncertain.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry ~

You’ll definitely hate me ~

Hate in eyes full of love ~

She remembered the year they had barely spoken, the awkwardness that had settled between them after she had drunkenly confessed her feelings and he had gently turned her down. They had moved past it, grown closer, and now were planning a future together, but the memories still lingered.

One drop, and another drop ~

I didn’t want that ~

The room remained quiet, the song’s gentle melody filling the space. The members respected the moment, understanding the depth of emotion behind the lyrics. They knew the story, had witnessed the journey, and now shared in the reflection.

But just like the day we met by chance ~

We also left by chance ~

As the song continued, Luna felt a mix of emotions. There was sadness for the time they had lost, gratitude for the love they had found, and hope for the future they were building.

It’s coincidence, coincidence, coincidence ~

This is the way I fool myself ~

The moment Jeonghan’s final note faded into silence, a weight hung in the room— not heavy, not oppressive, but lingering like the scent of rain after a storm. Heads were bowed, a few members exhaled quietly, and no one dared speak too soon, as if disrupting the stillness would undo the softness that Jeonghan’s voice had painted across the air.

And then, from the sofa, Luna finally shifted.

She sat up slowly, unfolding her legs and pulling away from Seungcheol’s shoulder, her voice soft but sure as she murmured, “It’s beautiful.”

Heads turned her way. She didn’t flinch under the eyes, didn’t shrink from the weight of the song she had carried with her far longer than most. There was something in her eyes that stayed shadowed— nostalgia, understanding, and maybe, a quiet ache that still surfaced despite the years that had passed.

“Did Woozi write it?” Seungcheol asked, his voice cutting gently through the quiet.

“Woozi did,” Dokyeom answered immediately, leaning forward as though proud to be able to confirm it.

“Jeonghan did a great job singing it,” Joshua chimed in, nodding thoughtfully.

Seungkwan, who had been swaying moments ago, added with a playful shrug, “Seriously, he kind of like… awakened.”

“So, he recorded it before he left?” Hoshi asked, glancing toward the speakers, as if Jeonghan might pop out of one and confirm it himself.

“Yes, he did,” Woozi nodded, already preparing to explain. “It was done a while ago.”

He shifted forward in his seat, propping one arm on his knee as his fingers gestured unconsciously, his producer mind already back in the studio.

“Jeonghan actually had this idea years ago,” Woozi began, voice slow, thoughtful. “He wrote some lines. Just a couple. They were tucked into his notes, probably forgotten until we were finalizing this album. He showed them to me and just said, ‘I had this idea back then… it was just something I wrote during a weird time.’”

The members listened quietly, nodding at intervals. Seungcheol leaned his chin on his fist, while Mingyu sat unusually still, lips pressed into a line. Luna started shifting on her seat, her nails all of a sudden so interesting to her. Even Vernon, who had been fiddling with his hoodie string earlier, now sat with his hands folded, focused entirely on Woozi’s words.

“So I picked it up from there,” Woozi continued. “I wanted to build it around what he was feeling at the time, what he couldn’t say directly. Jeonghan really helped me with it. He was involved in the whole structure of the melody, the tone… we were careful about every word.”

He paused. His gaze drifted for a second, as though replaying all the studio sessions in his head.

“It’s the story of a man who’s saying goodbye,” Woozi said. “When I thought about what could really represent who Jeonghan is…”

He trailed off, chewing on the next thought, then chuckled lightly before continuing.

“He can be very mischievous,” he said, “but he’s also very sentimental. I imagined he’d be the kind of person who would part ways in a lighthearted way. Like he’s brushing it off.”

A few of the members smiled at that, knowingly. Jun quietly nudged Minghao in the side. Hoshi stifled a laugh. Everyone knew exactly the version of Jeonghan Woozi was talking about.

“Just like, ‘How us meeting was just a coincidence’ and ‘us parting ways is also a coincidence.’ He takes that attitude,” Woozi explained, “but… it all comes from the thought that he wants the other person to be less hurt. And he wants himself to be less hurt.”

There was a moment of stillness.

“Right,” Luna muttered under her breath, so quietly it almost slipped past unnoticed.

But the members heard it. Her tone was soft— not defeated, not sad— but tender. A kind of agreement that held far more history than anyone in the room could truly speak to.

“That kind of thoughtfulness is at the base of it,” Dokyeom nodded in quiet understanding.

“I wanted that to be portrayed by the lyrics as I wrote them,” Woozi said, more gently now.

“It really suits Jeonghan,” Dokyeom added, glancing toward the speakers again, as if to see his hyung there.

And still, Luna said nothing more. She stared ahead, fingers gently tracing over the fabric of her top, her eyes glassy yet dry.

The members gave her occasional side-eyes— not teasing, not pitying— but knowing. They didn’t need to say anything. They knew. She paid them no mind, not out of defiance, but because she was somewhere else entirely.

She was in the memory of that one summer where everything had cracked quietly between her and Jeonghan, where her confession over drinks had led to a soft rejection, and where months of silent tension had followed. They’d been civil on camera, awkward off it. She remembered thinking, this is it— there’s no going back from this. And yet… somehow, they did.

They rebuilt.

They grew.

They healed.

But even now, with wedding plans quietly blooming between them, those days still pulled at the corners of her heart. Not in regret, but in memory of how fragile things once were.

And it wasn’t lost on the others. Because even if the song was “just” a track on their album, even if Jeonghan had recorded it long before he packed his bags and bid them goodbye for now— it wasn’t just a song to them.

It was a window.

And Luna had already lived inside it.

“Okay!” Woozi suddenly clapped his hands, slicing through the thoughtful air that had settled over the group like fog. The energy in the room shifted instantly, like someone had cracked open a window. Everyone’s eyes turned toward him, blinking out of their contemplative daze.

“To change the tone completely,” Woozi began, already grinning as he leaned back and clasped his hands together, “Jiyeonie with her solo song— ‘Damn Right.’”

“‘Damn Right’!” Dokyeom echoed, voice bursting with excitement as he turned toward Luna, eyes wide like he’d just been called to join a surprise party.

“Is it my turn already?” Luna asked, her voice gentle but tinged with nerves. She smiled shyly as all eyes turned to her now.

“Damn right it is,” Joshua added smoothly in English, delivering it with such perfect comedic timing that Luna burst into a wider grin at his pun.

“Oh! ‘Damn Right’!” Hoshi cheered, springing slightly in his seat like the name alone hyped him up.

Luna stood from her seat slowly.

“I understand now why you guys were standing up,” she deadpanned, gesturing loosely to them, clearly trying to keep her nerves down with humor. Her chuckle was slightly breathy.

“Nervous?” Seungcheol asked with a low chuckle, eyeing her carefully.

“I feel like throwing up,” Luna replied flatly.

The room exploded with laughter, a few of them even leaning into each other as they cackled.

“I’m so curious,” Seungkwan said, leaning forward eagerly, practically bouncing. “None of us have heard it, right?”

“Except Woozi-hyung,” Hoshi pointed out, squinting at Woozi suspiciously. “He’s been smug all week.”

“I’m not smug,” Woozi muttered, already turning to the laptop. “I’m proud.”

Luna exhaled and sat back down, her hands instantly wrapping around her legs and tucking them close. “What do I do?” she squealed into Seungcheol’s sleeve as she leaned into him, her voice rising in pitch with pure panic.

Seungcheol chuckled, patting her legs gently. “Just sit. Breathe. It’s too late to run away now.”

And with that, the song began.

The moment the first smooth notes slid through the speakers, the mood in the room did a complete one-eighty.

A velvet bassline melted into slow, sensual drums— groovy, sultry, but polished. The production melded old-school 90s R&B with slick modern touches, creating a sound that was both nostalgic and fresh. There was a confident swagger in the instrumentation, subtle harmonies gliding beneath Luna’s voice as she laid down the opening lines like warm silk on skin.

Popped up on you solo on my lonely shit ~

You didn’t even know the type time I was on ~

“Ohhh…” Mingyu murmured, slowly nodding his head like he just took a sip of something dangerously smooth.

Told ya, “Hop in on the left side”, rode the ship ~

Now you’re struggling to keep your eyes on the road ~

Vernon let out a soft laugh. “She’s insane for that.”

And you saw me whip my hair in the wind playing Beyoncé ~

Putting that good work in like a fiancé ~

“BOOM!” Seungkwan slapped the couch cushion before smirking at Luna,“Who could that possibly be?!”

Luna was hugging her knees now, looking like she was about to combust.

Finish line was gold, better go ahead and lend me them keys to the condo ~

I’m like Damn, right, I did that (I did that) ~

Damn, right, yeah ~

“Oh!” Seungkwan stood up with a sudden wave of energy, hips already swaying.

Damn, right, I did that (I did that) ~

Yeah, I did ~

His arms rose like a graceful balloon dancer, and he let his hips roll smooth and deliberate, as if possessed by the spirit of a belly dancer from a luxury cruise.

He danced toward Luna dramatically, his arms twirling like flower petals caught in a wind tunnel. She stared at him in disbelief, laughing helplessly.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, brows raised in faux horror.

“It’s this dance,” he replied seriously, continuing to swirl his hips like his life depended on it.

Luna let out a squeaky laugh before giving in. She stood up briefly, copying his movements with a half-hearted spin of her own before playfully smacking Seungkwan’s arm and sitting back down in defeat.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, cheeks pink but laughing.

Smooth, I move how I move ~

Please, don’t interrupt me, let me do what I do ~

By now, all of them were unconsciously moving. Even Vernon, who usually sat composed, was gently tapping his hand on his knee to the beat.

“This song is making me move like this,” Dokyeom confessed mid-hip sway, completely in his seat.

Got my boo gassed up but I can still take him higher ~

High up to the sky up, higher than a tower ~

“Right?” Seungkwan and Hoshi both said in unison, still dancing as if they were hypnotized by the groove.

Lotte that it’s a getaway, yeah, overseas any day, yeah ~

I can take your pain away, yeah, ooh ~

“Oh, she’s bragging now,” Joshua muttered with a smile, one eyebrow raised as he crossed his legs.

You can be my cameraman, put the phone on the stand ~

Do what no else can, ooh ~

“Who are you talking about, Jiyeonie?” Jun asked as he smirked at her as if he didn’t know the answer.

Damn, right, I did that (I did that) ~

Damn, right, yeah ~

Damn, right, I did that ~

Yeah, I did ~

By now, half the room was on their feet. The rest swayed or tapped, heads nodding, shoulders rolling with the music, all synchronized by instinct alone.

Damn, right, I did that (I did that) ~

Damn, right, yeah ~

Damn, right, I did that (I did that) ~

Yeah, I did ~

The last echo faded, the beat slowing until it was a whisper, then silence.

It was over.

The room was silent for a beat—one long, suspended moment where everyone just blinked at the speakers, processing what they had heard. Then, like a dam breaking, a wave of applause and hollering erupted.

“YAHHHHHH!” Seungkwan practically screamed, his hands flying into the air. “YAAAAH! THAT’S OUR LUNAAA!”

Hoshi jumped to his feet, clapping wildly like he was trying to summon fire. “AYE, AYE, AYE, AYE!!! Did you hear that??? DID YOU HEAR THAT?!”

“WOOO!” Dokyeom let out a full-on football coach yell, standing up just to spin in a circle from pure hype.

Mingyu was already halfway off the couch, both hands clapping so fast he looked like a human metronome. “Lu-Lu-ya! The vocals?! The swag?! Hello?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay,” Seungcheol said, laughing and motioning everyone to settle, though he was clearly just as hyped. “That was… DAMN. That was clean.”

Joshua turned to Luna, eyes gleaming. “That was so YOU. But also like… new you. Elevated you.”

“Amazing,” Jun said reverently, hands pressed together like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. “That was what they meant when they said, ‘She’s not a singer, she’s an experience.’”

“I’m gonna need a minute,” Minghao muttered, waving his hand in front of his face like he was fanning off smoke. “I think the track just flirted with me.”

“Dude, that was sick,” Vernon added solemnly.

“Thank you,” Luna just hugged her legs tighter, hiding her burning face, though the proud grin she wore betrayed her completely.

Woozi finally sat forward, brushing imaginary lint off his knees before turning to the group with a calm pride that made it clear he’d been holding it in the entire time.

“This was all Jiyeon,” he said, nodding at her. “She wrote and produced it.”

The reaction was instantaneous.

“Amazing?!” Dokyeom shouted.

“Oh you’re insane,” Mingyu said, pointing at Luna. “She’s dangerous. Don’t let the sweet smile fool you!”

Luna, still laughing with her hands covering half her face, waved Woozi off and shook her head.

“No, it’s not only me,” she said, pointing at him. “Z helped me as well.”

Woozi shrugged, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. He tried to sip water calmly, but everyone already saw the fond, smug glint in his eye.

Once the cheers finally settled and most of the members flopped back into their seats with lingering grins and murmurs of “that was so good,” all eyes naturally turned to Luna.

She sighed, knowing she couldn’t dodge it anymore, and straightened up in her seat.

“So…” she began slowly, brushing her hair behind her ears. “I wanted to do something different. Something I haven’t done yet. Something I know I’ll be good at. And… something I know the fans will like to see me do.”

The members leaned in a bit, nodding along. Some still looked half-shocked that she was even capable of sounding like a full-blown R&B queen.

“So I did R&B,” Luna continued, her tone smooth but light, slipping into the rhythm of explaining like she’d practiced in front of a mirror once or twice. “Specifically, very early 2000s R&B.”

“Wahhh!” Seungkwan clapped.

Luna nodded. “I wanted to do something very smooth and sexy. But not like, ‘Look at me! I’m hot!’ sexy— although that’s valid,” she said with a playful smirk that got a wave of laughter.

“I mean sexy in the way where… nothing’s more attractive than being confident, right?” she added, her voice settling into something honest but still light, still playful. “Being proud to brag about the things you’ve achieved, the things you’ve been blessed with, and the things you worked hard for.”

A beat.

“That’s the sexy I was going for.”

“Right,” Minghao whispered, nodding solemnly.

“That can be printed on a shirt,” Vernon muttered.

“Can I brag about you then?” Seungkwan blurted. “Because I feel sexy doing it.”

Luna just covered her face again as the room began buzzing with new praise, a mix of teasing and awe, the energy bright and loud and glowing— like her track, like her.

Luna had barely managed to peek from between her fingers when the chaos truly began.

Seungkwan, eyes wide with mischief and mouth already halfway curved into a devilish grin, suddenly stood up with the dramatic flair of someone about to deliver an Oscar-worthy performance. He took a breath, lifted his chin, and burst into song with the one line that had clearly imprinted on his brain like a permanent tattoo.

“‘And you saw me whip my hair in the wind playing Beyoncé. Putting that good work in like a fiancé!’” he belted out, voice sharp with flair and pure camp.

He didn’t just sing it— he performed it. One hand whipped his imaginary hair dramatically while the other held a fake mic. He strutted in front of Luna like he was on the Victoria’s Secret runway, hips swinging with every syllable, his eyes locked on hers like she was the final boss in a dance-off.

Luna blinked up at him in disbelief before slowly breaking into a knowing smile, one that screamed, I knew this was coming. She didn’t stop him— she didn’t even try. She just leaned back, covered her face again, and laughed helplessly.

That was all it took.

As if a signal had been fired, Dokyeom and Hoshi sprang up from their seats like synchronized swimmers trained in chaos.

“‘And you saw me whip my hair in the wind playing Beyoncé!’” Dokyeom joined in, his falsetto dramatic as he twirled once and pointed at Luna like he was in a cheesy 2000s music video.

“‘Putting that good work in like a fiancé!’” Hoshi added, sliding into frame with a shoulder shimmy that would’ve made anyone proud.

And just like that— it was BSS mode: activated.

The three of them circled Luna like a musical wolfpack, each delivering the iconic line like it was the chorus to a national anthem.

“Fiancé!”

“Fiancé!!”

“FIANCÉ!!!”

They were practically harmonizing it now, the word echoing through the room as they pointed at her repeatedly, their faces twisted into exaggerated, knowing smirks. Every time they said it, they dragged it out longer, louder, more obnoxious.

“‘PUTTING THAT GOOD WORK IN—’”

“‘LIKE A—’”

“‘FIANNNNCÉEEEEEEE!!!’”

The rest of the members were howling. Joshua had fallen sideways on the couch, wheezing. Dino was physically holding Mingyu back from joining because they both knew one more would tip Luna into combustion. Jun was clapping like a seal at an aquarium, absolutely delighted. Even Woozi had given up pretending to be chill, his head tilted back with a quiet, tired laugh.

Luna, for her part, was red. Not pink. Red. She had fully buried her face into her palms and was now making a muffled whimper scream sound that only someone utterly defeated by embarrassment could produce.

“What is wrong with you people?!” she cried into her hands. “You’re all insane!!”

“WE’RE CELEBRATING YOUUUU!” Seungkwan defended mid-dance.

“AND YOUR FIANCÉEEE!” Hoshi chimed in, finger guns blazing.

“JEONGHANNIE-HYUNG IS PROUD!” Dokyeom yelled toward the ceiling like it was a spiritual message.

“I HATE YOU ALL!” Luna groaned, though the smile on her face said otherwise.

Realizing she had to escape before they broke into a remix, Luna suddenly sat upright, spun toward Woozi, and blurted, “Cheollie’s song is next right!”

It came out so fast and loud, it was the most obvious topic shift in the history of mankind.

The room exploded in fresh laughter. Hoshi collapsed backward onto the couch, giggling like he’d just been blessed. Vernon was shaking his head. Minghao smirked knowingly.

“Look at her tryna change the subject,” Seungcheol said from across the room, biting back a grin.

“Wah! Last song! Z…” Luna said, calling Woozi like she was summoning a lifeline. She turned to him with the most desperate version of mock-exasperation in her tone. “Go play it quickly.”

Woozi blinked once, then gave the smallest, smug smirk before nodding. “Alright. S.Coups’ ‘Jungle.’”

As soon as the first beat dropped, the room snapped into a different rhythm.

Luna released a breath like she’d just escaped a battlefield. “Finally,” she whispered under her breath as the opening synth washed over them.

The vibe shifted. Heads started nodding. Shoulders moved in slow sync. The members gradually leaned back in their seats or got up to bounce subtly to the beat. All eyes now turned toward Seungcheol as the deep bass kicked in.

Luna took the opportunity to melt into the couch again, finally out of the spotlight, sipping her water like it was wine after war. No more “fiancé” chants. No more exaggerated pointing. Just Seungcheol’s low, commanding voice taking over the room.

They listened.

They bopped.

They danced.

As the final track played out, they eased into a calm, content rhythm. Seungcheol shared a few humble remarks about the song— its darker vibe, its layered lyrics, the experimental direction. Woozi followed up with some closing thoughts, nodding proudly at each member as he recapped how personal each track was, how unique each story had been.

And with that, the listening session came to a warm, chaotic, and completely unforgettable close.

comments…

@/bunniecouple_17 • 3 hours ago ╰ I DIDN’T KNOW I NEEDED AN HOUR LONG LISTENING SESSION 🥹 THEY ARE INSNAE FOR THIS!

@/lunababybae • 3 hours ago ╰ I NEED THE GOV’T TO DECLASSIFY JEONGHAN’S SONG RIGHT NOW. WHO BROKE HIM. WHO. TELL ME.

@/gyuccibabe • 3 hours ago ╰ i just KNOW Luna was holding back tears listening to Hannie’s song… you can literally see it in her eyes 56:25 ok i am not okay.

@/soonducksupremacy • 3 hours ago ╰ “LIKE A FIANCÉ!!!” BSS chanting that like a pagan ritual while Luna hides in her hands is peak entertainment 😭😭😭

@/caratforever_17 • 3 hours ago ╰ no bc why did Mingyu and Luna come in glowing and Seungkwan ratted them out IMMEDIATELY 😭😭 bro is tired of them

@/cheolspopularity • 3 hours ago ╰ we really got a whole album of 14 different genres and they ALL HIT??? who gave them the right to be this versatile

@/urjeonghanismytype • 3 hours ago ╰ JEONGHAN’S SONG GOT ME LYING FACE DOWN IN THE DIRT. WHY DID IT HURT. WHY DID IT SOUND SO SPECIFIC. WHAT KIND OF GOODBYE? WAS IT TO LUNA????

@/ilovemybossboyfriend • 3 hours ago ╰ LUNA’S SONG WAS JUST HER FLEXING HER CAREER, HER ACHIEVEMENTS, HER LIFE, HER MAN, HER RING, HER INCOME… YES MOTHER GO OFF

@/seventeencaratfiles • 3 hours ago ╰ ok but what if Jeonghan’s song IS about a certain Cold War… 😭

@/min9yupls • 3 hours ago ╰ i’m sorry i’m STILL not over luna pointing at woozi like “no. he helped me too.” she’s such a humble baddie i’m crying

@/vernonearth • 3 hours ago ╰ Dino’s song was SO GOOD like his maturity and his vocals?? yes baby you better devour 🥹

@/jeongnacore • 3 hours ago ╰ the way the camera KEPT cutting to Luna during Jeonghan’s song and the OTHER MEMBERS were GLANCING AT HER i felt like i was watching a live documentary

@/xuwenzhoufanaccount • 3 hours ago ╰ wonwoo and jeonghan NEED TO BE RETURNED TO SVT IMMEDIATELY!

@/thatonegurlcarat • 3 hours ago ╰ Luna’s song sounded like a diss track to every girl who thought they had a chance with jeonghan 😭😭😭 and i SUPPORT IT. damn right she did that.

@/thesassycaratclub • 3 hours ago ╰ luna: sings about her man BSS: chants “fiancé” like a cult me: throws phone at wall in love

@/kimbokju’sroommate • 3 hours ago ╰ THE FACT THAT I COULD TELL HOSHI WAS WAITING FOR A REASON TO DANCE TO THAT FIANCÉ LINE… HE POUNCED 😭

@/joshushushu • 2 hours ago ╰ joshua’s solo was like a warm blanket and a hug and then right after that JEONGHAN STABBED ME IN THE CHEST WITH HIS LYRICS

@/zzznanaaaa • 2 hours ago ╰ ok but do you think jeonghan wrote that song DURING the cold war with luna or AFTER???? bc the pain was past tense but the delivery??? THAT WAS RECENT

@/cheoliebiceps95 • 2 hours ago ╰ SEUNGCHEOL’S ‘JUNGLE’ GOT ME SWINGING THROUGH MY PROBLEMS. IT ATE. IT STOMPED. LEADER OF THE LEADERS

@/bssnation • 2 hours ago ╰ can’t believe dk, hoshi and seungkwan turned into a whole flash mob just to bully jiyeon 😭😭😭 AND THEY DID IT IN HARMONY TOO!!!

@/softforzi • 2 hours ago ╰ woozi being proud of everyone else’s tracks like the musical dad he is 🥺 he rlly be building svt from the ground up again

@/seoulcitycarat • 2 hours ago ╰ 00:30 Luna and Mingyu seriously walk in with matching outfits and matching grins only to be ratted out by Kwanie 🤣

@/princesscheollie • 2 hours ago ╰ “last song! z… go play it quickly” luna i love u but that panic shift was so loud i felt secondhand embarrassment 😭

@/junhuiwinked • 2 hours ago ╰ JUN’S SONG WAS SO GOOD I HAD TO STEP OUTSIDE AND BREATHE. he’s too powerful. send help.

@/bugsbunnycore • 2 hours ago ╰ BSS HAVE RUINED THE WORD “FIANCÉ” FOR ME I CAN’T EVEN HEAR IT WITHOUT DOING THE STUPID DANCE THEY WERE DOING 🙃

@/gyuluna2000 • 2 hours ago ╰ Luna’s “something I KNOW I’ll be good at” confidence was so powerful I felt my problems disappear with her certainly 😫

@/dkwonangel • 2 hours ago ╰ Dokyeom really out here singing his HEART OUT and still found time to tease Luna 😭 our multi-talented king

@/ashonashonash • 2 hour ago ╰ someone mentioned 2018 JeongNa Cold War and i haven’t stopped shaking since. THEY WERE SMILING FOR CAMERAS AND IGNORING EACH OTHER AT THE SAME TIME! THAT WAS AN ERA!! YOU JUST HAD TO BE THERE

@/nochuwooziii • 1 hour ago ╰ Jiyeon said she wanted to do something “smooth and sexy”? yeah she succeeded too well now i need to go to church

@/s.coupswife_fvr • 1 hour ago ╰ i am so normal about this album (i say as i scream into a pillow and cry in seventeen languages)

@/fandom_moments • 1 hour ago ╰ THE MEMBERS WERE DOING THOSE SIDE GLANCES AT LUNA DURING JEONGHAN’S SOLO AND I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS 😭 they KNOW something yall

@/tangerinechoi • 1 hour ago ╰ THE VARIETY, THE RANGE, THE TALENT. HOW DID THEY PUT OUT A WHOLE ALBUM AND NOT MISS ONCE??? TALENT.

@/choi_chwe17 • 1 hour ago ╰ JeongNa Cold War 🚬 🚬 🚬I haven’t heard those words in a while 🚬🚬🚬

@/hyunglineenthusiast • 1 hour ago ╰ THIS ALBUM MIGHT END ME 🫠

@/jjongslilsecret • 1 hour ago ╰ 1:00:00 yes ma’am, damn right she did that.

@/zzzrrah • 1 hour ago ╰ this was more than a listening party this was a telenovela and I NEED THE NEXT EPISODE RIGHT NOW.

@/jjeonghanismytherapist • 1 hour ago ╰ Jiyeonie tearing up to Jeonghan’s song and then flexing about him in HER song is such a real relationship dynamic. i love that for them.

@/boo_slapped_me • 1 hour ago ╰ if i had a nickel for every time bss emotionally terrorized Luna live on camera… i’d have like 4 nickels. which isn’t a lot but it’s WEIRD THAT IT’S HAPPENED THAT MANY TIMES.

@/lemonadegyu • 1 hour ago ╰ no bc how is jeonghan gonna drop a sad boi ballad and luna responds like “anyway here’s me snatching your fave and looking hot doing it” 💅🏻 DAMN RIGHT SHE DID THAT

@/dokyeomdoyouhearme • 1 hour ago ╰ WHO LET THEM COOK. WHO. THE ALBUM SLAPS TOO HARD. I’M NOT EVEN MAD. JUST DIZZY.

@/iluvjeonghanniee • 1 hour ago ╰ “putting that good work in like a fiancé” — OK BAE JIYEON YOU WIN. YOU WIN FOREVER. DAMN RIGHT YOU DID THAT.

@/notmecryinglol • 1 hour ago ╰ i’m sorry but that was not a song. that was a PUBLIC DECLARATION OF POSSESSION. luna said “he’s mine, try again next life.” damn right she did that 🤭

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Taglist: @zhqvie @minminghao @angie-x3 @jennwonwoo @k13endall @heeseungthel0ml @chisskaa @megumi2020 @yoonzzziino @lllucere @smh-anon @yveclipse @randomworker @bunnystrm @iamawkwardandshy @gratefulbunny1 @bmo-bri @syren-ash @megseungmin @multiplums @unlikelysublimekryptonite @night-storm7 @cookiearmy @seokqt @btskzfav @billboard-singer @junhuisworld @caturdayvibe @coralbatlampzonk @sof1eya @lyraea @jihoonsbbygirl @cocopuff2424 @okoknotco @minvxq @soulphoenix1618 @whineywheeiny @rairaine @toplinehyunjin @ateez-atiny380 @cherrylovescheol @jiimtaee @blurr3db3rry @seomisaho @amanda08319 @peanutbutterslothsstuff @cheolsboo @allthings-fandoms @mystic-megumi @sherlockbye @tastyluvr @luperque @reignofraine @kpoplover-19 @star2013 @frankenstein852 @axleighkaize @jmkookie01 @shhh94 @gigglensnort @stupendouscookiehumanmug

[kuncitizen]

Thots and prayers

Synopsis: You kneel at the confessional, desperate for salvation, trembling with guilt and lust. Reverend Father Getou offers no judgment, only indulgence. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the unholy ache between your thighs, welcome to your new form of worship.

Pairing: Geto Suguru x reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, priest kínk, confessional setting, religious imagery & heavy blasphemy, sacrilegious head, oral (male rec.), power play, dom!Getou, choking (rosary style), hair pulling, face-fucking, degradation + praise, crying, spitting, sacrament metaphors turned smutty, crying during orgásm, dubcon themes (priest authority), worship kínk, religious trauma undertones, slight exhibitionism, very intense power dynamics, atrocious levels of holy fuck, dripping with sin and incense, c*m as communion, unrepentant Getou, soul-crushingly filthy, no actual plot just unholy tension, you will not be absolved, Happy ending (kinda? emotionally? idk you're on your knees)

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: The cross is heavy but so is that dick

The confessional is dim and eerily quiet. Wood creaks under you as you kneel, air filled with incense and something else—something that clings to the back of your throat like shame.

You press trembling fingers to your chest, tracing the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The partition window slides open with a quiet scrape, wood groaning softly as if in protest or anticipation.

“Bless me, Reverend Father, for I have sinned.”

Geto’s voice answers on the other side, calm and measured. “How long has it been since your last confession, child of Christ?”

You swallow. “A week. Maybe less, I'm not too sure.”

You hear the faint smile in his tone, even if you can’t see his face.

“And what burdens your soul so urgently?”

You hesitate. The words knot in your throat with humiliation. “It’s… It’s been difficult. I’ve been trying to pray, I really have. But the thoughts won’t leave.”

“You’ve come again,” he says, and his voice is close, impossibly close, as though the partition between you is nothing but a veil. “Kneeling like that. With your head bowed, your hands folded so sweetly in your lap.” There’s something indulgent in the way he says it, a priest speaking not to scold, but to savor. “Do you know what it looks like, little one? Do you have any idea how you appear when you come to me like this?”

You purse your lips together, the action almost painful, before speaking up again.

“I wake up in the night. Restless, hot, bothered and I think of…” Your voice drops, barely audible. “I think of bodies. Of what it would be like to have one against mine...”

The silence on the other side stretches again, but it isn't cold, it's contemplative. You imagine Geto leaning in slightly, fingertips pressed together.

“Temptation is the Devil’s oldest trick. He plants seeds in your thoughts and waits for them to rot you from the inside.”

His voice is softer now, gentler, like a hand on your shoulder. “But you’ve done well to bring it here. Speak, and be unburdened.”

You shift on your knees, wetness slowly seeping between your legs. The air feels heavier in your lungs.

“I please myself,” you whisper. “When I feel it building. I try to resist, I do, but I end up on my knees anyway, just not like... this. Not for God. And afterwards I cry, because I just feel so empty and ashamed.... Because I let my lust consume me.”

You hear the faint rustle of his robes shifting behind the partition. No other sound, just that, and the pounding of your heart, like it’s trying to escape your chest and climb into his hands.

“Child of God,” Geto murmurs, “you carry shame like a second skin. But if you come here seeking sanctification…”

“Then let me take it from you,”

The wooden grate clicks open. Your breath catches in your throat as a sliver of light spills through. Enough to catch the faint glint of his rings, gold and tarnished silver, engraved with tiny symbols you don’t recognize.

His fingers slide through the opening gradually, knuckles kissed by candlelight. The cuffs of his robe pull taut at his wrists, the soft black fabric whispering against wood.

“Let me purify your being.”

Geto's hands cup your face, warm and firm, brushing the stray strands of hair from your eyes, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with rough hands.

You tilt your head up, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You can’t see him clearly through the rail, but you feel the weight of his gaze, knowing and unyielding.

His hand tightens just slightly, as if to steady your trembling.

“This is no mere penance,” he croons. “It is a communion of flesh and spirit. Will you receive the Host I offer?”

You nod, barely, wordless and desperate.

“Very well, then.”

The wooden grate slides fully open, divider folding back with a quiet, final creak. The confessional no longer feels like two separate worlds but one dimly lit chamber charged with a secret electricity.

Geto steps through, crossing over to your side. The flickering candlelight catches the deep black, traditional Roman collar crisp against pale skin. His robe falls smoothly, the fabric pooling lightly at his ankles, just above polished black shoes. Around his neck hangs a beaded rosary with a silver crucifix.

His hands slide to your face again, steadying you as the other moves to his neck. The beads slip through his hands with a soft, rhythmic clack. He lets the strand fall gently, like a silent benediction, before looping it slowly around your neck, the cross resting heavy against your skin.

Geto tightens his grip just enough to tug the beads against your throat, a slow choke that makes your breath hitch sharply and pulse quicken.

Leaning in close, breath hot and ragged against your ear, he murmurs, “Open yourself, and let me absolve you.”

His eyes darken with intent as one hand slides down to the waistband of his pants. Fingers deft and sure, he undoes the clasp with a muted whisper of fabric and metal.

His cock springs out, pale and pretty with a pearly split tip. And it's huge. So big and girthy that for a moment you wonder if you could even fit it in your palm. The sides of your mouth froth at the mere thought of it.

You part your lips, trembling, as he presses himself to your mouth. The tip slides past your lips, warm and demanding. You take him in eagerly, mouth hot and wet, the taste sharp like consecrated wine.

Geto's hands thread through your hair, fisting it and holding you firm as he fucks your face. Low groans spill from his throat like worship.

“That’s it... the Lord will—”

His words catch, swallowed by a deep, guttural sound as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, your pretty little throat stretching to welcome him. The pressure of the beads around your neck and the fullness in your mouth blend into a pulse of sinful salvation.

You suck and swirl, tasting him fully—holy and profane in one breath—as his hips tilt forward with steady rhythm. The church walls seem to close in around you, sacred space pulsing with every grunt and stifled moan.

Your cunt throbs. Your cheeks are wet from the mixture tears and spit. Your fingers slip between your thighs before you know what you’re doing, sin layered on sin, shame so sweet it could only be divine.

“I can feel your mouth praying for me,” he pants. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? The Lord forgives you. I forgive you.”

You gag softly as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t let you. You look up through your lashes, drool spilling past your lips, fingers moving faster. You’re cumming before he does.

“More,” he gasps, voice heavy with need. “Let this be your penance.”

Geto's head tilts back slightly, jaw tensing as a breath escapes him. He shudders, the release flooding your mouth, hot and creamy ropes gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

“Be a sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hushed and hoarse, thumb tilting your chin up. “And swallow it for me.”

You swallow, your throat aching and still tightening around the rosary beads.

Geto looks down at you through his hooded gaze—still kneeling, spit and release coating your lips lewdly. His hand finds your jaw again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His eyes then flick down to your trembling hand, fingers slick, glistening with your own climax.

He catches your wrist, bringing it up slowly. His tongue laps the mess you made, savoring the taste of your sex with a groan deep enough to echo through the confessional walls.

When he’s had his fill, Geto pulls off with a wet pop, licking his lips. "Sweet little sinner,"

He lingers for a moment, eyes trailing over your wrecked form—your heaving chest, the tremble still in your thighs, the cross hanging heavy against your neck. Geto's breath is still uneven, but his voice is steady as he speaks,

“In this sacrament of flesh, you are reborn.”

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Albus took his time before responding, eyes steady on the fire, his features touched by a stillness that wasn’t silence, but consideration. He let Harry’s words settle—really settle—into the room between them, like they were meant to linger in the air a while before being answered. His fingers curled lightly around his cup, absorbing the heat, just as he seemed to be absorbing the confession, the honesty, and the heart beneath Harrys ramble.

"You say you’ve always been somewhat out of place," he began, his voice thoughtful, measured. "And perhaps that’s true, Harry. But listening to you now, it doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t belong. It sounds like someone who has learned to carry many homes within himself. Hogwarts. The Burrow. The people who knew you without needing to understand every part of your past, or your pain. That’s a rare gift, to find people who see the whole of you—beyond names and prophecy—and choose to love you anyway."

He glanced toward the window briefly, where the dark Highlands pressed against the glass in soft, quiet folds, then back to Harry. "You’ve had something I envy, in truth. People who knew you young and true, before the world demanded things of you. Before fame or fate. I didn’t have that. Not really. Not after Gellert. And by the time anyone saw me as anything more than my name, I’d already built too many walls to let them in."

His voice wavered then, not with emotion exactly, but with a kind of honesty that came from seldom-used places. "You spoke of Ginny. Hermione. Ron. That kind of love and loyalty doesn’t fade, Harry. It may stretch across time and grief and impossible choices, but it remains. And it has clearly shaped you into someone capable of tremendous depth. Of compassion. Of love, even when it’s confusing. Even when it’s frightening."

He sat back, thoughtful again. "I won’t pretend this isn’t strange for me. You carry so many memories of a version of myself I’ve yet to become—or perhaps never will. You know things I’ve not yet lived, and feel things I cannot place in any linear way. But what strikes me most is not your knowledge of the future. It’s the way you speak of care. The way you’ve built a life out of the pieces handed to you, however broken or burdened."

He met Harrys eyes fully now. "You said I never treated you like the Chosen One. That I saw you. I think I understand why that matters so deeply to you. Because being seen—for who we truly are beneath the weight of expectation—that may be the rarest magic of all. And I want you to know that the way I see you now… is not through the lens of your fame or what you’ve done. It’s through what you’ve shown me since you arrived: your gentleness, your honesty, your restlessness, and yes, your pain. But also your strength."

Albus took another slow sip of his tea before adding, more quietly, "I don’t know yet what place I might have in this version of your life. But I do know this: if there is space for me, even just here in this moment, I am grateful. And if nothing else, I will do my best to make sure that you never feel out of place here again. Not while I am around to remind you that you are seen. Not for who the world says you are. But for who you choose to be."

Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the couch, staring into the fireplace that was across from him. The crackling of the flames was the only sound breaking the silence in the cottage that was nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was isolated, miles away from even the nearest village. He had chosen it for that very reason, desperate for solitude even if it wasn't something that had been forced upon him. He had lost the duel against Grindelwald. He had known that had always been a possibility. There were equals after all and had known each other painfully well. They had spent that summer duelling, friendly but pushing each others boundaries. They had grown and changed and become more powerful but their tendencies had lingered. The fight had lasted well over an hour but in the end, Gellert had just gotten the better of him and managed to disarm him and send him flying backwards. His only minor consolation was the fight had left them both panting and injured. But it had been clear who the winner was. There was no backing out of the agreement they had made. His time in Nurmengard had been brief. A chance to recover from the duel before Gellert gave him an ultimatum. He could remain free if he agreed to leave Hogwarts and retreat from the Wizarding World. Albus had already known he would leave the school, for certainly he had lost that right when he had failed his students and the Wizarding World as a whole. He had agreed, knowing Gellert wasn't giving him a choice and not agreeing would result in either his death or being imprisoned in Nurmengard forever or the deaths of those he cared about. And so here he was, over a year after the duel. Staring into the fire, sitting beside a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Books had been removed from the overflowing bookshelves, scattered around the room. Some had been read, some he hadn't even yet opened. Plain parchment piled up on the desk. Few knew where he was and so letters came rarely. He had picked some of the fruit and vegetables he grew in a small garden he tended to. Perhaps he would make some jams and chutneys if he could find the strength and motivation. It came sometimes, mixed in with the heavy weight of despair that seemed to fill his waking hours. He had failed. He had let down the wizarding world and now he banished just beyond the world he loved so much. He knew what was happening there, of course. He did his best to learn of Gellerts ongoing plans and rise to power. Without him there, there was nothing to stop him. He knew the few Ministries that still existed moved against him but it wouldn't take much for them to fall. Everything would be lost then and Albus knew he was powerless to stop it. @johamfated

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

Congrats on the milestone lovely!! Can I please request Seungmin with 🧷,💋, 🪩,🧃and 🧋

🏮 — paring・seungmin x gn!reader // genres・fluff, cookies time capsule event!! // words・1.3k // the event・wanna open your relationship time capsule? click here to request!

a/n・eeek my first request!! thank you so, so much baby, it really means a lot!! i've been having tons of fun making these so if you (or anybody stopping by) wants to see more feel free to request!! (this took 4 hours...don't ask why i'm still in shock staring at the clock)

🧷 — the first time you met ➵ ꒰ 0 days into your relationship ꒱

seungmin met you at a baseball game. there was nothing particularly eye-catching about you, clad in a jersey and jeans, but, for whatever reason, as you unabashedly stuffed half a corn dog into your mouth, he couldn't help but be drawn to you. it was in the middle of the game when he actually talked to you, though, it was less than ideal. you stood up at the same time he did, spilling your entire soda down the front of his shirt. to say you were horrified would be an understatement. the look of pure regret and guilt that spread across your pretty features made him wanna kiss you. it took a solid 10 minutes of reassurance and turning down your 12th "let me pay for another shirt, please, i insist." for him to finally get your name. "really, don't worry about it. i can go buy one myself, they aren't even that expensive anyways." he's a fucking liar. they are 70 dollars, but you didn't need to know that. "are you sure, i feel so bad—" "what's your name?" he interrupts, palms clasping around your shoulders to bring you back down to earth. you supplied him with your name, and that's where it all began. you, him, and a spilled soda. rip your sprite.

💋 — the first kiss. ➵ ꒰ 3 weeks into your relationship ꒱

the first kiss wasn't exactly magical, he didn't kiss you underneath a tree or by the beach. kim seungmin kissed you right in front of your parents door. it was after your second date, and upon request, he dropped you off at your parents house. you just kinda stood there, swallowing and looking around awkwardly, both faces illuminated by the dull streetlights. you couldn't stop thinking: "is he ever going to kiss me?" "does he even wanna kiss me?" and he couldn't stop thinking: "do you even want a kiss?" "how do you even kiss?!" it was the longest 5 seconds of your life and you were about to just go inside but that's when he did it. in a cloud of anxiety, seungmin pushed his lips to yours and hoped for the best, knowing if he thought about it any longer you would never get a kiss from him. it wasn't perfect—you definitely tasted the spaghetti he ate for dinner and his teeth clashed against yours at least once, but that didn't matter. you were kissing the kim seungmin, and you wouldn't have traded that moment for the world. that is until your parents open the door. yeah...that was a fun conversation.

🪩 — the first time you meet the boys ➵ ꒰ 1 ½ months into your relationship ꒱

the first time you met the boys, it was by accident. seungmin didn't pride himself on having a spectacular memory, which was good figuring he forgot A: he invited you over to his apartment, with the intention a quiet, date night alone. and B: that would be impossible figuring he literally shared his apartment with seven other boys. so when you step into the apartment with a tub of freshly baked cookies you don't expect to see your boyfriend practically bent over by a short, muscular man, surrounded by other...short, muscular men. the entire room stills. "it's not what it looks like." seungmin states, effectively shattering this little stand-off you and the boys had. changbin drops him, earning him a grunt and glare as he hits the ground. you blink. "are you getting...robbed?" you weren't angry, you were more...concerned. minho has never laughed harder in his life, and felix has never stared down cookies harder in his life. bangchan, thankfully, saves the day by gingerly clasping your shoulder and pulling you out of your shocked state, chuckling, "no, darling, he's not getting robbed, he's getting manhandled." christopher says it like it's somehow more normal. seungmin spends the next twenty minutes scrambling to explain why he's living with seven other guys. after he's done stressing and you're done processing, you all eat dinner together, snack on cookies and watch a good movie. it wasn't what you imagined when you thought of a date night, but you didn't mind it. actually, it was nice to be around his friends. they all fell in love with you the second they tasted your cookies, and seungmin loved that they loved you. he also loved your cookies, but that's not important.

🧃 — the first time you realized you loved each other ➵ ꒰ 1 ½ months into your relationship ꒱

the first time kim seungmin knew he loved you was the first time you made him smile. for four whole months of your new relationship, he didn't smile. it wasn't because he didn't want to, trust me, he wanted to smile. but instead, it was that deep-seated fear that eventually, you too will see what he, and half of the fandom, sees. it was over something stupid, an inside joke or a silly story, he doesn't remember exactly—he just remembers the laughter. it was the kind of laughter that split your face in two and forced you on your side, clutching your stomachs. he, never in all his 21 years of existence, has never felt this happy in his life. that's when you see it, the genuine smile etched onto his lips. your own grin slowly falls, settling into something more serious, more awe-struck. seungmin, still giggling in the silence, notices how hard you're staring. he scrunches his brow, then upon realization, his entire face drops. "sorry." he quickly murmurs, looking away from you and clearing his throat. you're staring at him like he's crazy now. "sorry? why are you sorry?" he can't bear to look at you as he whispers, "i know it's not the prettiest." you don't press him on the issue, throw your hands up and make a big stink about killing whoever made him believe his smile wasn't pretty (mentally you did). no, instead, you throw yourself on top of him and dig your fingers into his ribs until he's smiling even wider than before. "there it is. there's that smile i love." for the first time in his life, he believes that something about him is beautiful. that's when he realizes he's in love with you. you make him a better person, you make him want to love himself.

🧋 — the first time he realized he wanted to marry you ➵ ꒰ 1 year into your relationship ꒱

the first time kim seungmin realized he wanted to marry you was also the first time he allowed you to hear his raw vocals. you look at him like he had painted the entire night sky. "what?" he whispers, sweet and shy, pulling off his headphones. "i could listen to your voice on repeat and i'd never get tired of it." that paints his entire face pink. "you're lying, nobody likes my voice that much." he chuckles and shrugs, but only you could sense the dribble of insecurity in his tone. you don't act surprised, you don't gasp and call him a liar, no, that wasn't what seungmin would want. instead, you step into the recording booth, wrap your arms around his waist, perch your chin on his chest and say, "i wanna be the one to listen to you sing, even on the bad days, even when you hate it, i wanna be there with you every step of the way." you hadn't meant it as some deep confession of your ardor, but seungmin sure as hell took it that way. maybe it was the little voice in his head, or the little cupid in his chest that translated your sentence into: "i wanna spend the rest of my life with you." you didn't actually say that, of course, but that didn't matter because that's what his heart said. and hey, your heart wasn't complaining either.

[maebelmelee]

Red head redemption, if you know what I'm saying ;)

Seriously though, I need to give Arthur the SLOPPIEST head and I'm not afraid to admit it. Like absolutely filthy head cause we know this man is disgusting, not clean at all, but I couldn't care less.

Anyways, aside from my filthy thoughts, I hope you're having a wonderful day!! Remember to take care of yourself :3

Voiceless

Author's Note • "Red Head Redemption" has me CACKLING. It also makes me feel disappointed in myself for not thinking of it sooner because damn that was funny 💀 Anywasiez, here is some sloppy toppy for our dear Arthur ;)

18 + / MDNI !! Content below the cut!

The campfire’s burned down to embers, and the low murmur of conversation has dwindled to nothing as most everyone’s turned in for the night.

You slip into Arthur’s tent without a word, and he’s already waiting with his back against the cot, legs spread wide, shirt unbuttoned just enough for you to see the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

His eyes lock on you; dark with a primal need for you.

“Well, look who came crawlin’ in,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You gonna behave tonight, or you here to get on your knees again?”

You don’t answer. You just sink down in front of him, hands working up the insides of his thighs until he lets out a shaky breath through his nose.

You can see it in his face as he’s trying not to grin too wide. Trying to keep the edge of control. But it’s slipping under your gentle but wanting touch.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he mutters, cupping the back of your head. “You filthy little thing.”

You nod quietly, fingers working his belt open. He lifts his hips just enough to help you pull his pants down, his cock already heavy and twitching with heat. Big, flushed, and glistening at the tip.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “Starin’ like it’s your favorite damn meal.”

You wrap your hand around the base, thick and hot in your palm, and run your tongue slow and flat up the underside. Arthur sucks in a breath between his teeth as his fingers tangle inside your hair.

“Easy now… goddamn…” he mutters, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Don’t tease me, girl. You came here to suck my cock, so do it proper.”

You take him into your mouth, slow at first, letting your lips stretch around him. He hisses, hips jerking, then chuckles low like he can’t help himself.

“Shit. That’s it. Just like that…”

You bob your head, dragging your tongue along every ridge and vein, tasting the salt of his skin, the earthy scent of leather, sweat, and gunsmoke still clinging to him. He fills your mouth more than anyone ever has. Makes your jaw ache in the best way.

He grunts, trying to stay quiet, but you can hear the strain in his voice. “You gonna make me come too fast if you keep lookin’ up at me like that.”

You go deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he groans in a way so low and deep; barely muffled by his clenched teeth. His hips start to roll, slow and shallow, fucking into your mouth in steady thrusts.

“That’s it, baby… so fuckin’ wet down there,” he pants. “Sloppy little mouth’s makin’ a mess, huh?”

You hum around him, letting spit spill out over your lips, strings of it sliding down your chin, onto your chest.

Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, twisting and slick with your drool. He watches it all, eyes glazed over, lip caught between his teeth.

“Goddamn, you’re filthy,” he mutters, voice tight. “If we weren’t in camp, I’d bend you over and fuck you senseless for that.”

You pull back to breathe, lips swollen and slick, a string of spit still connecting your mouth to his tip.

You stroke him slow and messy, thumbing over his leaking head before leaning back in and taking him deeper this time; nearly to the base. His thighs tense under your hands.

“Shit. Shit. You want me to fill that throat?” he growls under his breath, voice like gravel. “You better take it, girl. Don’t you dare fuckin’ pull off.”

You moan around him, eyes closing as he takes your mouth like it’s his.

His hand on your head now holds you down, guiding each thrust just enough to make your throat flex around him. You gag a little and he loves that. He groans low, his whole body trembling.

“You hear yourself?” he pants. “Mouth so damn loud, someone’s gonna come peekin’. You want that? Want someone to see you gaggin’ on my cock like a good little whore?”

His thrusts get a little rougher, more desperate. His breath’s coming in short, quiet grunts. You feel the tension snap in his stomach a moment before he growls,

“Fuck—gonna come—take it. Take every drop.”

He holds your head down, hips jerking once, twice—

And then he groans, deep in his chest, cock pulsing as he spills down your throat.

You swallow around him, the warmth of it filling your mouth as you suck him through it, slow and greedy.

When you finally pull off, panting, spit and come still cling to your lips.

Arthur’s eyes are wild as he looks down at you.

“Jesus Christ…” he mutters, wiping your chin with his thumb, then sliding it into your mouth. “Ain’t never seen anything so fuckin’ pretty.”

He leans down, pulls you up into his lap, and kisses you in that slow and dirty way, like he doesn’t care what you taste like.

“You keep suckin’ me off like that, and I’m gonna have to marry you,” he smirks against your lips. “But for now… you best sneak back to your bed before I get loud and wake the whole damn camp.”

Taglist • @fxndxm-axg , @photo1030 , @stottlemorgan , @rope-and-ride-me-cowboah ,

[yoichiin]

run on your new legs (and glow with your new light)

having a slumber party with your boyfriend, chigiri hyoma.

includes, chigiri x gn!reader. takes place during the two week break after the u-20 match. reader doesn't know a lot about skincare. fluff. 0.9k wc.

chigiri led you into his room by the hand, sitting you down by his bed.

“wait here.” he said before heading back out into the hallway.

while it didn’t show much on his face, chigiri was rather excited when you proposed to sleep over at his place. to anyone else, he looked just as he did any other day, but you could see the new light in his eyes, like the sun being revealed through the clouds. he began planning your agenda before you could even get a word in.

you never realized how much you missed that. the him before everything had happened, and you’re eternally grateful to blue lock for not just reviving the hyoma you once knew, but revitalizing him. the expression he wore when he was sprinting during the U-20 match was nothing like you’d ever seen on him before. 

your eyes scan the room. it’s small and blandly decorated, with neat sheets, a mat, and a foldable coffee table in the center to replace the presence of a desk. there are folded posters of soccer players sitting in the corner, probably taken down when he tore his acl and hasn’t had the chance to put them back up since he joined blue lock. 

your gaze falls on a shelf near the door, all the items on it brightly colored and seemingly out of place with the rest of his room. the bottom shelves have bins filled with fashion magazines, with idols and a-list models littering the front covers. the shelves above contained an abundance of different hair products, so many that you instinctively straightened your posture in case one of them would fall off the edge. there were a variety of commonplace and luxury perfumes, and you could even spot the occasional makeup product on the top shelf, along with some of the more well-used products. 

you knew your boyfriend was rather…feminine, but it seems you underestimated those habits. it never occurred to you to even question it, even after so long, like it were a given for someone of his delicate appearance.

a muffled voice comes from the outside, and you sit up. “hey, could you open it for me?” chigiri says through the door. 

once opened, you chuckle at the sight that awaits you: chigiri and his hands full of different skincare bottles and containers, with japanese and foreign letters alike. you take some of them from his hold, making him sigh with relief. you briefly skim some of the labels before placing them on the table.

“do you really use all of this?” you ask.

“no, some of it is my sister’s," he replies, sitting down on the other side of the table and making himself comfortable. "i took the ones that broke her out in case they work for you.”

you carefully inspect each item, mumbling each of the product's taglines and scrunching your face at every unfamiliar ingredient or chemical. 

you look up at him. “are we gonna use all of this?”

“no,” he smiles, and you know you’ve said something ridiculous that only skincare heads like him can understand. “i just wanted to give you a lot of options.”

chigiri answers all your questions about each of them, explaining every ingredient and its benefits as well as the different product types. your brain hurts with each buzzword like “brightening” and “anti-aging” that he uses, but you let him ramble anyway. from your perspective, he looks like he's promoting them like those idols in commercials, with his bright yet shy smile and gentle pink eyes.

before he picks up another conditioner (apparently, there’s one for skin and one for hair), you interrupt. “who taught you all of this? skincare, fashion…”

chigiri smiles, “myself, actually.”

“some of it was just from growing up with my mom and my sister, but not to this degree. when i moved to tokyo with koyuki, i was only thinking about soccer.”

“and then i tore my knee, and i was left with a lot of free time during rehab. at that point, i didn’t even want to keep doing soccer, so my life looked different without it.”

“i didn’t have to wear my jersey, so i took an interest in fashion. i didn’t need to keep my hair short anymore, so i grew it out and learned how to take care of it.”

“and everything else?” your eyes drift to his shelf. 

“just for fun.” he says.

chigiri fidgets with the cap of one of the bottles. his eyes seem sentimental as he looks down at the table, like he’s seeing something beyond it.

“i like it; investing in myself. having a routine i could stick to every night, and feeling,” he pauses. “somewhat better by morning. it kept me sane while i was recovering.” 

“and you aren’t…” you try to look for a better word. it doesn’t work. “embarrassed?”

chigiri smiles, leaning in and his eyes lidded. “you should know by now i don’t care about other people,” he says almost cheekily.

you chuckle at your oversight, cheeks slightly warm from your minimal distance. “you’re right.”

“now, can i actually use these products on you instead of explaining them?” chigiri sits back, exasperated.

he faces the back of his palm toward you, skin glistening against the overhead light. “i think my hand is tired from trying out all of the products on them so you could feel them.”

you giggle. “yeah, you can. but look, now you can have the brightest and anti-aged hands ever!”

he erupts with laughter. “of course.”

fin.

what makeup products do you think he uses? as much as i possibly exaggerated his interests here, i think he's a minimal guy. like bb cream and tinted lip balm max (mostly because his face card is that lethal)

[wahapele]

Me fan girling over Cod men again recently has got my brain turning. So I give you boyfriend!soap x reader and how I think mornings would be like. Just a heads up, might not be the best since I haven’t written in YEEEEAARRS! But i needed to get this idea out of my head.

( Also, apologies in advance, realized I got to work on writing with accents. I have one myself(filipino) but definitely not used to writting a scottish one. So yeah. Not the best but wanted to get the idea out of my brain while it was still there.)

Pairing: John/Johnny “soap” McTavish x reader

Boyfriend!soap x reader (reader doesn’t have a specific gender in this)

Summary:Mornings with him.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: nothing explicit but little, very tiny, hint at spicy time but didn’t put it fully in. Just implied.

Boyfriend!soap who wakes you up with kisses all over your face and lays his entire body on you as you try to wiggle yourself free. Tells you he’ll move off you for a kiss. You trying to remind him that you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. Him replying “Dae bother me”.

Boyfriend!soap reluctantly letting you get out of bed so you can get ready for the day. But not without a smack to the butt first.

Boyfriend!Soap tickling and making funny faces at you while you’re both in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Of course bending down to give you big ‘ole kiss once you’ve both finished. Wiggling his eyebrows at you after.

Boyfriend!soap snaking his arms around your waist and kissing the side of your neck while you’re making you both breakfast. Him whispering what “other” things he’d like for breakfast instead. “ Cannae ‘ave me starting ma dey without a taste bonnie. ” he says as his hands slowly trail down your hips.

Boyfriend!soap pouting after you smacked his hands with the spatula and told him to “behave”. Him muttering complaints under his breath but listening and snuggling back into you.

Boyfriend!soap helping with the dishes after breakfast saying “ A’ll do ‘em. ‘ant ‘ave you doing all the work bons” while kissing your forehead and shushing you away when you try to help.

Boyfriend!soap getting dragged by you to the couch in the living room after the dishes to watch a movie. Blankets covering you both as you snuggle into one another. A new movie that came out was playing, one that you’ve been dying to see but never had time to watch it while it was in theatres.

Boyfriend!soap not paying attention to the movie. Starts getting handsy again under the blanket while you try giving him a stern look cuz you he’s distracting you from the movie. Scolding him to knock it off and pay attention.

Boyfriend!soap saying “Dinnae ken ye’re talking aboot”. He’s just cuddling he says.

Boyfriend!soap getting turned on at one of the more romantic scenes in the movie and starts pressing into you more while littering your shoulder with kissing.

Turning to scold him again but eventually cracking and straight up laughing at the doggy eyes boyfriend!soap gives you. Planting a kiss on his lips while his eyes close and he makes a sound like all his problems just disappeared.

Boyfriend!soap absolutely pouncing on you after, making you squeal in surprise. Movie forgotten at this point.

Boyfriend!soap having to buy a copy of the movie after cuz you pouted that you didn’t get to finish it. Telling him that he has to watch it with you again.

Boyfriend!soap groaning about it but smiling all the same at you. Mans just thinking about repeating what happened an hour ago anyways. Sorry, don’t you’ll get through the movie unless you watch it alone.

Both of you deciding to take a little nap afterwards first though.

Boyfriend!soap staring at your sleeping face thanking whatever god/power that let him meet you. Falling asleep after giving you a peck on the forehead.

[georgeclarkeys]

blue eyed bet pt 2 - george clarkey x reader

summary: you deal with the aftermath of finding out your boyfriend asked you out on a bet - 2.3k words

pt 1

i was struggling with this a bit, but the lovely @pretendyoucantseeme helped me brainstorm! so if you were fighting for your life waiting for this, go tell her thank you lololol. anyways this is the longest fic i have ever posted and i was mad when i wrote it so good luck!

hope y'all don't hate it!

-

Your head was pounding. After leaving George standing in the doorway of his flat, you called your best friend. She picked you up, and took you home, before letting you cry on her shoulder all night. That was four days ago.

You had been sulking in bed for four whole days. The curtains were drawn, there was an empty tub of ice cream on the nightstand, and you were under a weighted blanket. The lights were off, but the room was being illuminated by the dull light of the television. The scene in your bedroom looked like a cliche painting, depicting heartbreak in its most basic form. George had texted you. Chris had texted you. Both Arthurs had texted you. You could not bring yourself to reply to any of them, especially George, while you could still feel the ache in your chest.

A knock on your door pulled your attention away from the raunchy reality show on the TV. You made no effort to get up. Let them think I’m not home. The knock sounded again, a bit louder this time. Fuck me, you thought, rubbing your puffy eyes. You hauled yourself out of bed and threw on the nearest sweatshirt, not bothering to deal with the birds-nest situation on top of your head. The person at the door knocked again. 

“Fucking shit, I’m coming! Damn!” You yelled out, growing irritated. As your hand touched the door knob, you had a realization and paused.

“If your name is George Clarke, go away,” you spoke to the person through the door.

“My name is not George Clarke,” the unmistakable, muffled voice of Chris Dixon replied.

Cracking the door open in shock, your eyes landed on Chris. He looked tired, you could see it in his eyes and slightly disheveled hair.

“What are you doing here?” You questioned, trying to scrub the crusted tears off your cheeks with your hand. 

“(Y/N), no one has heard from you in four days. You are my friend. I needed to make sure you were at least alive, and I want to talk to you.”

You eyed him warily. He looked sincere, and there was a hint of desperation in his expression.

“Can I come in?” He asked you, gesturing slightly with his hand. 

You didn’t respond, but opened the door wider, allowing him to enter. You followed Chris to the couch, opting to sit in the chair across from him. You folded your hands in your lap and avoided looking directly into his eyes. 

“George doesn’t know I’m here,” he started, before pausing and taking a few minutes to gather his thoughts. “I wanted to explain myself, because you deserve to know what happened that night.”

You peered out the window, and focused on your breathing, “go on.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his hands. His eyes were trained on the ground in shame, “I was not aware that you did not know about the bet. Obviously. I would like to start out by saying that you should have known a long time ago.”

He paused. You couldn’t move if you tried.

“George had noticed you early on, that night,” he continued. “He mentioned something offhand about the beautiful girl across the room, but no one really took him seriously. Arthur noticed when you started staring at George from the bar. Then, you started to leave. George was too shy to chase you down, so I offered him twenty pounds if he could get your number and ask you on a date. (Y/N) I swear on my life it was nothing malicious. We were not making fun of you, and I was not trying to be a dickhead. I was just trying to get my friend to make a move on the woman he had been sneaking glances at all night. I’m not trying to make excuses, what we did was wrong, but we all truly love and care about you. You deserved to know the truth.”

You curled into your chair, tucking your feet under you and placing your fist under your chin. You could feel Chris’s eyes on you but you kept your gaze firmly on the window. Your heart was about to beat out of your chest and your mind was racing with thoughts. 

One thought in particular emerged ahead of the others. Your lips were moving before you had a chance to consider your words.

“How is George?” You blurted out, the first words you had spoken since you sat down with Chris. 

He looked startled for a moment, but composed himself quickly. “He’s, uh, he’s not handling this very well. He misses you… wants to make things right.”

You cut your eyes back to Chris, making eye contact with him. He had given you some things to think about. “Thanks for stopping by, Chris.”

He pressed his lips together in a tight smile and rose out of his chair. You stayed put as he walked to the door, your eyes back on the window. The door squeaked as Chris opened it.

“(Y/N)?” He called, causing you to turn your head towards him, “I hope you know how sorry I am. Truly.”

You nodded as he shut the door behind him, leaving you alone in your thoughts once again.

Eventually, you lumbered back into your room. You were still trying to work through the information that Chris had given you, and pondering if it made a difference at all. Your phone lit up with a notification, grabbing your attention. It was just an email, but it reminded you of all your unread texts.

Picking up your phone, you took a deep breath and willed yourself to open the messages from George.

georgie <3 

Four days ago: 

(Y/N) I am so sorry please let me explain

I am the biggest idiot on the planet

Let me know you’re safe please

Three days ago:

(Y/N) please just tell me you made it home safe

I know you don’t want to talk to me, text Chris or Arthur or someone please I just want to know you’re safe

Two days ago:

I wouldn’t talk to me right now either. I will give you all the space you need. If you want to talk, please text me

You sighed, loudly, and brought your hand up to your mouth to chew on a fingernail. You love George, but was this something you could forgive? He had betrayed your trust in so many ways, and lied to you several times over the course of your relationship. Your mind began to wander, imagining the worst case scenarios. You needed answers: real answers. Answers that you could only get from George. Your fingers were dancing across the screen before you could talk yourself out of it.

send to georgie <3 ?

I want to talk to you. In person. Come to mine?

You pressed send and immediately set your phone face down, trying to control your nerves. He replied less than a minute later.

georgie <3 

I’ll be there in 20

Twenty minutes flew by, mainly due to your panicked cleaning and fretting over your appearance. For the second time that day, a knock sounded at your door. You took a deep breath before opening the door, but nothing could have prepared you for what you saw. 

George’s gorgeous blue eyes were dull, seemingly held up by the dark circles under them. The usually pristine, curly mullet was flat and lifeless. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept since the last time you saw him. In one of his hands he held a bouquet of pink stargazer lilies, your favorite flower. 

George ran his other hand through his hair, ruffling it, “These are for you. They're your favorite, right?” He lifted his arm, offering the bouquet of flowers to you. You blinked at him. He had brought you flowers a million times before, but this felt different, like it was more intentional. 

Your mouth twitched, not a smile but the ghost of one. “Thank you, George,” you spoke softly as you took the flowers out of his hand, “come, sit while I put these in a vase.” He nodded and made his way to the couch, ironically sitting in the exact same spot that Chris had chosen. His eyes lingered on you as you filled a vase with water and delicately placed the lilies inside. No one said a word.

You sat across from him, in the same chair that you did earlier. You were glad he brought you flowers, it gave you a minute to gather your thoughts.

“(Y/N), I-” he started, but you cut him off.

“No. I’m going first,” his eyes widened slightly but you continued. “George, I have never been as angry in my entire life than I am at you right now. I feel like you played me. You lied to me. You betrayed my trust. I’ve spent four days wondering if any of it was real at all.”

His face crumbled at the last sentence, but he did not interrupt you.

“George, I love you. I love you so deeply that there has been a real ache in my chest for four days. That is why I am willing to hear you out. So please, say what you came to say.”

His eyes found yours; melancholic yearning was written on his face. The eyes you loved to get lost in suddenly brought about a simple wariness in your mind.

“The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you,” he choked out, voice cracking with emotion. You longed to reach out and comfort him, but the walls you had built up kept you from moving.

“I am so sorry for not telling you about the bet, (Y/N). I should have told you on our first date, but I didn’t. I chickened out. You were so amazing, and we were having such a good time. I didn’t want to ruin it. Fuck, I should have told you that day.” He ran his fingers through his hair again; he was nervous.

“I don’t know how I can make this up to you, but I will do anything. I will get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness (Y/N).”

Your heart lurched, and a few tears trickled down your cheek, “George, how can I trust you? How can I trust anything you’ve ever said to me?”

He straightens his back, locking his gorgeous blue eyes on your teary ones. “Everything was real, (Y/N). I know you. I know you and I love everything about you. I know that you take your coffee with cream and just a touch of sugar. You write in your journal every morning while you drink it. I know that you love Indian food, but you’ll only buy it from that place down the street because you found out the owners are working to pay for their daughters' schooling.” 

Your tears were flowing freely now.

“I know you love animals,” he continued, “and I would never take you to a zoo unless conservation and rehabilitation were clearly part of their mission, because I know how passionate you are about it. I know that you scrunch your nose when you concentrate, and cry when you’re nervous. Your favorite flowers are pink stargazer lilies, and you only eat tomatoes if they’re in pasta sauce. You love it when I kiss your forehead, and hold your hand in crowded places. Every time you watch a new movie you end up crying because you get attached to the characters. You have so much love in your heart for everyone around you, even people who don’t deserve it, and strangers.”

You were sobbing at this point, feeling the intense emotion in his words. He moved off the couch, falling to his knees at your feet. “May I?” He asked, gesturing at your hands. You said nothing, but nodded your head, giving him permission to grab your hands. He held them softly, like he was scared of breaking you, and resumed his monologue. 

“(Y/N), I know you and I love you. I should have told you about the bet from the start. All I know is that it played no part in the real love I have for you. It stopped being a bet for me as soon as I started talking to you. There is nothing more real than my love for you. Please, give me another chance. Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

You squeezed his hands before releasing them. He looked defeated, but only for a moment as you grabbed his face and pressed your lips against his. There was no hesitation, he kissed you back immediately. The kiss was full of desperation and longing, like two pieces of a puzzle that had finally been brought back together. As your lips moved against his, you could feel the hot tears begin to slide down his face. 

You pulled back, breaking the kiss. Taking in the tear stained face of the man in front of you, still on his knees at your feet, you knew he meant every word he said. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, cracking a half-hearted smile, “but I’ll give you another chance, George Clarke. Please don’t break my heart again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” he said back with a sincere smile. For the first time in four days, the stars were shining in his gorgeous blue eyes once again.

[javier-pena]

oh this is just so …. 💖💗💐🥰 (i don’t have any words to describe it, i need to revert to emojis omg i just didn’t want it to end, i’m heartbroken now that it’s over but trying to tell myself i should be happy it happened)

i think your harry might have ruined the movie for me before i even get to see it, he felt like this wonderfully three dimensional, very real character that i immediately fell in love with, it truly is the little things for me like “and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code”. and who doesn’t like to dream about an insanely handsome, insanely rich man sweeping you off your feet? he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone etc.

i’m also obsessed with the relationship you built between the two characters, i was so invested in their friendship/relationship i was holding my breath the entire time, i loved that line in the beginning about how harry loves spoiling things that work well and ms reader is like his espresso machine or his aston martin, that was so good 😭😭

i mean your writing overall is just so ‼️‼️ i would read a whole book of it (or, let’s be honest, a whole series) because i love how it flows, and i love all the images you evoke, and how beautiful and lush and dreamy this story was, and yet it was filled with such warm humor and unbearable longing and gaaaaahh!!! what was it ms reader was thinking in the beginning? it “makes you want to chew glass” …. that’s exactly how i feel about it

my favorite line in this fic was this btw:

“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.”

that’s what i mean when i say it’s dreamy and filled with unbearable longing, i’ll never get over this (and i frankly don’t want to)

so anyway, i wish the movie all the best because i will be comparing it to this absolute masterpiece and i’m afraid it has already lost

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10.4k

ೃ⁀➷ 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!

[theoneandonlysemla]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @chiqita @skyrim-forever @heavy-metal-dick @illumiera @sanzas-reverie

Tagging: @friend-of-giants @sulphuricgrin @moriche @pocket-vvardvark @rikkimora @sheirukitriesfandom @ladytanithia @elavoria @tiredela @hircines-hunter @vanilleeistee @dirty-bosmer

It's Wednesday again? Uh... Ok. I've had a very productive week! I've started tracking my wordcounts again, setting myself a goal of 1000 words a day. Works kinda, my daily average is at 1800. (With one day of almost 6k and one day of 170 words lol.) I want to write a bunch of Dealings with Daedra before I'm locked in the psych ward soon (This is a joke, I will be at a daily psychiatric hospital for treating my burnout and I guess it will suck all the energy from me).

But I digress, I have also started a new Much study, this time with Nevri as Ruby. The sketch is kind of done, I want to fill in more details in the backround but by now I have no ideas really. Fun guessing game: Who will find all the hints to her story? :D

But stop right here! I have more! Who is interested in meat-beating with Morotar? It's a snippet from the beginning of chapter 26 that I'm currently writing. After a drunk and steamy encounter with our dearest Nevri, Morotar has been kicked out of her room. Chat, is it orgasm denial when she gets a PTSD flashback? Anyway, Morotar is now in his room and feeling guilty for all the wrong reasons (mostly internatlised racism and indoctrination and not that the woman he likes had a bad time touching him. He needs to learn. It is a process. And I never said that my characters are good people <3)

So, CW for sexual content, racism and *checks notes* religion? Ok. Have fun!

His back pressed to the door, he leaned on it, eyes closed and nails digging into the wood behind. Long strands of his silver hair dangled in front of his face, a thin film of sweat smeared over his forehead. He sucked in a deep breath, filled his lungs with air that was lacking her scent and caged it inside, hoping for it to clean the small vessels of the mark she had left on him. Lavender had clung to her skin, so natural as if it were the smell her own body emitted, the smoke of the hearth mixing into it. The aroma of the cheap wine mingling in, a beverage he had dislike until he had tasted it from her lips – there it had turned to the most aethereal of drinks, the gods’ nectar.

The gods – they mocked him. Sitting high in their realm, watching how he stumbled through his life since he had awoken on this forsaken mountain top. He was nothing but their reason to laugh and now, on this exact evening, disdain had joined in. For what he had done, what he had allowed to happen this night was nothing but sin, a blasphemous wrong that spat on his heritage and his entire race. Shame, burning and hot ate into his guts and the fear of someone having seen his misstep swinging with it. When had he thrown his morals and all that he cherished as his believe out of the window? He had gone too far, way too far and what he had harvested from his dance on the line was a loss of control. He was tempted to blame it on alcohol, to say that the neurotoxin in his veins was solely responsible for his loss of control. Yet he knew better. Too often over the past few days, he had caught himself glancing at her and trying to coax a friendly word from the Dunmer. His downfall had been looming, for the world to see.

Morotar pushed himself away from the door and staggered into the room, his face now hidden in his hands. He paced back and forth with the fury of a caged animal, still trying to rid himself of her divine fragrance. But it remained, just like the sweet flavour in his mouth and the tingling sensation on his lips. The memory of her weight on his lap remained, as did the feeling that his trousers were much too tight in the crotch. Freezing still, he tore his hands down and shook them like a madman, as if he hoped to rid them of the sensation of her skin beneath his fingertips. He had to escape this delusion, but he didn't succeed.

Already he had the jug of water from his bedside table in his hand and poured a load of cold liquid over his face. And yet even that did not calm his mind. A sound came from his mouth, tortured like a beaten dog. Spitting the water from his lips, he rubbed his eyes to clear his eyelashes. This all was futile. Nevri did not leave his thoughts, so vivid before his eyes, grinding her hips on him, the heat from between her legs almost unbearable. Every kiss spoke from the deepest desire, a want he had seldom felt himself and even fewer times had experienced directed at him. The urge to give in was so strong, the thought of having her naked body pressed against his, their sweat mingling, he –

Gods. Morotar let himself fall on his bed, the frame creaking under his weight. Settling his elbows on his thighs, he steepled his hands before his face. The tips of his fingers against his forehead, he noted the sleek sweat still being there, now diluted with the wash of water.

“Auri-El, father to us all, grant me strength,” he whispered, the impression that the ancestor of elves did nothing but laugh at his plea ever strong. Yet he prayed on, knowing nothing else to do than to call to the gods, for they might redeem him from his burden. “By the scales and fangs and flame of the creator, aid me in overcoming this trial. Equip me with the power to resist, help me to avoid this temptation. Be at my side.”

In silence he sat, searching for any sign, any connection, however there was none. Decades before it had never been different, so that he had lessened his prayers. In his youth, he had found those a waste of time, in his training they were a mere interruption of his important lessons in fighting. Never had the gods interfered when he had needed them most, not at the darkest hours of his or his beloveds’ lives. The frustration he had carried had been mitigated after the Great War, as there had always been someone in prayers to talk about those terrible deeds and happenings. But now, the times he sat down and prayed during the year could be counted on one hand. This experience now only reinforced his belief: he had been forsaken.

None of his suffering had vanished; visions of the Dunmer still plagued him. New ones mingled with the old, some as clear as memories. One stood out in particular. Her legs were on his shoulders while he was buried deep between them, his tongue splitting her labia. Pleading laments escaped her mouth as her nails dug into the tabletop.

His length pressed even harder against the confines of his trousers. Blood pulsed so fiercely that it already hurt a bit, a pulling sensation that went all the way to his groin. But he couldn't, he mustn't, no, he...

[munsonsmixtapes]

Electric Touch (2)

virgin!rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

Eddie shows up to your surprise and when you finally go back to his place, he decides that he wants you to take his virginity.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for proofreading!

part one

The club is absolutely packed when you and your friends get inside. They’re scoping out the place but you’re looking for the familiar mop of hair. You don’t even know why since he left you on read and never told you whether or not he was coming. And you don’t know why you care anyway. You don’t actually think he’s going to show up. He clearly thinks he’s too cool for you so you don’t care if he’s here or not. You’re going to have fun with your friends and maybe even go home with a guy who will treat you the way you deserve. Eddie who?

You and your friends order your drinks then head over to a surprisingly empty table where you all sit. You’re so in your head that you’re not even paying attention to them giggling about something. It’s not new so you don’t really care. It could honestly be about anything. 

You feel bad for being in your own world tonight but you can’t help it. You just really thought that Eddie would show up, but you guess you were wrong about him yet again. You really can’t believe that you actually thought he would take your words to heart. He seemed offended in the moment but he probably just let it roll off his back like he does anything else.

“Oh my god, it’s Eddie Munson,” Hannah whispers and your eyes widen at her words. No, it can’t be. Can it? Maybe your words actually did mean something. 

“And I think he’s staring at you, y/n,” Bree pointed out. You turn towards where she’s pointing and sure enough, he’s staring directly at you from where he’s sitting in the VIP section. He’s smirking, waving you over and part of you wants to pretend he doesn’t exist. You want to make him feel exactly how he made you feel. To show him how badly it hurts. But you kind of want to have some fun first. 

Without a word, you head over to the VIP section where a security lifts a red velvet rope to let you in. You get into the booth with Eddie, keeping your space. You don’t want him to think he’s earned anything just for showing up. 

He looks you up and down, your silver dress catching the light just perfectly. God, you’re so beautiful. And you’re so close. You’re actually here. And now that you’re here, the long, heartfelt apology he wrote immediately leaves his brain. But he’s come up with shit on the spot more times than he can count so he’s got this. 

He takes a sip from his whiskey before licking his lips, hoping the liquid courage will help. He looks up at your face and takes in your body language. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you look like you’re about to shoot lasers at him with how angry you look. He just wants to fix this. And even if nothing happens tonight, he at least wants to show you that he’s really not a bad guy. 

“Look,” he says, licking his lips again, his hand reaching for your thigh but he quickly pulls it away. “I just want to apologize for last night. I had no right to act like that and I’m not going to come up with some lame excuse. I’m sorry. So sorry. I told myself I was doing to test you, but I was just trying to protect myself. I totally understand if you never want to see me again, but if you’re up for it, I’d really like to get to know you.” 

You take in his words, watch his face as he speaks. He could be lying so you don’t know why you decide to forgive him. You just want to put all this past you and to start fresh. You guess you shouldn’t hold one night against him. 

As you mentally accept his apology, you’re really hoping that he’s really going to show you the real him. You want to see the version of him that you’d see every week at the hideout. You want to see the Eddie that was there before all the fame, girls, and money. You really hope you get him back because you really missed him even though you’ve never actually met him.

“I forgive you,” you tell him after several beats of silence and he lets out a sigh of relief. This was clearly weighing on him. He’s so close to telling you how the whole thing kept him up into the early hours of the morning. He felt so bad that it made him sick to his stomach. The guilt ate at him and he was able to pour those feelings into a song. He scribbled and hummed and tossed crumpled pieces of paper before tossing them. His hotel room is still cluttered with little balls of paper. The one that he thought was worthy is currently in the pocket of his jacket. If he finally gets the guts, he plans on giving it to you. 

Even though he plays to venues filled with thousands of people all the time, it’s the one on one time with people that always makes him anxious. He can fake confidence on stage all he wants but put him in front of a stranger and all of the cool melts away, leaving the shy awkward boy he’s always been. 

You don’t make him nervous, but the vulnerability of showing you something he’s written is making him feel sick again. And the fact that he wrote it for you is making him feel even more so. He feels like such a loser right now. He knows you won’t make fun of him if he showed it to you, but he’s been burned so many times. 

He can still hear the giggles of the girls who laughed at him when he showed the song he wrote for Kelly Sherman. He had been crushing on her for months and watching her laugh in his face as she read the song he wrote for her caused irreparable damage to his heart. He was able to bandage it up and now it’s caged up and he won’t dare show it to anyone else. He can’t, not after all that. 

He shakes his head and once he zones back into reality, he sees that you’re closer to him, your bare thigh pressed to his. He can feel the warmth from you and when you rest your hand on his thigh, he tries to remain calm. He can tell you’re not making a move just from the look on your face. You’re trying to bring him comfort and without another thought, he rests his hand on top of yours. He then leans forward and whispers in your ear. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” You can tell just by his tone that he’s feeling overwhelmed and wants to go somewhere he’ll feel more comfortable. 

“Please,” you reply and wrap your fingers around his hand before pulling him up from the booth. He blindly follows, knowing that you’ll take him where he needs to go. Everything is closing in and the music is staticy. His heart is racing and he can feel every piece of clothing touch his skin. A panic attack is coming on and he immediately feels a little relief when he finally gets outside. 

This is why he never likes to go out. He loves to be social, but not like that. There’s too many people and the music is too loud and everything feels distorted. It all just gets to be too much and he always feels like a dick for leaving so he just doesn’t go in the first place. 

A car is conveniently waiting for the two of you when you get out onto the curb and Eddie doesn’t remember even doing that. You must have called an Uber when was going through his overstimulation. You open the door for him and he slides in, letting out a sigh of relief when you close the door. Cars always feel safe to him.

He gives the address to his hotel to the driver and when he turns to you, he sees that you’re close to him again. You’re leaning into him, your hand still holding his. You’ve been so nice and he doesn’t think he deserves it. But he’s going to take it anyway, his head leaning against yours as you squeeze each other’s hands. 

He knows you barely know each other, but there’s something about this that just feels right. Your fingers fit perfectly like puzzle pieces. And it’s like all the anxiety that always sits on his shoulders melts away. 

You feel the same-feeling like there’s something about this that’s just meant to be. Just with the way he's behaving now, you can see that he was telling the truth. He’s the complete opposite from how he was last night and now you’re glad that you decided that you gave him a second chance. The “cool guy” exterior has melted and now he’s just Eddie. 

You always hoped for something like this but you never thought it would happen. It’s something that you’d dream about before falling asleep at night. You don’t even know how you got here but you’re not going to take it for granted.

You blink and you’re standing outside Eddie’s hotel room as he unlocks it. He then opens it and lets you head inside first. You’re amazed by the size of it and are pretty sure that it’s bigger than your apartment back home. 

You throw yourself onto the bed and can’t help but laugh. His life is so different from yours. He gets to tour the world while you’re stuck in your tiny town. Just a few years ago, that was him. Now he’s playing sold out shows at Madison Square Garden and you couldn’t be prouder of him. 

Eddie slowly lies down next to you and you can feel his eyes on you. You turn to look at him and can’t help but let your smile match his. He grabs hold of your hand and pulls it to his mouth, pressing a featherlight kiss. 

“Thank you so much for giving me another chance.” He’s closer now and you can smell his cologne. It’s mixed with the cigarette smoke that’s clinging to and you feel yourself moving closer, like he’s got a magnetic pull on you. 

“You were so sincere and I thought you deserved it.” 

He’s lying on his back now and you hover over him, your hands landing on his chest. You then lean down, slowly slotting your lips between his. He responds quickly, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling it while his other one rests against your back. 

Your bodies are now flush, legs tangled together as the kisses progress. Your hands move to his hair as your tongue flicks into his mouth. He moans as your tongue roams his mouth and now you’re a mess.

You kiss your way down to his neck and give it a suck, getting even wetter when he moans again. You keep at it, pulling even more sounds from him and hearing him beg for you makes you feel like you could come right there. 

His jacket comes off and so does his shirt and he can’t believe that he’s letting this happen. He never gets this far. It never goes farther than over the clothes touching. 

He’s always been so nervous when it’s come to this part, but with you, it feels so natural, so right. He actually thinks he might be ready to go to the next step this time. And he’d be more than honored if you were the one who took his virginity. 

You unbutton his jeans and he rests his hands on top of yours but only to stop you because he feels like he owes you the truth. 

“Stop,” he says and you’re quick to pull away, a worried look on your face. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I should’ve-“ You’re panicking now, sure that you’ve overstepped. You’ve never slept with a virgin before. You don’t know the protocols so you’re going to tread very lightly. 

“No, it’s okay. I want to, I really do. I just wanted to let you know that-that I’m a virgin.” Your eyes widen but quickly soften and you give him a soft smile. You’re obviously surprised but this is in no way a deal breaker. 

“Oh,” is all you say. “And that’s okay. We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to pressure you.” You feel bad now, taking it there. You honestly never would have guessed if he hadn’t told you. And now appreciate that he has. You feel so grateful that he trusts you that much. 

“Y/n. I want to so badly. Like you have no idea. I don’t feel pressure at all.” He’s hard beyond belief underneath you and you need him now. 

“Okay,” you press a kiss to his lips. “But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, we can stop.” 

“Okay.” He’s excited now, still a little nervous, but now he’s just looking forward to seeing what all the hype is about. He just can’t believe that you want him like this.

[chrattvibe]

៹Outside the office. Coworker!matt.

The deal gave us a reason. The day gave us the time. A little get-together. Nothing fancy—just a way to let the week fade out. A reward.

Today, we closed an important deal and, I don’t know, it felt like a good excuse to do something. It was Friday, maybe some people didn’t have big plans yet. I went desk to desk suggesting the idea of a little get-together at my place.

“To celebrate,” I said. “I’ll host, just bring something to drink.”

Most people agreed without hesitation. The plan spread quickly. I just hoped it reached her. I don’t know why, but when it came time to walk over to her desk, I just couldn’t do it. My feet betrayed me and led me back to my office.

Just in case, I sent a message in the 'social' group chat I hadn’t opened in a few days:

Reminder! Dinner at my place tonight with the office crew. Super chill. Come by if you want.

I cleaned like I was expecting important guests. Moved the couch, made a playlist. Turned on a few lamps and managed to create a cozy enough vibe. I didn’t do it for everyone. I did it for her, to be honest.

Even though she never actually said she'd come. In fact, she didn’t say anything, but I wanted to be ready just in case.

It was almost eight. I wasn’t sure who’d show up first. Maybe no one yet. Maybe all at once. Maybe she wouldn’t show up at all.

I poured myself a cold drink, just to keep my hands busy. Checked my phone even though I wasn’t expecting any messages. Sat down. Got up. Walked to the door just to make sure the buzzer was working. One last look around. Everything ready.

Then the doorbell rang. The one at my apartment, not the main entrance.

I walked over without thinking too much, expecting to see one of the regulars. One of the guys who already knows the front door code.

But no, it was her.

“Hey, right on time,” I said mostly to myself, seeing her look up from her phone, checking if this was the right apartment.

“Hi, a lady downstairs was just leaving and let me in. Am I too early?” she asked, with that half-smile that blanks my brain for a solid half-second.

I don’t know what face I made. Probably a mix of surprise, nerves, and that silly joy that comes when things go right without you fully planning it.

“No, c'mon in. Still tidying up a bit, but it's all good.”

I gestured for her to come in. It was her first time here, of course. I could tell by the way she looked around, like every corner was saying something about me. And it probably was.

“Nice place...” she said, stepping in almost shyly. I found it cute.

“Thank you. Wanna see the place a bit…? I mean, if you want. It’s small anyway.”

She nodded and walked with me. I showed her the living room, the kitchen, pointed out where the bathroom was, and when I opened the door to the small balcony, she stepped out.

“This is nice. So quiet. You’ve got a great view...” she said, looking out at the city lights.

“You’re gonna love the roof. We’ll probably head up there later, once everyone’s here,” I said, leaning on the doorframe.

She looked back at me over her shoulder and smiled. My mental camera skills are still sharp.

We went back inside. I closed the door softly, like that would keep the calm inside for a few more minutes. I offered her a drink and she accepted with a relaxed smile. We sat on opposite ends of the couch but turned slightly toward each other.

It all felt a bit improvised, but good. Like when something doesn’t go perfectly, but still works just right.

She looked comfortable. You could tell by her posture, by the way she glanced around with curiosity and then back right at me. Almost with that same ease I see at the office daily.

We talked about light stuff. Music, the weird weather that week, a random comment about the new client who brought in the deal we were celebrating. We laughed once, both at the same time, and for a moment I forgot we were waiting for others to arrive.

To me, it felt like five minutes. In reality, it was fifteen—almost twenty.

Twenty minutes where it was just both of us.

Then came the second buzz. This one from the lobby.

She looked down at her glass, like the sound reminded her we weren’t alone. I got up without saying anything, smiling without meaning to as I walked over to the buzzer.

People began arriving bit by bit, in loose waves. Quickly, the place filled with a warm and fun atmosphere. We ordered some pizzas and drinks were passed around all night.

I learned her favorite drink. Coincidentally, one of the few I know how to make. I noticed that when there was general laughter, my eyes would search for hers, and hers seemed to look for mine too. That was nice.

After a few hours, we all went up to the rooftop to continue the night with more space and to enjoy the warm evening weather. I got to talk to her a bit more. Every now and then, we’d end up alone again, slightly apart from the group. It was interesting to get to know her outside of work.

A lot happened. We all laughed, shared casual chats, and had a few quieter moments between drinks. Even Chris showed up for a bit, grabbed some food, had a few conversations, and apparently left with one of my coworkers. Monday will be interesting in the office.

The night slowly faded, like it didn’t want to end either. Some people left around one. Others stuck around, dragging out the last bits of conversation and drinks.

At some point, she settled into a lounge chair near me. Crossed her legs while playing with her nearly empty glass, listening to the conversation, though her eyes weren’t as focused anymore. Now and then, her gaze drifted. Like she was already thinking about the next day. Or the ride home. I moved a bit closer without realizing.

“You far from here? Want me to call you an Uber or somethin'?” I asked quietly.

“Not too far, don’t worry. I was just about to get one.” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Five minutes later, her phone buzzed—the ride was outside. She stood, adjusted her clothes a bit, and gave me a different kind of smile. Softer, closer.

“Thanks for inviting me,” she said, simple. Quietly.

“Thank you for coming,” I replied, and it sounded more honest than I expected. "C'mon. I'll walk you downstairs."

We took the elevator down in comfortable silence. There were no gaps to fill.

We said goodbye, both of us mentioning how nice it had been and that we should do it again sometime.

I stayed on the sidewalk, watching her get into the car. I waved one last time before heading back up.

“lemme know when you get home, bwt.” I texted as the elevator climbed.

I said goodbye to the last people still in my place. When I closed the door for the final time, the apartment felt bigger. Quieter, despite the faint playlist still running. I picked up a few empty cups, half-tidied the kitchen, turned off a few lights.

I didn’t go to bed right away. I stayed on the couch messing around on my phone, just waiting. It had only been about ten minutes since her Uber pulled away.

“just got home. Thanks again, it was a great night! Talk soon!"

“Anytime. Glad you came, it was nice to have you here. Sweet dreams!”

—chrattvibe.

notes: love em honestly. coworker!matt and rapper!chris are brothers in this little au. I had this in drafts and decided to finish it and post it. Now I gotta focus on nerd!matt so if you have any requests about him, you can send them to me.

Hope u liked it!💌

masterlist.

taglist: @lovemina21 @i-luv-sturntriplets-and-snc @bearcaresblog @keels-8 @reader-lola @sturnberries @sturkneeohloww @graciebrams @mattswrinkleton @crispydreammiracle @bbgirlmatt @miaabackflip @angelincrystalheaven @atlanticghostc @crazysexyvirgin @hearts4amber @slushniolos @girlyteengirl99 @iamjordans-world @jana-44 @matts-wife @breesturns @urmama2464

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.250 Invasion

No sooner than I drifted off, a prickling feeling, like a spider crawling on my skin, shook me out of my sleep. A tangible presence filled the room, like the suffocating humidity of Willow Creek summers. At first I thought someone was in the house, but they would have set off the alarm. Still, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling of intrusion. I tiptoed carefully around the house, peering into all the rooms. A mixed whiff of lavender and vanilla greeted me in Desi's room, offering a moment of comfort. The floor boards squeaked under my weight, surely signaling to the intruder I was looking for them. Thankfully, everything was as it should be, so I went to the backyard. I half expected some shady, dark figure lurking in the treeline, watching us, trying to find our vulnerabilities. Instead, I found strange lights pulsating an unnatural green glow, dancing around the steps, emitting an eery high-pitched whine. I crept closer. As I neared, a blinding white shaft of light enveloped me like a spotlight catching an escapee. The light pinned me down, eclipsing my vision for a moment. I looked up, and my heart pounded so hard I could hear it over the whirring above me. A spaceship hovered over the house!! Its door hissed open, and an invisible force sucked me up and whisked me away to only Watcher knows where. The chilling whoosh of air stole my breath. I couldn't even cry out to Sophia.

Three hours later, they returned me with no memory of where I had been or what they had done to me. And, believe me, my brain nearly exploded trying to force a memory. My head was foggy, and I felt numb, like they drugged me or something. I couldn't do much in that state, so I crawled back into bed. With any luck, Sophia never realized I left and I could keep this little rendezvous to myself. Heh, who am I kidding? I got struck by lightning and told everyone. But this felt different. Someone violated me, even though I didn't know what they had done. Even if all they did was admire my fetching good looks, they still came to my home and took me! I couldn't burden Sophia with that and risk her feeling unsafe.

In the morning, I stirred, opening my eyes slowly as if to check all my systems one by one and make sure I was good. I felt relatively normal. The jitters and the grogginess subsided, but as I looked over at my wife, who slept so peacefully, I debated on telling her. I felt troubled and needed to confide in someone, but at what cost? If keeping this a secret meant I'd be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, so be it. But I never want her to feel that way. So, I swallowed my anxiety and went downstairs to eat. Shortly after, Sophia came down, and I put on a brave face, hoping she wouldn't notice anything off, all the while knowing she would.

"Good morning." Everything about her was so sunny and cheerful, from her tone to her smile to the way she put down her plate. I couldn't disrupt her peace today. "You alright?"

Just as I was about to give her a fresh-baked chocolate chip lie, something inside me shifted. Like, literally shifted! It was the oddest sensation I ever felt. A painful cramp followed the shift. It doubled me over, forcing a groan from my mouth and my hands to clench my stomach.

But before I knew it, whatever had happened was over, and I felt 100% myself. So strange!

"Luca! What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Yeah, I, uhh...I think I'm just really hungry."

She eyed me suspiciously as I grabbed another serving of scramble. She said nothing, but I heard the wheels in her head turning. If I could keep smiling, maybe I could convince her to forget what she saw. She had to go to work anyway, so she finished her food and headed upstairs to get dressed. Desi left for camp, and an hour later, Sophia left for work. I wouldn't say I was afraid, but the idea of being alone didn't sound so good, so I grabbed Rosie and went for a jog.

I tried to focus on the scenery and everything I loved about this neighborhood, but my mind kept going back to last night and my weird pain from this morning. What did they do to me? I remembered feeling drugged when I got back, so maybe whatever anesthesia they used had worn off. But I had no visible cuts or scars on me, so how did they do whatever they did? And why the stomach?? At some point, my jog turned into a walk because I was so tired and my back was killing me. Getting older really sucked, but this was different. After my adult birthday, I started experiencing knee pain and struggled with endurance, but this was more than that. It was barely 9:30, and I felt like I needed to go back to bed, not only to nap but also to rest my aching back. What is going on with me??