#love this love their expressions love the vibe

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

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

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

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should feel like an accessory.

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

You can’t tell which is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who possibly could?

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

“I’m not even fifty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch it.”

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry doesn't answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

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

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

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

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

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

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

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

You glance over your shoulder.

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

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

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

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

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

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

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hairy

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

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

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

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

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

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

See you at 8.

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

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

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

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

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

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

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

Maybe it’s better this way.

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

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

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

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

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

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

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

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

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

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

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

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

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

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

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

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might as well.”

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

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

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

You also play your role perfectly.

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

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

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

You clap until your palms sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give him your hand.

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

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

You give him your hand.

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words wash over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[askkaneethi]

What’s attractive about you?

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Pile 1- 🎱

Pile 2- 🌑

Pile 3- 🍷

Pile 🎱:

Hello pile 1! People find you very mysterious and magnetic. You’ve been through a lot of transformations, be it betrayal or pain. However, instead of letting these experiences break you, you carry the knowledge with grace. There’s something real and raw about you. You’re not someone superficial and people can sense that. Your realness makes you attractive because you are unapologetically yourself. You have a lot of emotional depth and people like this. You’re intelligent and you don’t let people in easily, this makes you exclusive and attractive. You have a sharp tongue, and a sarcastic sense of humor. You have an air of elegance with edge, no bs vibes. You’re not afraid of change and this makes you powerful. You have a captivating aura because you’re constantly shedding layers, people find you interesting, captivating and unpredictable. You have a surreal energy to you. You have many sides and many stories. You seem hard to pin down, and this makes people curious about you and drawn to you. You could have a mole on your face that makes you attractive?

Pile 🌑:

Welcome pile 2! Pile 2, you radiate calm and peace. You make people feel comfortable and safe when they’re around you. You have a very calming presence and serene aura. You’re mysterious and spiritually connected. You have depth to you pile 2. You’re attractive because you hold back, that makes others lean in and reach out for your energy and attention. You don’t overshare, and everything that comes out of your mouth has meaning. You have a sharp mind and strong voice. When you speak, people listen. People like when you share your thoughts because you don’t do it often, and they find more value in it. Your words are elegant, clever and deeply honest. You’re refreshingly real, and this makes you sexy. You’re always thinking ahead, looking towards the future and this visionary approach makes you attractive. You’re exciting to be around! You carry a quiet strength, and you’re protective of your energy, you make people feel like spending time with you is a luxury, and they like this energy. You have boundaries, so people know you don’t play about yourself or those you love. However, you have a playful energy, and are very creative. You have a rare combination of wise and innocent, which makes your energy magical. People fall for your youthfulness and your tenderness.

Pile ���:

Hi pile 3! Right off the bat you have a very strong energy. You radiate dreaminess and you have the aura of a mermaid? Lolll. You have emotional intensity, and you have an aura of the unknown, people feel drawn to you and wonder about you because you can’t be figured out. You’re incredibly captivating. Reminds me of mermaids and their sensuality. The way they lure people into the water with their energy. You’re very enchanting. You have a crystal clear mindset of who you want to be and what you want. You’re very straightforward! You’re direct. People find this honesty attractive. You’re very empathetic to people’s feelings and you often know how to treat people and what to say to them. People feel safe around you and they find your presence enchanting. Omg I’m saying you have a siren energy! You express yourself unapologetically and authentically through your voice, act, and presence. People find you attractive because of this. You have an air of control and confidence even if you’re quiet about it. You inspire and have a very seductive auraseduce.

Thank you everyone for reading this! I hope this resonated and gave you more insight about yourselves!! Let me know which pile you picked! And consider booking with me here, or go check out my other pacs on my pinned post 💗🫶🏻

Have a good one, Xoxo 💋

[ebodebo]

TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE...

PAIR⁀➷ dr. jack abbot x fem!reader x dr. michael robinavitch

WC⁀➷ 3.9k+

CONTAINS⁀➷ 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, threesome (i know that's right), dub-con themes because you're drunk, dirty talk, p in v, drunk sex, vaginal fingering, teasing, so much porn, so little plot, age-gap, reader is in her late 20s and jack and robby are... how old they are..., unprotected sex (they would never, but i certainly would), alcohol consumption, multiple orgasms happening simultaneously, slight weird vibes, but we persevere, ooc i fear, but still hot, power imbalance (they're attendings and you’re a resident,) & no use of y/n.

ANON ASKED⁀➷ hi bb! could we pretty please get a robbyxabbotxyou where the boys take you home after the monthly resident bar crawl. they both wanna make sure you get home safe, but all bets are off when they get in your apartment...

AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ i love you anon... thank you for making my dreams of this two man come to life. you’re a real one! i actually need these men carnivorously and also like why have one when you could have two? anyways, enjoy this horny mess!

Jack and Robby take such good care of their best resident...

The small bar, the third one of the night, felt sweltering, with bodies dancing and sweating, creating a foggy atmosphere.

The music was deafening, and the floors were slightly sticky from what you assumed were remnants of spilled beer and forgotten shots.

Your head was pounding, and you could feel the blood rushing through your veins as you sat on the edge of the booth next to Frank, across from Samira and Mel. The cool leather of the seat offered some comfort as your fingers curled around its edge.

It was perfect.

"Safe to say, I'm a god," Frank said confidently, taking a sip of his beer. He winced when you elbowed his side, and you rolled your eyes at him.

"Might want to wipe the spit off your chin from sucking your own balls, Frank," you commented, watching as Samira and Mel burst into laughter.

"Ha, ha. So hilarious," Frank replied sarcastically, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head from side to side with mock laughter. He then looked around the room, scanning it clearly for someone. "Where the hell are Robby and Abbot? I'm outnumbered here," he sighed.

“I didn’t know they were coming,” you say through a fit of laughter that makes Samira giggle.

“They said they were,” Frank shrugs as his lip quips at your apparent drunkenness. “Sober up, will you. They’ll get mad at me for letting their favorite resident get shit-faced,” he gruffs.

You cock a brow, face warm. “Shut up. I am not their favorite,” you protest, unable to believe it.

Frank lets out a chuckle. “You definitely are,” he says, adding a touch of humor.

“Frank, you are full of shit,” you retort, pushing his shoulder in.

He looks across the table. “Samira? Mel? Care to chime in?”

You look at them, eyes hazy, to see an awkward smile grow on Samira’s face while Mel avoids eye contact. “Is it true?”

Samira tries to evade the question before Frank urges her. “Yeah… I’d say so.”

You narrow your eyes in thought, trying to adjust to the bright lights hanging above you and look at Mel. “Mel?”

She avoids your gaze, focusing instead on the ketchup bottle on the table. “Look, there are five grams of sugar in a single serving of this ketchup,” she remarks while reading the label.

“Mel?” you prompt, hoping to steer the conversation back to the original topic.

She sets the bottle down with a slight huff. “Frank’s… right.”  

“It’s not a negative,” Samira assures you, her voice calm and soothing. “Just an observation.”

You don't know how to express that you didn't take it negatively. 

In fact, you wanted it to be true.

Jack and Robby were two of the most experienced and exceptional doctors you had ever encountered. Each of them possessed a unique set of distinguishable qualities and strengths.

It didn't hurt that they were also among the most attractive doctors you had ever met.

You often heard the new interns and nurses gush about them, and the idea that they might favor you over the other residents sent a thrilling chill down your spine, even with the alcohol coursing through your system.

"Robby, Jack! Over here," Frank called out, gesturing his hand out to signal them to come over to you all.

You look up to see them approaching, and you could vomit, and not just from the alcohol.

"Be right back. Restroom," your words are slightly slurred as you stumble up and to the bathroom.

Once you reach the single bathroom, lock the door behind you before stumbling further into the room. You opt to lean against the inside wall, gently sliding down it to sink onto the ground, your skin blistering to the touch.

You don't know what's come over you.

Your thoughts are a jumble, unable to form a coherent train of thought, and you're fixated on Jack and Robby.

The new revelation of being their favorite doing more to your psyche than you’d like to admit.

You hear a faint knock on the bathroom door across the dimly lit room, the sound echoing off the walls. With a sigh and determination, you stand, almost tripping over nothing as you head to the wooden door, carefully unlocking the door before pulling it open to see Robby.

“Robby?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“Came to check on you,” he shrugs, observing your dilated pupils and disheveled hair.

You take a gulp, your vulnerability palpable. “I’m… I’m alright.”

“You look drunk,” he shakes his head, raising his brows knowingly.

“We’re at a bar,” you say. “What the hell else am I supposed to be?”

“Safe, for one,” his eyes flick between yours. “How much did you drink?”

You roll your eyes with an irritated sigh; your frustration is evident. “Not enough, apparently.”

"Are you upset?" he prompts lightly before his eyes go dark. "Did something happen?"

"No," you immediately assure, feeling slightly embarrassed. "It's… nothing," you shake your head fervently. "God, I need another drink," you try to take another step past him before you trip over nothing. His arms reach around you with ease, helping you stand.

"Yeah, no. You’re going home and going to bed," he gruffs, gripping you tighter. 

"I'm off the clock, Robby," you slur, trying to escape his grasp. "I'm not yours to boss around."

"What's going on?" Jack's voice comes from around the corner.

Of course.

When one lingers, you can count on the other being shortly behind.

"I would like you to get home in one piece, so right now, you are," Robby says with frustration as he holds you still. 

You shake your head, feeling your head spin, which makes you think he's definitely right, but you would never give the satisfaction. You manage to shake out of his grasp, attempting to go back around the corner before Jack's hand comes out to gently grab your forearm as you slump against him. 

"Come on, just listen to him, kid," he tilts his head to the side. 

"Oh… Jack," you look up at him. "Do you ever get tired of riding Robby's dick?"

“It’s good exercise,” he mutters, curious eyes boring into your stubborn ones. He wanted to catch you off guard and keep you on your toes. He levels with you now that he has your attention. “Now listen, stubborn,” he starts, eyes flicking, between yours. “Let us take you home. Make sure you’re safe. Get you to that bed, yeah?” He nods as he speaks, eyebrows raising.

You nod in agreement after a moment, too drunk and tired to put up a bigger fight you know you’d lose. Plus, his offer of your bed sounded too enticing to pass up.

“Can you walk for us?” Robby questions, reaching for your other hand to try and steady you.

“I think I might break my nose if I tried,” you breathe out, grasping Robby’s hand with your own, not bothering to acknowledge the swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Easy steps,” Robby mumbles as you move off of Jack to stand by yourself.

You grab Jack’s hand with your other hand and take a step forward. “Atta girl,” Jack praises, which makes your skin burn up even hotter. “Let’s get you to the car.” You nod, taking small steps until you manage to make it around the corner until you reach Frank, Samira, and Mel.

“We’re taking her home,” Robby raises his brow, which makes Frank’s lip quip.

“My purse,” you murmur as you rest your cheek against Jack’s arm.

Before Robby has to ask, Samira hands over your purse, which he holds with the tips of his fingers. They issue their goodbyes, and you manage to mumble a goodbye of your own before they haul you to the door to leave.

"See, I told you!" Frank yells as Jack pushes open the door for you to step through.

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the cheeky smile that spreads across your face as you feel the warmth from their helpful gestures.

It got worse when you finally settled into the car, and Robby leaned over your lap, pressing into your lower stomach to secure your seatbelt.

You felt a deep ache from where he had laid on you the entire drive home.

You craved more—a taste of what your body throbbed for, what it pleaded for.

A voracious hunger within you that couldn't be satisfied by just one touch.

“You’re both just… going to leave,” you mumble as Jack gets your front door open with the key you handed him, and you lean against Robby for stability.

“That’s the plan,” Jack mumbles before an irritated sigh slips through his mouth at the key in the keyhole, which seems to be stuck. “Jesus. This fucking door. I’ll come by tomorrow to fix this,” he says with intent, giving the key a hard twist, making it unlock before pushing it open.

Your heart sinks as it opens, already feeling the loneliness consume you which makes you sober up slightly. “Wait. I just, ah, remembered my sink has been giving me problems,” you say quickly as Jack turns around. “Do you guys mind checking it out?” Your eyes flick between them as they glance at each other. “Pretty please?” 

Robby gazes down at you, his resolve wavering. He looks up and nods towards Jack, a silent command for him to enter. Jack complies, swinging the door open wide, allowing Robby to slip inside with you by his side.

“Which sink?” Jack asks once Robby slips you down on your couch.

You sit up, your face a mix of surprise and confusion. “What?”

Jack’s eyebrow arches. “You said there was a problem with your sink? Which one is it?”

Your mouth drops open a little in remembrance. “Oh. Shit. Yeah, sorry. Uh, the kitchen one,” you hurriedly say, hoping he doesn’t see the crack in your facade.

He nods, moving towards it.

You’re not sure what you’ll say when he doesn’t find any problems, but you’re hoping you’ll have them both in bed before then.

"So… that was some bar crawl, huh?" you chuckle, trying to break the silence with a playful jab. 

"Didn't really get to enjoy it because we had to drag your ass out of the one bar we could make it to," Robby gruffs, though his tone carries a hint of amusement.

You look back at him, his hands over his chest, as Jack kneels to look under the sink. "I'm excellent company," you assure, putting your hand over your chest. "Plus, a little birdie told me I was both of your guys' favorite resident," you lay your cheek on your arm, pressed onto the top of the couch, still looking at him. "So it couldn't have been that bad." 

Jack lets out a deep chuckle, his voice echoing in the cabinet. "Yeah? Who told you that?"

"A little birdie," you confirm, a mischievous glint in your eye as you look at Robby, unwilling to reveal who told you, adding to the mystery. “Am I your favorite, Robby?”

“Don’t answer that, Robby. It’s a trap,” Jack snickers, still occupied with the pipes under the sink, unaware that you have moved from off the couch and now stand in front of Robby, leaning against the sofa, a seductive edge in your tone. 

“I… you’re an excellent doctor,” Robby tries to keep his tone steady.

“Yeah… I think you’re a good doctor, too. One of my favorites,” you move forward, seeing his brown eyes widen in surprise, and yet he doesn’t step away from you, his breath catching in his throat instead. 

“Rude,” Jack voices, moving to stand up, finally facing you and Robby. He tilts his head back as he sees you so close to Robby. “What about… me?” He finishes his sentence, his mouth dry. 

“I said one of my favorites. You’re my other favorite. I would never leave you out, Jack,” you assure, flicking your finger across Robby’s chest, a mischievous glint in your eye as you playfully tease Jack.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest, rocking on his heels. "What kind of game are you playing?" His voice is rough, lower than usual.

You throw your hands up, neglecting the spin of your head as you let go of Robby. "No game," you say honestly. "Just… thinking."

"Thinking about what?" he asks, watching a drunken smirk play on your lips as you glance at Robby in front of you.

You purse your lips, tilting your head towards Jack and then to Robby. "You boys ever share?"  

"What are you getting at?" Jack narrows his eyes.

"I think you should stay… both of you," you lick your lips.

"You're drunk," Robby finally voices, his tone a mix of concern and frustration. 

"You think I wouldn't fuck you sober?" You laugh. "The alcohol just gives me more courage.”

"We're your superiors," Jack shakes his head, his voice carrying a weight of responsibility. "This is messy territory."

"Nothing's fun unless you get a little dirty," you say, flicking your nail across Robby's chest again, making him shudder. "Isn’t that right, Robby?" 

Robby's eyes drift to your glistening lips; you only pull your eyes away from him to look at Jack, his voice echoing around the room.

“Both got scrubs older than you, sweetheart,” Jack reasons, though you can see a slight crack in his resolve.

“Is it supposed to deter me?” You prompt, edging close to where he stands. “Because that just makes you both even sexier in my book,” you stand toe to toe with him, so close he could smell the sweet wine coming off your breath.

“This is inappropriate,” Jack mutters, his voice a low whisper as his eyes flick to your tongue, licking your lips.

You lean in closer to him, hovering your lips over his ear. “Tell me to stop, Jack,” you begin, your hot breath fanning across his skin. “Tell me you don’t want a taste of me,” your tongue darts to run across the helix. “Or a feel of me squirming on your cock,” your hand drifts to rest on his erect cock confined by his jeans. “If you don’t want it… tell me.”

Jack’s head lulls back at your touch as he releases a shallow breath.

“The poor girl is starving, Jack,” Robby mumbles from where he stands. “Don’t leave her hungry,” he tilts his head back, eyes hanging lazily when you look over your shoulder at him. 

You turn to face Jack, and before you can speak, he leans in, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, his frustration rolling off him in sheets. You can feel his body close to yours, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

He’s hungry, too.

“Knew you needed it, Jackie,” you mumble into his lips. His hands move to grip the fat of your hips, his lips humming against yours with an intensity you yearned for.

You can hear Robby release a sharp breath before you hear his steps on the vinyl edging, closing in closer and closer until he stands behind you. His fingers move across your neck, fanning the hair away so he can press his lips to your skin.

“Taste so sweet,” Robby mutters into your skin as his tongue skims across your flesh, leaving a strip of saliva in its wake. You shiver at the feeling as Jack nips at your lips, coaxing your mouth to open.

Jack’s tongue slips into your mouth, prompting a small whimper to escape your mouth as he lets out a groan at the taste of the sweet liquor coating your tongue. “Mhm. He’s right. Taste so sweet,” Jack gruffs, hands greedily pressing into your lower thigh.

“Should we… move this to my room?” you ask, as Jack’s hand massages one thigh and Robby massages the other.

Robby pats your thigh lightly. “Lead the way, baby.”

It takes everything in you to pull away, but you do only because you know the reward that lies just ahead. You fidget with your fingers as you walk through the hall and shove open your bedroom door, Jack and Robby hot on your heels.

“Cute,” Jack comments as he sees various knick-knacks and trinkets displayed all around your room. He moves over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re sure about this?”

“I am,” you bend up to press a sweet kiss to his lips. “I need you both.”

Jack lets out a dry laugh, holding you tighter. “Greedy girl.”

Robby slides behind you, eyeing Jack. “You heard the girl, Abbot,” his hands slide down your back before he squeezes your ass. “She needs us.”

You release a shallow moan that makes Jack’s pupils dilate. “Need it now, Jack,” you moan as Robby’s hand moves up to grope your breast. Instantly, Jack surges forward, his hand gripping your chin to kiss you needily before he walks backward, his hands still on you, to the edge of your bed, where he sits.

You stand in between his legs with Robby to your side. You pull away slightly, but Jack’s fingers find your belt loops on the front of your denim shorts, pulling you back towards him. “You come on me, yeah?” His voice is low, rumbling.

You can feel warm arousal already pooling between your thighs at his command, a soft swirl of your stomach as you nod. He shakes his head, unsatisfied. “Use your words,” he says, fingers tight around your belt loops.

“Yes,” your voice comes out as a strained moan.

He nods along, glancing at Robby. “You want to get her ready, or should I?”

“You do it, Abbot. She’s taking a liking to your theatrics,” the rumbling laugh Robby lets out shoots straight to your core. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asks, moving behind you, his breath fanning across your neck. “Can see you squeezing your thighs every time he breathes. You got it bad for him, huh?” His lips press against your skin as your head rolls to the side, giving him more access.

“You got it bad for me?” Jack teases, fingers moving to unbutton your denim shorts, slipping them down with ease. “Think Robby’s got it bad for you.”

“How could I not?” Robby mumbles, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt before he slips it off your head. “Good God, look at you. So fuckin’ perfect,” he curses as he leans over you to get a look at you.

“Robby, you were right. She’s fuckin’ soaked,” Jack’s fingers drag across the wet spot already formed in your panties.

“Jack,” you mewled, body aching forward at his touch.

Jack tilts his head back cockily. “You like that?” He sucks his teeth before his fingers press back into you.

“Fuck, yes,” you brace your hand on Jack’s shoulder, reaching behind you to grab Robby’s hand to rest it on your stomach. 

Jack gives you a lazy smile, pulling your panties down with a swipe, leaving you bare. “Barely touched you, and you’re glistening,” Jack remarks, catching Robby’s eyes as he presses his fingers into your soaked cunt. 

You squirm on his fingers, cursing Jack when he pulls them out.

Robby runs his fingers up your stomach before picking his hand up to brush his fingers against your pouting lips. “Don’t torture the poor girl, Jack.”

Jack’s lip quips quickly, brushing your arousal, his finger on his jeans before he slips them down, along with his boxers, making his cock spring up. “Turn around,” he instructs, giving himself a nice tuck.

You oblige, Robby’s hand moving down to rest back on your stomach, helping you spin around. Jack pulls you back, slipping his fingers across your slit from behind, making you arch towards Robby. “Open up for me, sweetheart,” Jack mutters, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he nudges himself into your slit.

He hisses as you sink down on him and lets out a loud moan, gripping Robby’s shoulders for support. “You alright?” Jack asks, gripping your waist tight.

“Yes,” you choke out, turning your head to rest on your shoulder to look at him.

“Don’t look at me. Look at him,” Jack groans, grabbing your chin and turning your face to look at Robby, looking at you through half lids.

“Robby… take your, take your pants off,” you manage to sputter as Jack pounds into you.

Robby unzips his pants and slides his boxers off in a smooth motion. Your greedy hands reach out to stroke him as Jack holds onto your waist tighter, sliding into your deeper.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Robby chokes as your hand tightens around him, stroking with his purpose. His hand threads through your hair, massaging your scalp. “That’s a good girl.”

You moan at the endearment and rock yourself against Jack to stimulate your clit.

“Robby,” Jack pants, still moving inside you.

“Yeah.”  Robby doesn’t even have to ask. He brings his fingers to his tongue, coating them in a slick layer of his salvia before he presses them against your clit, giving you more stimulation. “Didn’t even need the spit, huh? You’re drenched,” he rasps as you pump faster, tossing your head back at the hoard of stimulation.

You don't have any breath in you to retort. You can't even think straight, and not even just for the alcohol. Hell, you're sure Jack fucked the booze out of the system. The sheer amount of pleasure running coursing through your veins leaves you almost paralyzed by pleasure, and with each pound of Jack's cock and swirl of Robby's fingers, you're sure you're going to lose it. 

Lose yourself. 

"Fuck, Abbot," Robby curses, watching you squirm, glossy eyes and jaw wide open, his head tipping back as he feels himself edge closer to release. "She's gonna lose it."

Jack lets out a dry laugh, grabbing your jaw. "That true, sweetheart? You want to come?"

"Please! Fuck… I'm so close, Jack," you can feel the heat rushing to your stomach, an impending orgasm looming over your head.

"Come, sweet girl," he murmurs as he feels his body release.

Your body convulses on his lap as a raging orgasm takes over. Robby grunts as he comes not too far behind, head hunched forward as his finger moves directly across your clit, easing you through your climax. 

Jack gives you no time before he taps your thigh, signaling for you to stand. "Let me taste you, sweet girl." You're breathing hard as you stand, grabbing Robby's helping hand to lay on the bed as Jack leans down, licking a stripe of your cunt, collecting your sweet arousal on his tongue. You arch your back, going threading through his curls. 

"Mhm. Sweet," he comments, tongue gleaming. "Come on, Robby. Give our girl a taste."

Robby nods, leaning down to lick your cunt, making you tip your head back, shutting your eyes promptly.

"She's sweet, alright. Think she wants a taste, Jack?" Robby glances at Jack, chest still heaving, his come still fresh on his cock.

"Let me ask her," Jack says, voice low, eyeing you. "You want a taste, baby?" 

Your head flicks up to see their hungry eyes on you. You lick your lips, nodding eagerly. 

Jack shakes his head. "No. Tell him."

"I want to taste you, Robby," you pant, chewing on your lip.

Jack gives you a nod of affirmation as Robby gives you a lopsided smile. You muster up the force to move and bend forward, sitting on your knees and carefully swiping your tongue across his cock, his come coating your tongue and the corners of your mouth.

“Christ,” Robby and Jack both mutter.

You pull away from him, swiping your tongue to clean the corners of your mouth.

“You’ve ruined us,” Jack shakes his head, admiration written all over his face.

“Maybe that’s what you needed,” you retort, looking between them.

“Maybe it is,” Robby mumbles.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTES⁀➷ i never claimed this would be character accurate, but it was hot, right? dividers by @saradika-graphics

[whisperedmeg]

VERBAL IMPULSE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part vii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: a first cheesesteak, a slip of the word boyfriend, and a thousand miles of want unraveled one breath at a time.

genre: smut, fluff

w/c: 2.3k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, cavity-inducing sugary sweet fluff, singular use of “y/n” but it was necessary I swear, reader mentions being in her thirties (near spencer’s age) but you can ignore that if you’d prefer to imagine her younger/older, second half is basically porn with(out) a plot - phone sex, mutual masturbation, spencer talks reader through it, spencer calls reader good girl/angel. 18+ MDNI

a/n: i am genuinely obsessed with them you guys. I can’t even pretend I’m not. this chapter is so cute and steamy and AHH I just hope you all love reading it as much as I loved writing it. buckle up tho because part 8 is gonna be a roller coaster. as always, appreciate all comments/likes/reblogs more than I can even express! 🫶🏼

series masterlist

When I told Spencer I was taking him to the best hidden gem in DC, I don’t think this was what he pictured.

The place didn’t look like much from the outside — just a half-sunk storefront squeezed between a laundromat and a vape shop, with a flickering neon sign that said “GENO’S BUT NOT THAT ONE.” The “O” was permanently burnt out.

Spencer stared at it like I’d dragged him to the edge of a portal to another dimension. “This is… charming,” he said slowly, blinking at the graffiti-scuffed windows.

I grinned, tugging his sleeve. “Don’t let the vibe scare you. It’s the best cheesesteak you can find outside of Philadelphia. Swear on my life.”

“I’ve never had a cheesesteak,” he said, like it was a confession.

I stopped cold on the sidewalk and turned to face him. “You’ve what?”

He shifted awkwardly. “I’ve read about them.”

“Spencer,” I said, clutching my chest in mock offense. “This is the most serious thing you’ve ever said to me. More serious than quantum physics or being framed for murder by a serial killer”

He laughed, eyes creasing at the corners.

Inside, it smelled like heaven and heart disease — grilled onions, hot beef, grease seeping into paper napkins. The woman behind the counter gave me a nod of recognition, and I waved as I slid into the corner booth that was always just a little too sticky.

Spencer sat across from me, peering cautiously at the menu, which was just a black letterboard with six options and a lot of personality. “What do I order?”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “You’ll panic and ask for a salad.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again and smiled. “Fair.”

I went up to the counter and brought us back two cheesesteaks — one classic with onions and whiz, one with provolone and hot peppers — and watched his face transform as he took the first bite. Eyes wide. Cheeks pink. He didn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

“Oh my god,” he finally mumbled around a mouthful. “This is life changing.”

“I know,” I said smugly. “You’re welcome.”

He pointed his cheesesteak at me like a gavel. “You could’ve led with this when we first met. ‘Hi, I’m Y/N. I know where the best cheesesteak in DC is.’ I would’ve proposed on the spot.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s all it takes?”

“Apparently.”

We were still laughing when the front door chimed, and a familiar voice called my name.

I turned to see Camille — one of my closest friends since undergrad — weaving through the tables with her usual chaotic energy, curly dark hair pulled up into a messy bun, sandals slapping against the laminate tile. She stopped when she saw Spencer.

“Ooooh,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Is this the boy?”

Spencer immediately stood, ever polite, even though his hands were full of cheesesteak and he had melted cheese on his thumb. “Hi,” he said nervously. “I’m Spencer.”

Camille looked him up and down like he was a rescue puppy she was trying to assess for adoptability. “So you’re the genius prison boyfriend.”

I groaned. “Camille.”

As if the ‘prison’ label wasn’t bad enough, the term ‘boyfriend’ just had to be thrown out into the open, too, before we’d had any sort of formal conversation to indicate I was allowed to call him that. It was a little silly at this point, to not even know if Spencer was technically my boyfriend considering that we spent every night we could together and said “I love you” like, 17 times a day — not to mention we were both well into our thirties and past the age where a multi-month talking stage would be acceptable — but still. I shot her daggers with my eyes and hid mortified behind my soda cup.

“What? That’s what you called him. In your texts.”

Spencer blinked. “You… called me your prison boyfriend?”

“Okay,” I said, raising a hand in defense. “Context is important. Camille said it first as a joke, I just went along with it.”

But Spencer was grinning now, delight creeping into his voice. “No, no, I like it. It’s accurate. Very specific branding.”

Camille plopped herself down at the edge of the booth and stole one of my fries. “So, Spencer. What are your intentions here?”

I groaned again.

Spencer, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “she just introduced me to cheesesteaks, which I think makes this pretty serious. Also I’m wildly in love with her, but I’m not sure if we’re announcing that in sandwich shops.”

I choked. Camille’s eyes shot wide.

He froze.

“I mean—” he began, clearly scrambling. “I didn’t mean to just blurt it out. Not that I don’t mean it — I do. I mean, you already know I love you. We say it all the time now, so I just—was that okay? Should I not have said it in front of—?”

I reached for his hand across the table and squeezed. “Spence. It’s okay.”

He looked at me, worried, searching. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” I murmured. “Say it again.”

His gaze softened. “I love you.”

I smiled. “I love you, too.”

Camille made a gagging noise and threw a napkin at me. “Gross. I love it. Now someone please give me a bite of their cheesesteak before I start sobbing.”

—

We spent the rest of the afternoon in that little corner booth — eating, talking, laughing. Camille and Spencer bonded over obscure jazz albums and neurodivergent tendencies. He told her about a case once solved with a single strand of dog hair. She told him about the time I got so mad at a CVS self-checkout stand that I left my snacks and Midol on the floor and walked out.

Later, as we walked back to my place, Spencer slipped his hand into mine.

“I liked today,” he said. “Thank you for showing me your world.”

“You fit in better than you think,” I said.

He bumped my shoulder lightly. “You mean as your boyfriend?”

My heart fluttered. “Oh. Is that what you are?”

“I hope so,” he said. “Unless I just embarrassed myself for no reason in front of your friend.”

I laughed, leaning in. “You’re definitely my boyfriend.”

“Good,” he said, kissing my temple. “I’m kind of obsessed with you, you know.”

And I was kind of obsessed with him, too.

—

It had been a few weeks since our cheesesteak date and the accidental boyfriend slip, and in that time, life had started to stretch into something that felt almost like a rhythm. Spencer was back to work full-time, and we were both still figuring out what that meant — long days, last-minute travel, texts squeezed between interviews and autopsies. But still, we found each other in the spaces in between. Late dinners. Quiet mornings. Stolen kisses before the sun came up. Needy touches that started in our sleep and ended in breathy sighs.

And now, he was gone again. Three days into a case in Texas, and I’d hardly heard his voice since he left.

It was nearly midnight, and I was stretched across my mattress with the fan humming overhead, face buried in a book I’d already read four times. My bed felt too big without him. Too still.

When my phone finally lit up with his name, my heart did a little flip.

I smiled, thumb swiping across the screen instantly. “Hi.”

There was a pause, like the sound of him exhaling into relief. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and a little raspy, like he was lying in bed too, half-lit by a motel lamp somewhere in the middle of nowhere. “Did I wake you?”

“You never wake me. I was just waiting for you to call.”

A warm sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Good. I couldn’t sleep. And I missed your voice.”

I turned off the bedside lamp, settling deeper into the pillows as I turned on speaker phone and laid the phone down next to my head. “Rough day?”

“A little. Just long. We’re getting close, but I’ve been stuck in my own head all night. Thought maybe hearing you would help.”

My chest squeezed at the softness in his voice. “Always happy to help.”

There was silence for a beat. Then, lighter: “What are you wearing?”

I laughed, my cheeks warming. “Seriously?”

“I mean,” he said, that little edge of nervous teasing curling around the words, “I could guess, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

I tugged the covers up over me, suddenly shy despite the fact that he wasn’t even here. “It’s just one of your shirts.”

“That’s cruel,” he groaned. “Which one?”

“The purple one, with the little hole near the sleeve.”

He made a strangled little noise. “You always look so good in that one. It’s so stretched out.”

“It is,” I said, smiling. “And yes, I’m wearing underwear. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Damn.”

We both laughed, then his voice dipped lower. “I wish I were there. I keep thinking about last week. You in my lap. The way you looked at me.”

I shifted under the sheets, skin prickling with the memory. “I couldn’t help it. You looked so good.”

His breath caught on the other end. “You were straddling me. Hair all messy. You had that look on your face like you were trying to be good but barely holding on.”

I closed my eyes, heat pooling low in my belly. “I was.”

His voice turned molten. “I love how responsive you are. The little sounds you make when I touch your hips. That breathy one when I kiss behind your ear.”

“You know them by heart now?” I asked, teasing, breath uneven.

“I’ve memorized all of them,” he said. “I play them on a loop in my mind when I miss you.”

“You and your freaky memory,” I teased. I let out a shaky exhale before adding, “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you every second,” he murmured back. He was silent for a moment, like he was going over the next thing he wanted to say in his own brain before finally releasing the words. “Tell me where your hands are.”

I hesitated, breath catching. “Um, one’s under my head, and the other’s on my lower stomach. Just… resting. Why?”

“Are you wet?” he asked, barely audible.

I blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t on the list. Not from Spencer — not the man who blushed the first time I straddled his lap, who once apologized mid-makeout for knocking my knee weird. I’d been so careful not to push him for more, even after months of being together, even after all the nights we’d spent exploring each other with only our hands and mouths. After everything he’d gone through, I didn’t want him to feel rushed into sex, so we still hadn’t gone that far. And while phone sex wasn’t exactly sex, obviously, it was still… a lot, and I hadn’t realized he was bold enough to cross this line. God, maybe I didn’t know everything about him after all. Or maybe long-distance horniness truly just knows no bounds, even for Spencer. It sent a pulse of heat straight through me.

The shock wore off after a beat, and I let out a soft sigh. “Mhm,” I hummed.

“God,” he groaned. “I can’t even tell you what I’d do if I were there.”

“Try,” I whispered.

His voice was raw now, velvet dragged over heat. “I’d start slow. Lay you back, run my fingers down your thighs. I’d take my time — tease you until you begged. You’d be so soft and warm under me. I’d press my mouth to your stomach, then lower, then kiss you between your thighs until you were shaking.”

I whimpered, hand slipping beneath the waistband of my panties and beginning to move. “Spencer…”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

“Good girl.”

The words hit me like a spark. I arched slightly, hand moving in slow, steady circles. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it was laced with agony. “I’m hard. Have been since you said you were wearing my shirt. I’m palming myself over my boxers right now, trying not to lose it.”

My breath quickened. “Maybe I want to hear you lose it a little.”

He groaned low in his throat, and I could practically feel the tension in his muscles across the distance. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I think I do.”

“I wish I could see you right now,” he said, voice wrecked and beautiful. “Wish I could press your thighs open with my hands. Watch your face. Feel the way you move as you’re getting close.”

I whimpered again, toes curling under the sheets, my free hand clutching at the fabric beside me like I could anchor myself to something.

“I want you to touch yourself the way I would,” he murmured. “Slow at first. Then deeper. Let your hips roll.”

We moved in tandem, hands on our own skin, breathing syncing through the line, chasing the same rhythm from over a thousand miles apart. I could hear him stroking himself now, the soft, slick sound and the hitch in his breath every few seconds. I closed my eyes and imagined it — him, sprawled out on some hotel bed, hair mussed, lips parted, body taut with wanting, hand wrapped around his cock.

“Are you close?” he asked, voice tight, fraying at the edges.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Spencer, I—”

“Come for me,” he said, low and commanding. “Right now. I want to hear you fall apart.”

That was all it took. My body seized, pleasure crashing through me like a wave too big to fight. I bit my lip hard but couldn’t stop the sound that escaped — half cry, half his name. My back arched. My legs shook. Every nerve lit up like a struck match.

On the other end of the line, he let out a quiet, guttural moan. “Fuck, angel.” There was a pause — then another sharp exhale, the telltale stutter of his release. Not loud, but raw. Unfiltered.

We lay there in the aftermath, nothing but soft breathing and crackling silence between us.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured eventually, voice loose and sleepy, like it had all unraveled something in him, too.

“I miss you,” I said softly, my fingers curled loosely around the phone as I picked it up from the pillow next to me. “I wish you were here.”

“I will be soon. And when I am,” he said slowly, deliberately, “I’m going to take my time with you. Every inch. Every look. Every sound.”

I swallowed hard, heart thudding. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

[goonerforthree]

With you, Always Chapter Three

A/N: This one is a little shorter, but I want to make their trip like one whole long chapter, so I hope y'all understand.

Words: 5.5K

The bakery parking lot smelled like warm sugar and coffee grounds, the kind of scent that practically forced you to smile. Paige pushed the car door open with her hip and nodded toward the storefront. “I’ll run in—you stay here. I don’t trust you not to ask questions.”

Azzi leaned back in her seat with a suspicious look. “Too late. I already have questions. Like why I didn’t hear a single word about this cake before today.”

Paige paused, hand on the door. “Because,” she said dramatically, “if Lauren finds out, she’s going to kill us before we can actually surprise her with it.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So this is a joint operation now?”

“Operation Don’t Let the Teen Find Out About the Cake, yes.”

Azzi crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “What did you and your mom conspire this time?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Paige said, grinning as she slipped out of the car. “But just know—if it backfires, we’re blaming Ryan.”

Azzi laughed. “Oh gosh. That bad?”

Paige poked her head back in the car briefly. “Only if you hate fun. And buttercream.”

Then she disappeared inside, leaving Azzi staring out the windshield with that amused, mildly wary expression she always got when Paige was up to something. A few minutes later, Paige returned with a box in hand, the kind that practically screamed sugar rush and poorly concealed emotion.

Azzi eyed it as Paige slid back into the driver’s seat.

“Okay,” she said slowly, eyeing the pink ribbon tied around the lid. “So level with me—is this one of those cakes that looks normal but turns into a full-on slideshow of Lauren’s volleyball career when you cut it?”

Paige just grinned and turned the key in the ignition. “Like I said—you’ll see.”

Azzi groaned, but she was smiling. “Why do I feel like I’m part of an overly sentimental heist?”

“Because you are,” Paige said, pulling out of the lot. “And you love it.”

Azzi sighed dramatically, reaching over to steady the cake box. “I really do.”

By early afternoon, the sun had burned through the last of the morning haze, leaving the town soaked in lazy warmth. The workout had been solid—light weights, some mobility drills, a short HIIT session that left them both pleasantly tired but not wrecked.

Paige had laughed halfway through their circuit when Azzi wiped her forehead dramatically and muttered, “Why do we work out on vacation again?”

Now, freshly showered and tucked into a booth at their favorite little café downtown, they had iced drinks sweating on the table and two giant lunch plates between them—turkey panini for Paige, grilled chicken salad for Azzi.

Ryan had bailed with a quick text that said, “Rain check. Meeting up with the guys from senior year. Tell Azzi not to miss me too much.”

Azzi had just rolled her eyes. “He’s acting like he’s in a war reunion, not a group chat.”

Paige laughed. “Honestly, he’s gonna come back hoarse from yelling about fantasy football.”

They ate for a few quiet minutes, until Azzi pulled out her phone, her screen already open to a bookmarked shopping tab.

“So,” she said between bites, “I’ve narrowed it down to three swimsuits and like five dresses. But I still have no idea what vibe we���re going for.”

Paige perked up instantly. “Ooh, show me.”

Azzi turned the phone toward her. “Okay, this one’s kind of like...breezy island fairycore.”

Paige squinted. “Gorgeous. You’d look hot. Next?”

Azzi scrolled. “This is more like chic dinner by the beach.”

Paige nodded. “Also yes. That with your hair up? Game over.”

Azzi chuckled and tilted her head. “You’re just saying yes to everything.”

“I’m an enthusiastic girlfriend. It’s part of my charm.”

Azzi smirked. “So what did you even order?”

“Oh,” Paige said casually, reaching for her drink. “I actually ordered a bunch of stuff last week.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What? When?”

“Yeah, I just shipped it all to your apartment,” Paige said like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Some linen sets, two bikinis, a white polo shirt I might wear for the sunset dinner thing...”

Azzi narrowed her eyes playfully. “You planned a sunset dinner?”

Paige shrugged, trying to hide her grin. “Among other things.”

Azzi set her phone down and leaned in. “Okay, wait. What are we doing on this trip? Like, what’s the master plan here?”

“Well,” Paige said, counting off on her fingers, “a couple hikes, one with this really pretty waterfall. Jet skiing. Snorkeling one day, massages another. And obviously beach time. Like, do-nothing, lay-flat-and-melt-into-the-sand beach time.”

Azzi smiled, already picturing it. “That sounds perfect.”

“But,” Paige added, sipping her iced coffee, “there’s one day I haven’t totally planned yet.”

Azzi squinted. “One day? You, Miss Itinerary?”

Paige laughed. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe it’s our wander-around-and-let-the-day-surprise-us day.”

Azzi nodded slowly, but a knowing look crept onto her face. “You’re hiding something.”

Paige feigned offense. “Excuse me?”

“That tone,” Azzi said. “That 'oh we’ll just see' tone. You only use it when you’re scheming.”

“I don’t scheme,” Paige said with exaggerated innocence.

“You literally schemed a cake surprise with your mom this morning.”

“Okay, but that was wholesome.”

Azzi smirked. “Which is why I’m suspicious.”

Paige just leaned back in her seat, fingers drumming lightly on the glass. “Trust the process.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t leave her face. “Fine. But if we end up doing yoga on paddle boards at sunrise, I’m blaming you.”

“No promises,” Paige said, grinning. But in the back of her mind, she was already picturing that last day—just the two of them, sunset flickering on the water, the ring box tucked into her pocket.

Azzi stirred her drink, then glanced sideways. “Just don’t make me wear heels in sand.”

“Deal.”

They clinked their glasses together and sank back into the kind of quiet that felt like a long exhale. Easy. Steady. The kind of day where time didn’t rush—just strolled right alongside them.

The sun had dipped low, casting a warm glow through the upstairs bedroom as Azzi smoothed her hair and adjusted the school spirit T-shirt Ryan had tossed her earlier. It was one of his old Buffalo Ridge High tees—soft, slightly oversized, purple and white lettering just starting to fade from years of washes, with a bold buffalo logo stamped across the chest.

Paige emerged from the bathroom, holding something behind her back with a suspicious grin on her face.

Azzi narrowed her eyes instantly. “What are you hiding?”

Paige grinned wider, then pulled it out and shook it open: a T-shirt emblazoned with a giant picture of Lauren’s face mid-serve, the expression intense, the ball just leaving her hand. Bold letters underneath read: “HAIL TO THE QUEEN.”

Azzi choked. “No way.”

“Oh, I am 100% wearing this,” Paige said proudly, already tugging it on over her tank top.

Azzi stared in amused disbelief. “Lauren is gonna murder you.”

“She’ll try,” Paige said, smoothing the shirt like it was couture. “But it’s senior night. She has to be nice.”

Azzi was still laughing when they headed downstairs, and the moment they hit the kitchen, Amy turned from where she was tying a ribbon around a takeout container.

“Oh my God,” she said, covering her mouth. “You’re matching the cake.”

Paige beamed. “Not just me.”

Right on cue, Ryan walked in from the garage wearing the exact same shirt—Lauren’s face front and center, sleeves rolled up, the words “HAIL TO THE QUEEN” looking even more dramatic on his taller frame.

Azzi doubled over. “No. No no no. You two did not coordinate this.”

“We absolutely did,” Ryan said proudly, high-fiving Paige across the kitchen island.

Amy just shook her head, laughing. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“I’m documenting this,” Azzi said, pulling out her phone. “This is internet-worthy chaos.”

She lined up the shot—Paige and Ryan standing on either side of the custom cake, which had a printed photo of Lauren’s face dead center and her jersey number piped in red frosting, surrounded by matching school colors. Both of them were striking dramatic, over-the-top poses like they were modeling for a Nike campaign.

Snap.

Azzi uploaded it straight to her Instagram story with the caption: “Senior Night for the Queen herself 👑🔥 @lauren.fuller”She tagged Paige too and added a little volleyball emoji for good measure.

“You know she’s going to see this before we even get there, right?” Amy said as she grabbed her bag.

“That’s the point,” Paige said smugly.

Azzi shook her head, still smiling as she slid her phone into her pocket. “You two are so lucky she loves you.”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” Ryan said. “She’s family.”

“And we brought cake,” Paige added sweetly, picking up the box.

With that, they all headed out, laughter still echoing as they piled into the car—outfits loud, energy louder, and one very unforgettable senior night waiting just ahead

The gym was already buzzing when they walked in, the kind of small-town electricity that built slowly and settled into the bones. Purple and white streamers hung from the rafters. Posters of the senior girls—action shots, baby pictures, glitter letters—lined the wall near the bleachers. The bleachers themselves were packed: classmates, parents, teachers, little kids clutching concession stand hot dogs and running up and down the rows with sticky fingers.

Lauren’s name was written in huge block letters on a purple banner near center court, flanked by a blown-up photo of her mid-spike and a glittery #12. The whole space felt like it was holding its breath, just waiting for the seniors to be introduced.

Azzi followed Paige and Ryan through the crowd, catching stares, a few whispers, and more than a couple people doing double-takes.

“Is that Lauren?” a girl near the entrance muttered, pointing at Paige’s chest.

Azzi just shook her head, grinning. “Yup.”

They found their seats just behind the players’ bench. Amy was already there, chatting with a couple other moms, clearly in her element. Paige waved to her and sat down, the “HAIL TO THE QUEEN” shirt proudly on display.

Azzi took the spot next to her, still smiling. “This is going to be chaos.”

Paige smirked. “It’s already chaos.”

Then the lights dimmed slightly, and the announcer’s voice came on over the loudspeaker, welcoming everyone to Buffalo Ridge High School’s Senior Night. The crowd cheered as the non-seniors jogged out first, high-fiving the coaching staff and waving to their families in the stands.

And then, one by one, the seniors were introduced.

Each girl had a moment—her name called, her position announced, a list of her accolades read over the speakers while her favorite song played and she walked arm-in-arm with her family.

When Lauren’s turn came, the gym practically exploded.

“Number 12, LAUREN FULLER! Outside hitter, four-year varsity starter, all-conference, team captain—and future Drake University Bulldog!”

The stands roared as Lauren stepped out from the tunnel with Amy on one side and her dad on the other. Her smile was wide, that fierce but shy look she always got when people were clapping just for her. She waved, high-fived her coach, and gave her teammates little hugs as she made her way across the floor.

And then she looked into the stands and saw them.

More specifically, she saw her face on Paige’s and Ryan’s shirts.

She stopped mid-step. Blinked. Tilted her head like maybe, just maybe, she was hallucinating under the gym lights.

Azzi could see it happen in real time: confusion → disbelief → horror → amusement → horror again.

Lauren’s jaw dropped as she pointed at them, mouthing, “Are you serious?”

Paige and Ryan both stood up immediately, striking the same dramatic poses they had earlier—arms crossed, stoic, like they were about to drop a mixtape in her honor.

The crowd didn’t get it, but Amy nearly keeled over laughing on the court next to her.

Azzi burst out laughing too, covering her mouth with her hands. “She’s going to end you.”

Paige just grinned. “Worth it.”

Lauren finished her walk with her family, shaking her head the entire time. As soon as the group photos ended and the players had a break before warm-ups, she sprinted over to the sideline.

“Take. That. Off,” she hissed at Ryan, swatting at his chest.

“Excuse you,” he said, backing away dramatically. “This is a limited-edition collector’s item.”

Lauren turned on Paige. “And you? You planned this?”

“Guilty,” Paige said, not even trying to hide her glee. “But come on—you look iconic.”

Lauren groaned, but she couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You two are the worst.”

“Yet here we are,” Paige said sweetly, “cheering for the queen.”

Lauren rolled her eyes and jogged back to her team, shaking her head.

The game itself was fast-paced and electric. Buffalo Ridge dominated from the first whistle. Lauren was everywhere—aces, kills, diving saves that had the crowd screaming her name. The team fed off her energy, and by the time they won the first two sets, the student section was on its feet and chanting.

Azzi couldn’t stop watching her. She looked so locked in, so fully herself out there on the court. Confident. Powerful. Happy.

“She’s killing it tonight,” Azzi whispered.

Paige nodded, eyes soft as she watched her sister. “Yeah. She really is.”

By the final set, it wasn’t even close. Buffalo Ridge closed it out cleanly, and the gym erupted as the scoreboard lit up the final score. Confetti cannons went off somewhere in the student section, and the team stormed the court in a pile of hugs and cheers.

Azzi and Paige waited near the locker room door with Amy and Ryan, all of them still in their matching ridiculous T-shirts. When Lauren finally came out—sweaty, flushed, glowing—she looked at all of them and just sighed.

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” Ryan said, tossing her a Gatorade.

“But,” Lauren said slowly, cracking a smile, “that was kinda... amazing.”

Azzi stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. “You were amazing.”

Lauren hugged her back, tighter than expected. “Thanks for coming. Really.”

Paige slung an arm around both of them. “Now who wants cake?”

Lauren groaned. “If my face is on the cake, I swear—”

“Oh, it is,” Ryan said, already walking toward the car.

“And it’s got glitter sprinkles,” Paige added.

Lauren dropped her head into her hands. “I hate you all.”

But she was laughing.

And as they all piled into the car, sweaty and giddy and still buzzing from the night, Azzi couldn’t help but think: this is what family feels like. A little loud. A little weird. But full of so much love, it almost knocked you over.

And the night was only just beginning.

Later that night, the post-game buzz followed them straight into the warm, wood-paneled dining room of Ridgeview Pizza—a hometown staple with checkered tablecloths, signed jerseys on the walls, and the smell of garlic and melted mozzarella lingering in the air like a blanket.

All the seniors and their families had crammed into the back half of the restaurant, where two long tables were pushed together to fit everyone. It was loud in that joyful, chaotic way that only follows a win—people calling out for extra napkins, someone laughing too hard at a dad joke, the shuffle of chairs scraping on tile as kids ran between tables. Plates of pizza were disappearing as fast as the waitstaff could bring them out.

Azzi sat close to the middle, shoulder to shoulder with Paige, who was laughing at something one of the other moms had just said. Across from them sat the Mendez family—whose daughter Gabriella was one of Lauren’s teammates—and the Thompsons, whose twins played defense and had apparently known Lauren since the fifth grade.

“So,” Mrs. Mendez leaned forward, elbows on the table, “what’s it like watching a game when your little sister is out there running the court like she owns it?”

Paige grinned, glancing over toward Lauren, who was a few seats down deep in conversation with her friends and still wearing her medal around her neck. “Honestly? I still get nervous. I know she’s got it, but I always end up half-holding my breath every time the ball comes her way.”

“She was on fire tonight,” said Mr. Thompson, reaching for another slice. “That spike in the second set? I thought the gym roof was gonna blow off.”

Azzi chuckled. “We saw that. Paige nearly jumped out of her seat.”

“I did not,” Paige said, nudging her. “I stood up in support. There's a difference.”

“Well, you definitely yelled like a mom at a T-ball game,” Azzi teased.

“I take pride in my volume,” Paige said, deadpan, which got a round of laughter from the table.

Mrs. Mendez pointed between the two of them. “And you two—how long have you been together?”

Paige’s eyes widened slightly, and she glanced at Azzi, who covered the moment smoothly.

“A while,” Azzi said with an easy smile. “We met through basketball. Been kind of inseparable ever since.”

“Well, you’re adorable,” Mrs. Thompson chimed in, reaching for her wine glass. “And if you’re anything like my husband and me, pizza nights like this are the best part of the season. Wins are great—but this? The afterglow, the stories, everyone together—this is the magic.”

Azzi nodded, looking around at the crowded table. Lauren’s coach was laughing with someone’s dad. Kids were doodling on the back of their menus. Someone had started playing a game of heads-up at the far end. It was magic, in the messy, loud, community way.

Paige leaned into her just a little and whispered, “Kind of makes me want to move to a small town and open a pizza place.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Only if you wear the Lauren shirt every day.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

More laughter rang out across the table as someone told a story from a past season—something about a bus breaking down and a team sing-along turning into a full-blown karaoke battle.

Azzi rested her chin in her hand, watching Paige’s eyes light up as she joined the conversation again, teasing Mr. Thompson about his Diet Coke obsession and asking Gabriella’s little brother if he was going to be the next volleyball star.

The whole evening felt easy. Natural. Like one of those rare nights that you didn’t know was going to matter until later, when you looked back and realized how full your heart had been.

Pizza, noise, family, and the kind of warmth that couldn’t be boxed up and taken home—except maybe in your memory.

Friday morning crept in with soft overcast skies and the lazy hum of a house that had stayed up too late the night before. The smell of waffles drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint sound of the local news playing in the background. Amy stood at the stove, flipping another round of batter onto the hot griddle when Paige and Lauren padded in, one behind the other, both in sweatshirts and mismatched socks.

Lauren was already starting the charm offensive, her voice laced with a practiced innocence. “Mom…”

Amy didn’t even look up. “No.”

“Okay but just hear me out—”

Amy turned slightly, spatula in hand, eyebrow arched. “If this is about skipping school, don’t waste your breath.”

“It’s one day!” Lauren protested, sliding onto one of the bar stools. “And we had a game last night. It was basically a holiday. I’m running on like four hours of sleep and a cheese high.”

Paige, sipping from a mug that read “Uconn Basketball” in faded Blue letters, leaned casually against the counter. “It’s true. She was out cold on the couch before I could even get my shoes off.”

Amy gave them both a look, the kind only mothers could perfect—equal parts disbelief and amusement. “And that’s my fault how?”

Lauren folded her arms. “It’s not. It’s society’s. And Buffalo Ridge attendance policy.”

Azzi walked in mid-sentence, tying her hoodie strings and looking freshly showered. “What’s society done now?”

“They’re trying to get me to let Lauren skip school,” Amy answered, flipping a waffle.

Azzi paused. “Oh. Well... in their defense, it is our last day here.”

“And we’re flying out tonight,” Paige added. “We just wanted to have the day—chill, grab lunch, maybe take a walk downtown, just… be together.”

Amy sighed, clearly trying not to be swayed, but her stance softened just a hair. “Lauren, this is your senior year. You can’t make a habit out of this.”

“I haven’t missed a single day since the semester started!” Lauren countered. “And you literally just hosted an emotional sendoff for the senior volleyball team 12 hours ago.”

Amy gave her a long look.

Lauren widened her eyes and rested her chin on her hand. “Wouldn’t it be nice to just... have a Friday? Like we used to?”

Amy hesitated. Paige stepped in gently. “Look, I know she’s your baby, but she’s practically an adult. And we really don’t get a lot of time like this.”

Azzi nodded. “We promise to return her in one piece. No bad decisions. No matching tattoos.”

Lauren snorted. “I mean… depends how good the flash sheet is.”

Amy finally gave in with a reluctant sigh, turning back to the griddle. “Fine. But—she’s yours for the day. Homework gets done over the weekend, and you’re not dragging her all over creation.”

Lauren threw her arms in the air like she’d just hit a game-winning serve. “YES!”

Paige reached over to squeeze Amy’s shoulder. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Amy muttered, trying to hide her smile. “Now sit. Eat. And be gone by ten.”

They grabbed plates and piled them high with waffles and strawberries, laughter already bubbling around the table. The kind of morning that made goodbyes a little harder, but made everything in between that much sweeter.

They were out the door a little after ten, armed with to-go coffees from a corner café Lauren insisted had the best seasonal syrup. The mall wasn’t crowded yet, which meant they could actually breathe as they wandered store to store, mostly just window shopping, cracking jokes, and occasionally trying on something ridiculous just to make the others laugh.

Paige spotted a fuzzy bucket hat and dropped it onto Lauren’s head without warning.

“Instant regret,” Lauren said flatly, but didn’t take it off.

Azzi held up a glitter-covered phone case shaped like a bear. “Be honest, this is exactly your style.”

Paige looked up from a clothing rack. “That’s either an insult or a very weird compliment.”

They ended up splitting burritos at a local spot for lunch, seated outside under one of those oversized umbrellas, half-talking, half-people-watching. It wasn’t a big day or a flashy one—just easy, familiar. They didn’t talk much about the flight or what came next, but it hung in the air anyway, brushing up against their shoulders in the quiet moments.

When they pulled back into the driveway that afternoon, Ryan was already home, leaning against the porch railing with his arms crossed like he’d been waiting for them.

“Took you long enough,” he called out as they stepped from the car.

“We were busy enriching Lauren’s cultural experience,” Paige said, slinging her arm around her.

Lauren rolled her eyes. “You made me try on jelly sandals. That was not culture.”

They all stood in the driveway for a bit, just lingering—no one quite saying what they were thinking. Amy came out not long after, keys in hand.

“You girls packed?” she asked.

Azzi nodded. “Everything’s in the back.”

Lauren shifted her weight from foot to foot, arms wrapped around herself. “You’re actually leaving.”

Paige bumped her shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better,” Ryan said, pulling Azzi in for a hug.

Lauren hugged Paige tighter than usual, her voice soft. “I’m really going to miss you.”

Paige smiled warmly. “We’ll see you at Christmas in a couple months. And we’ll be FaceTiming all the time until then.”

Azzi wrapped an arm around Lauren’s shoulders. “Yeah, see you soon, girl.”

Amy waited by the car while they said their last goodbyes. There wasn’t any big speech. Just a few extra seconds in each hug, a couple jokes to keep things light. Then the doors shut and the car pulled out of the driveway.

As Amy drove, the girls sat in comfortable silence, each staring out their own window, lost in the weight of leaving. The town rolled by—familiar streets, a few kids walking home from school, the bakery on the corner with the crooked “Open” sign still buzzing.

At the airport, Amy double-parked near the departure curb. Paige and Azzi unloaded their bags, slinging backpacks over shoulders. Amy stepped out and hugged them both—tight, quiet, steady.

“Call me if anything changes,” she said.

Azzi smiled. “We will.”

“Take care of each other.”

“We always do,” Paige said.

She didn’t say goodbye—just gave a little wave and waited until they disappeared through the glass doors. Then she climbed back into the car, glanced once in the rearview mirror, and drove off.

Inside, Paige glanced over at Azzi. “You good?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. Just... ready.”

Paige bumped her arm. “Me too.”

They headed for security, side by side, the kind of quiet between them that didn’t need filling. Just the sound of rolling luggage wheels and the low hum of departure announcements overhead—home fading behind them, something new waiting just ahead.

They pulled into the small parking lot behind Azzi’s apartment complex just as night had settled in, streetlights flickering on and casting pools of soft yellow light on the pavement. Azzi unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping inside to the warm glow of the apartment. Right by the entrance was a towering stack of packages — boxes and bags from various online orders, spilling across the small entryway like a colorful avalanche.

Paige dropped her bag with a sigh. “Well, looks like we’re definitely dealing with all this tomorrow.”

Azzi laughed, dropping her keys on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, no way we’re tackling this mountain of clothes and shoes tonight.”

Paige pulled out her phone and started scrolling. “I’m ordering breakfast through DoorDash for the morning. We’ll need fuel before the big unpacking session.”

Azzi nodded and flicked on a few lamps, making the cozy apartment feel even more inviting. “Sounds like a plan.”

As Paige placed the order, she glanced back at the packages again. “Swimsuits, sundresses, sandals... we’re really getting ready for Turks and Caicos, huh?”

Azzi grinned, holding up a bright floral dress she’d just pulled out of a box. “If I’m gonna survive the cold Minnesota spring, I’m gonna daydream about the beach.”

The DoorDash notification pinged. Paige grabbed the bag from the door and set it on the counter.

As they settled in with breakfast burritos and steaming coffee, Paige tapped her phone again. “Hey, I was texting with Jenica earlier — she and Mrs. Suggs are in town for a conference. Wanna catch lunch with them tomorrow?”

Azzi’s eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh, yes! That’d be so great. It’s been forever since I saw them.”

Paige smiled, scrolling through her messages. “Cool, I’ll set it up.”

Azzi leaned back, a warm contentment settling over her. “This is exactly the kind of weekend I needed.”

Paige nodded, raising her coffee cup. “To good friends, new adventures, and way too many packages.”

The days between arriving in Minnesota and their flight to Turks and Caicos unfolded with a comfortable blend of reunion, preparation, and the quiet hum of everyday life. Azzi’s apartment, usually a calm retreat, was now alive with the rustle of packages and the subtle buzz of plans being laid out. Mornings began early, sunlight filtering through the blinds as Paige and Azzi eased into their routine. The air carried a faint scent of fresh coffee and the occasional whiff of cinnamon from the bagels Paige would order via DoorDash to kickstart their days.

One afternoon, they met Jenica and Mrs. Suggs at a small café nestled just off campus. Jenica was just as vivacious as ever, her voice animated as she recounted stories from her summer internship and teased Azzi about how she still hadn’t quite mastered Minnesota winters. Mrs. Suggs, with her gentle smile and steady presence, listened thoughtfully, occasionally sharing her own nuggets of wisdom — reflections on balancing work and life, the importance of savoring moments, and the unexpected lessons travel could teach.

Lunch stretched into a slow, easy conversation. Plates of vibrant salads and warm, crusty bread slid across the table, but the real nourishment came from laughter and shared stories. Paige chimed in about the upcoming trip, her eyes lighting up as she described the turquoise waters and hidden waterfalls they planned to explore. Azzi laughed at her enthusiasm, teasing, “You’ve already packed half your suitcase, haven’t you?”

Between social moments, the duo carved out time for their workouts. The local gym became a familiar sanctuary — a place to move through weights, stretches, and steady cardio. Azzi preferred the early mornings, when the air was crisp and the gym was quiet, the rhythmic clatter of weights the only soundtrack. Paige, ever the challenger, pushed herself to keep pace, their workouts often turning into friendly competitions. Afterward, they’d cool down with long stretches, sometimes sharing a smoothie or protein shake, their conversation drifting from workout goals to outfit choices for the trip.

Packing was another ritual altogether — a balancing act between practicality and anticipation. They’d spread Azzi’s collection of new clothes across the living room floor: flowy sundresses, vibrant bikinis, lightweight cover-ups, and sandals that whispered of sandy beaches. Paige, ever the stylist, would hold up a piece and ask, “Does this go with that?” or “Too much color, or just enough?”

Azzi would groan playfully, shaking her head. “You’re the only person I know who can turn packing into a full-on project.”

Late evenings were spent finalizing their plans, reviewing activity lists, and marking off things they needed to buy last minute. Snippets of music floated through the apartment — a mix of island rhythms and laid-back acoustic tunes — setting the mood for their impending escape.

Amidst the busy days, there were quiet moments of reflection. The excitement bubbled beneath the surface, tempered by the comfort of routine and the warmth of friendship. Even as they prepared to leave behind the familiar for the adventure ahead, they felt rooted — in each other, in the people they’d seen again, and in the life Azzi was building here.

By the time their suitcases were zipped and their itineraries confirmed, the anticipation was nearly tangible. The promise of turquoise waters, the call of hidden waterfalls, the thrill of snorkeling through vibrant coral reefs — it all awaited them. But so did the simple joy of being together, away from the noise of daily life, ready to make new memories.

[cherryberrycheol]

Welcome To The Jasmine & Ember | Choi Seungcheol | fluff

Pairing: choi seungcheol x reader

Summary: the golden petals festival is in three days, and the entire town seems to have collectively decided now is the perfect time to remember they need flowers to celebrate the coming of summer. you and seungcheol spend your days running the shop. this routine is familiar: cozy early mornings, the tea blends, the flower arrangements, his stealing of your hair pieces and your small revenges.

Word count: 1.4k

Genre/warnings: fluff, slice of life, flower-tea shop au, modern-ish fantasy au, solarpunk vibes, dragon!seungcheol x human!reader, they are long time friends in this but there's romantic tension if you squint, domestic bliss once more because i can't get enough of coziness and comfort, seungcheol is giving me strong cuteness aggression (also don’t ask me about the logistics of his tail and clothes, he probably has different pants for different moods or smth lol); reader has hair long enough to pin (let me know if you spot some more descriptive words), if i missed anything else let me know.

A/N: the warm cozy vibes of this universe are very much inspired by the comics series by Katie O'Neill "The Tea Dragon Society". i was panning to post it in may but then life hit me like a freight train and i was too overwhelmed to even think about this text. but considering the theme of it i still feel it's pretty much on time for end of spring to early summer vibes. i hope you enjoy! (⸝⸝º ^ º⸝⸝)

The text below isn’t proofread, proceed at your own discretion; if you see any mistakes I’m sorry, English isn’t my first language.

Masterlist

The morning air hums with the restless energy of late spring, thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth. It was raining all night. You wake at the early crack of dawn to the sound of Seungcheol already moving downstairs in the living quarters, the muffled clink of glass and metal jars, the occasional muttered curse as something undoubtedly refuses to cooperate. The shop doesn’t open for hours and you love the fact that you get to enjoy the quietness and earliness of the morning in your own set tempo.

You stay in bed for a little longer, your eyes looking at the window where the early rays of sunshine begin to trespass the blinds. Soon you get up, uncurtain the window and let the light in, taking a deep inhale of ozone-heavy air. The day promises to be good.

When you come down to the living quarters Seungcheol is already gone, likely tending to the shop before it opens. You sigh with a small pout—you like having breakfast together with him, it’s a much more pleasant ritual than eating alone. But the sight of a carefully arranged plate and a cup of tea warms your heart nonetheless and you smile, sitting down.

By the time you make it into the shop, the workroom is already stirring with controlled chaos. Seungcheol stands at the blending table, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the sparse scales along his forearms catching the lamplight as he measures out dried petals of chamomile and lavender. His brow is furrowed in high concentration, hands steady and  precise despite the hints of sleep still clinging to the edges of his expression.

"You’re up early," you murmur and a yawn follows your words as you slide up to the counter.

He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Someone has to make sure the rosehip blend doesn’t taste like dirt this year."

You snort, reaching for the clipboard of pending orders that are to be fulfilled for today. In the age of solar- and magic-fueled technology you still like to write things out by hand occasionally. 

The list is daunting—twenty custom bouquets, fifty specialty tea blends, fifteen of which are entirely unique to the customer, and a last-minute request from the mayor’s office for centerpieces. The Golden Petals festival is in three days, and the entire town seems to have collectively decided now is the perfect time to remember they need flowers to celebrate the coming of summer.

Seungcheol’s tail—which only manifests in his human form when he’s comfortable with it—flicks against your calf as you pass with a clipboard, the spaded tip catching briefly on your pants and you almost stumble, hissing a curse at him.

"Stop looming. You’re blocking the light."

"You’re breathing too loud."

"I don’t."

"You do when you’re concentrating." You duck just in time to avoid the dried chamomile bud he flicks at your head. With a gremlinish giggle you retreat to your side of the shop where you begin figuring out flower orders that you’re to fulfill before the shop opens.

The morning passes in a blur of flowers, tea blends and paperwork. Customers begin trickling in as soon as the sign on the entrance door flips to "Open", their requests piling up faster than you can process them. A frazzled woman needs a bouquet for her mother’s birthday, something bright, cheerful and yet gentle, by tomorrow morning. An elderly man requests his usual order of mint-and-honey tea, but could you add extra lavender this time? His joints have been aching.

Seungcheol handles the teas with the same single-minded focus he applies to everything, his voice low and steady as he explains the differences between this year’s first-flush green tea and last year’s batch. His scales ripple along his neck when a particularly picky or indecisive customer insists on sampling every blend before committing, but he doesn’t complain. Not out loud, at least. But you notice the irritation in the way his fingers tap the countertop in that certain rhythm.

Then you catch him stealing your hairpin halfway through the afternoon. It’s an old habit, one he’s had almost since your first year working together. Or at least ever since you two grew comfortable with each other. Whenever the orders pile up too high, whenever the noise of the day's bustling becomes a little too much, his fingers find their way to your hair, plucking whatever shiny thing has caught his attention that moment. Today, it’s the big silver clip you’d worn to keep the strands out of your face while arranging bouquets. Its removal leaves your hair to cascade freely behind your back.

You don’t call him out on it. Not yet. You’re too busy with arranging another bouquet to put it down and immediately chase after him. All you do is heave a sigh.

And wait.

You wait until he’s elbow-deep in a new batch of citrus-infused black tea, his back turned, before swiping his favorite measuring spoon from the counter. The thing is ancient—a delicate, hand-carved utensil with an unreasonably pretty handle he’d once told you came to him from some long-dead dragon ancestor. He pretends it’s just a tool, but you’ve seen the way he meticulously polishes it every moment he gets.

The spoon disappears into your apron pocket with a satisfying swish of metallic friction against fabric. And then you quickly figure out a place to hide it, a small devilish smirk stretching your lips.

Seungcheol notices its absence within minutes when he decides to experiment with mixing two different blends. His head snaps up, his nostrils flaring as he scans the worktable. When his gaze lands on you, in the opposite corner of the shop assembling your bouquets, you’re the picture of innocence—or at least, you hope you are.

"Where is it?" he demands.

You blink. "Where’s what?"

"My spoon."

"Which spoon?"

He growls, the sound more draconic than human, and stalks toward you. You dart behind the counter, laughing, but he corners you easily, his arms braced on either side of the wood as he leans in. Up close, you can see the flecks of fire hues in his dark eyes, the way the tiniest, faintest of scales shimmer under his jawline when the light hits them just right. You continue laughing, a purely nervous fit of giggles, as you lean back so much you have to prop yourself up on your elbows for support.

"Give it back," he murmurs, his voice low.

You tilt your chin up and manage to put on a serious face. "Give me my hairpin."

A standoff.

He breaks first, exhaling sharply through his nose before reaching into his pocket and producing the clip. It’s warm and slightly bent—probably from being clenched in his fist all afternoon that he owned it. You take it with exaggerated care, then jokingly pat his cheek as if praising a puppy for successfully obeying a command. Seungcheol growls in a warning and you defensively press yourself into the counter even more, trying not to laugh too loudly this time.

"Check the cash register."

He takes a long suspicious look at you and finally steps back, giving you space. He walks back, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "vindictive little—" but cuts himself off as he yanks open the register drawer. The spoon sits innocently atop a stack of bills, gleaming under the shop lights.

When he turns back to you, his expression is caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "You’re a menace."

You grin and stick your tongue out at him. "I’m learning from the best."

Something flickers in his gaze at that—something warm and complicated—but it’s gone before you can put a name to it. He shakes his head, tucking the spoon safely into his apron pocket, and returns to his teas.

The shop bell chimes as another customer enters, and the moment passes.

By the time evening rolls around, your fingers are stained green from stems, your back aching from hours of bending over bouquets. Seungcheol isn’t faring much better—his black and red hair is a mess from running his hands through it, his scales dulled with exhaustion.

But what matters is that the orders are filled. The shop is still standing. And, well, you have each other to rely on.

When you collapse onto the back step to watch the sunset, Seungcheol silently joins you as he always does, pressing a steaming cup of chamomile into your hands while taking a sip out of his own cup. You take the tea with a smile, and a muttered ‘thanks’, your fingers briefly brushing his and you will yourself not to shiver or even worse—jump.

And just like that another day is done. And another tomorrow is waiting.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

Masterlist

[planeentertainer]

seeing red

[cultkinkcoven]

Massive ALERT for other small artists seeking to do commissions right now.

@almostdeepcat is a scam account, looking to scam small vulnerable artists out of their money.

Super scummy thing to do to folks trying to make a living off of their art.

@almostdeepcat commented on my commission post and asked me to dm them. Wanted “5 drawings of their son Mickey’s dog. Was immediately suspicious but wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Things immediately got weird with the payment. None of the things they described showed up on my PayPal. Then tried to remedy because I felt terrible I might have just lost this guy $250.

PLEASE always remember to do your due diligence and look into things if you’re unsure or get weird vibes. And especially DO NOT take “emails” for their word. If you’re confused or unsure make a call out to your bank or PayPal support.

That (we’re going to arrest you) email really did give me a spook but that was obviously by design. (And now looking back in retrospect there are spelling errors lol)

I’m already struggling to make ends meet and this LOSER almost scammed me out of $150.

Please spread this around- this account has specifically only interacted with very small artists who’ve made posts expressing how desperate they are for commissions and that shit just made me so sad.

I love u guys stay pls stay safe!

[charleecat-bat]

Sonic LGBT+ Headcanons

For the sake of pride month, I wanna share some headcanons that i've got or that i thought over. Some are still heavily what-if's and hypotheticals.

And for the love of god if you don't agree with these. it's not a huge deal... i really am not looking to cause any rage or arguments. please. this just simple fun.

Sonic- Aroace. This is pretty easy. And I have played around with the idea of him being transgender. Either way he is down for people living their truths and being themselves <3

Tails- Transgender. Since he's just a boi I haven't put much thought to how he'd identify himself but you can't tell me he doesn't give trasngender vibes. The way he rejects his given name and goes by a chosen name. Idk personally if he'd be mtf or ftm. I could see it either way. Be your best self little buddy <3

Knuckles- Bisexual (DUH i mean so many see him as this i can't help it too) and thanks to talks with a lot of my friends in the Knuckles chat, I do imagine he's on the nonbinary spectrum. He has no real strong feelings towards gender. Just tends to go by he/him cause that's what people usually go by, but would likely respond to anything. Boi don't care.

Amy- A pansexual queen <3 and I have also pondered her being trasngender too. Either way. QUEEN <3 She probably adores the celebration and parade of this month, such expressions of love towards others and yourself means so much to her.

Rouge- She's an interesting one... I've had a lot of thoughts about how she identify. I do love her being trasngender. We barely know anything about her past, perhaps it was to her own design. Leaving her dead name and her past self behind her. When it comes to her opinion on romance and sexuality i've always gone back and forth. The closest I've come to is omnisexual and aromantic. I just see her being not that keen on being tied down romantically.

Shadow- Now for Shadow, of course he'd be somewhere on the spectrum of nonbinary. Heck I've even pictured him being possibly Intersex. They should have some more rep. <3 Meanwhile for sexuality Demisexual and Demiromantic feels the most right for him as of now. He'd need some time to open up in that sense, not feel much attraction until he's made a prior bond.

Omega- Agender. Bros a robot. Of course he has no gender. He'd def be firing flaming conffetti at pride though, let the bot celebrate in his own way. Violently.

Cream- Look, she's a lil tot. I don't really have much thoughts for her, as I don't really ship her with anyone, so I don't think about that sort of stuff. I do imagine no matter what she grows to be or identify with she is a strong ally and as long as your nice she supports you <3

Big- Big is such a tough one, I could see SO many fitting him... i've gone back and forth so many times. I've made him gay, ace, aroace, demi, pan and even gender wise he's just 'big' i could see him being super lax when it comes to gender. So it's kinda hard to label him... so far he kinda has to be unlabeled, he's just... Big. He's an ally for sure, but jeez for a fav of mine I can't really decide on what I wanna headcanon him as.

Vanilla- I know I could easily make her a straight ally but I like to see her as bisexual. Also I do see her being such a supportive figure to those, especially those without a mother. At parades she'd offer mother hugs and also give advice, snacks and water for those in the parade.

Vector- Vector's got a lot of options for me, I know most people ship him mostly with Vanilla but I like to play around with his orientation. I've gone back and forth between Polysexual or Ominisexual.

Espio- I like to think Espio gender wise might be genderfluid. i could him appearing more masculine one time, feminine another, and then androgynous another. He is a chameleon, his identity fluctuates as much as his skin. :p I can imagine him as a pansexual mess though, gender might not mean much to him but the minute he has an attraction. WELP GOOD LUCK TO HIM KEEPING HIS COOL. he can try but we all know how he really is behind that mask.

Charmy- Much like Cream, I haven't given him much thought. He is a kid after all. The only thought i've had is him being possibly a trans child but again i haven't really thought much about it. Sorry Charmy LOL

Blaze- I headcanon she's a lesbian. That's just me though. Probably doesn't help it's a flaming looking flag that is just a funny coicidence though LOL. I just see her liking girls but not being sure how to express her feelings.

Silver- he's always been hard to place at least with sexuality. Asexual feels right for him but when it comes to romance. I'm not sure... possibly gay? IDK... He's always been hard. Gender wise I feel demi-boy feels right. He/they pronouns for them.

Jet- I personally see him as a closeted gay. I know there are some fokls who'd likely disagree but this is just my own headcanon. Who knows maybe he needs to stretch out. But since I haven't really shipped him with any girls, nor have I had any ship that has made me wanna change that. I'll just stick with this for now. He likely just needs some time to explore his identity. But for now he's very tight-lipped and is likely not ready to confront it or come out. Maybe some day. (I just like making him a ball of insecurity and having him confront and deal with his issues. CHARACTER GROWTH FOR YOU BOY)

Wave- She's... hard. But what feels the most right to me is Demisexual, or even Ace. But is biromantic.

Storm- For a long time I wasn't sure how to label him. What feels the most right is pansexual. Another headcanon I have was kinda on accident though but I now kinda headcanon him as polyamorous. This mostly happened on accident due to how many poly's he's been included in fun lil au's of mine.

Nack- Gay. I have not really shipped him with any females so I just see him as a gay lil guy LOL i'm not sure if has anymore layers to his identity though, he might but I have not really explored his character in that sense.

Bark- Now originally, I wanted to say Gay... but tbh I kinda like omnisexual for him better. I can see him leaning towards men and masculine people far more, but the attraction for other genders is still there.

Bean- Hilariously I have not really explored Bean a lot, I've only shipped him with one person and that's a girl. But straight ally still doesn't feel right for him LOL i can see him exploring himself in the future though. but right now let him set off a bunch of rainbow smoke and confetti bombs.

Mighty- Gay. I've always headcanoned him being gay. That's just how I view him. i can see him being such a heavy ally though. He'd def paint his shell for fun of it and carry so many flags in support.

Ray- Like a lot of the other youths, I haven't given him much thought but... I have had an idea that's stuck with me although I don't know if anyone would really agree but idk. It's just an idea. I liked the idea of further along down the line Ray starts to explore his gender identity and perhaps feels happier appearing more feminine and even transitioning... Just the idea of Ray trying on a dress or skirt and being genuinely happy in just makes me happy to think about but I haven't explored this idea much further and I think i've only told one person.

And that's all the ones I had. Please don't take these too seriously. I know people can get so bent out of shape over headcanons... i'm not looking to cause arguements I just wanted to share my thoughts that I've had. Heck these could change even as most of the time i'ts hard for me to decide labels for characters, whether canon or my own. Keeping them unlabeled is just much easier.

Happy Pride Month everyone <3

[the-roo-too]

candy -> ning yizhuo ver

aka the fluff alphabet

admiration (what does she absolutely adore about you)- dedication. being with someone from the industry is hard enough, especially if you’re not an idol yourself. ning admires the fact that you’re putting up with all the stupid bullshit you two face—her company, obsessive fans, paparazzi…

body (what’s her favourite body part of yours)- can i say cheeks? imo ninging likes to cup your face and gently caress it with her thumbs :3 bonus points for making cute noises at you as she does so

cuddling (how she likes to cuddle)- i’m gonna say on the couch while watching something :3 AND I KNOW IT SAYS HOW NOT WHEN but like, yk how cuddling on the couch looks like

dates (what’s her ideal date)- smth extravagant 😔 you don’t have money? that’s fine, she does and she’s gonna spoil you! you have money? great, you can spoil her this time!

emotions (how does she express her emotions around you)- more open than the other members UNLESS she’s mad about something. you might need some serious negotiation skills if you want to rip out of her why is she mad

family (does she want one)- 100% and you cannot convince me otherwise. she definitely gives off the vibe of someone who’d want family with you one day, but only when she settles down after aespa and all that

gifts (what about gift giving)- big on gift giving! but also loves when you do it back. loves when you give her things because you saw it in the store and thought of her but if you made it yourself? oooh, she’s yours 🙂‍↕️

holding hands (does she like to hold hands)- for sure :3 i’m gonna go a step further and say she’s big on pda

injuries (what would she do if you got hurt)- WILL baby you into health and i mean that. until you’ve recovered you’re keeping your ass in the bed and letting her play the housewife

jokes (does she like to joke around)- a little prank or two are healthy in relationships. harmless pranks i mean. like stealing your hoodie and pretending to not know where it went, then you see her live on instagram with it

kisses (how does she like to kiss you)- cheek kisses! my cheek lover ningning agenda continues. what can i say? oh, and if you have a bit chubbier cheeks? 🥴

love (what’s her love language)- gift giving, as was already mentioned. but also i feel like she highlights it by making sure to get you matching stuff. keychains, shirts, hats. you name it

memory (what’s her favourite memory together)- yizhuo DEFINITELY has a secret song she recorded just for you in her voice notes. imagine she plays it for you on your first anniversary, cheeks red from embarrassment? that moment replays in her head everytime you two have a disagreement and she needs to calm down

nighttime (how does sleeping with her look like)- i think ning is a calm sleeper. she wakes up and falls asleep in the same position. very easy to wake up though, so sometimes you accidentally rip her out of her sleepy state if you move around a lot while sleeping

oddity (what’s one quirky thing about her)- she keeps random stuff from your dates. like literally has the receipt from your first date in her wallet. won’t ever admit it tho, it’s a bit embarrassing..

pet names (what does she like to call you)- every classical pet name in the book. i don’t see yizhuo as someone who has some extraordinary nicknames for you. mostly uses baby/my love/pretty.

quality time (how does she like to spend time with you)- she likes making you sing with her. the great vocalist she is, ningning LOVES karaoke. and you love ningning so you better learn to hit those notes

rush (does she rush into things)- nope. she feels that maybe you’re the one but you guys take it slow. healthy slow ofc. a very healthy relationship in general

secrets (how open is she with you)- depends on her mood lmao. as i said earlier, unless she’s super mad, she’s like and open book.

time (how long did it take her to confess)- confess that she likes you? probably the moment she asked you out for the first date. but that she loves you? … might take a year or so

upset (what’s her reaction when you’re upset)- gives you space. when you’ve both had time to think about what caused you to be upset, she apologises first. then you can try to solve the issue

visibility (is she afraid of the public opinion)- 100% 😭 all aespa girlies are after karina’s boyfriend drama the last time. i don’t think y’all gonna be going public until well after her career ends

warrior (how often do you fight)- not a lot and mostly over minor things like where to get take out. the biggest fight you’ve had was probably when on a variety show a male idol was flirting with yizhuo and she was too dense to notice so you got angry and jealous

x-ray (is she able to read you)- you’re not an open book like she is, but she tries. the success rate isn’t 100% but she’s doing her best, ok?

yes (how would she propose to you)- long after her career ends, probably on a romantic trip. i’ll say she tried to propose a couple times before but was interrupted by minor fights or weather conditions lmao

zen (what makes her feel calm)- thinking of a future with you <:) when she’s done with aespa and idol life and being constantly exposed to the public, and when you two live a happy life together. the thought of settling down with you in the future makes her feel better and helps her when she feels like giving up

part of [the fluff series]

[lazysoulwriter]

alte night shenanigans. - jake peralta ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: fluff, established situationship, late-night hangout, dumb jokes, soft vibes, pizza & feelings

It was well past midnight when you got the text.

Peralta: are you awake Peralta: it’s an emergency Peralta: emotionally. but still

You groaned, already knowing this was going to be dumb. You were wrapped in a blanket burrito on your couch, a cup of tea in hand, a crime documentary paused at the most intense moment. And yet, because you were a soft idiot with a Jake-shaped weakness, you responded.

You: what is it now Peralta: i miss your face You: jake Peralta: also I bought way too much pizza and it’s getting aggressive

Twenty minutes later, you were knocking on his apartment door, arms crossed and trying not to smile. He opened it with an exaggerated gasp.

“I knew you loved me!”

“You texted me 12 times in a row.”

“And you came.” He pointed at you like he’d won a bet. “Which means love.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him into the apartment. The smell of pepperoni and poor decisions filled the air.

“You weren’t kidding,” you muttered, eyeing the three pizza boxes spread out on his coffee table. “Jake. There are only two of us.”

“Well, yeah. But I panicked when they asked if I wanted extra cheese and I said yes, and then I felt like I needed to balance that decision by getting…more pizza.”

“Your logic is garbage.”

“You’re garbage,” he shot back automatically, then winced. “I mean—you’re beautiful garbage. Like, Oscar-worthy. Trash but make it sexy.”

You just stared at him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And I’m deeply proud.”

You were still shaking your head when he plopped onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come on. I saved you the middle slice.”

“That’s the best slice.”

“I know,” he said, eyes wide and earnest. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

You settled in next to him, accepting the slice like it was a peace offering. Which, knowing Jake, it probably was. He leaned his head against your shoulder once you were halfway through it.

“I like this,” he murmured. “Us. Hanging out. No crime. Just pizza and your judging face.”

You softened. “I like it too.”

Jake lifted his head to look at you. “Do you think this means we’re, like…dating?”

You blinked. “We made out in a surveillance van last week, and now you’re feeding me pizza at 1 a.m.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. But, like, do you want it to be dating?”

You glanced at him, at the hopeful expression on his face, and nudged his knee with yours. “Only if it comes with more of that middle slice.”

“Deal.” He grinned and leaned in to kiss you—quick and warm and annoyingly good.

And then, of course, he ruined it.

“Also, I farted before you got here. So technically, this is a gas-lighting relationship.”

You shoved a pillow in his face. “You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” came his muffled, gleeful voice. “Admit it.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because you stayed. And that was enough.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[strange-anni]

Your answer just made me realize how weird Vickies trajectory from not caring about Robin to "falling in love with her" actually is. So lets look into it.

This is the moment where it seems like Vickie is actually done with the conversation she had with Robin. She laughed at a joke Robin repeated and then just stopped caring to keep the conversation going.

@bylerlipglances is completely right. Vickie could have said literally anything to keep talking to Robin. I mean they are at a sports event! Nothing is easier than to start a random conversation at a sports game. It could range from "Ugh. I hate it here. I hope we get to go home soon" to "Yay! I hope we can win! Go Tigers!", "The tiger mascot looks so silly," "I like the part with the cheerleaders best," or just a question like "Do you think we can win?" There are so many opportunities and Vickie takes none of them.

Even then I think it could still be possible that Vickie is just nervous and says the wrong words at the wrong time except ...

... she doesn't look like that at all. She is pointedly looking away from Robin almost like she wants to avoid getting talked to again.

This is also the first time (as far as we can tell) that Robin had let her true self slip through in front of Vickie and if that is how she reacts to it it doesn't bode that well for them I fear.

To me Vickie is giving off vibes like she doesn't want to have anything to do with Robin at all because if it'd be different and she really wanted to talk to Robin again she'd at least smile or try to get a second look at Robin to make sure she didn't accidentally hurt her feelings or anything. Yet there is nothing of the sort.

This continues here. When even Brenda and Steve share a High-Five and a moment of happiness after the Tigers won (thanks to Lucas!) Vickie still isn't looking at Robin.

How easy would it be to just turn around and say something about how happy she is that the Tigers won. Or share a half hug, an awkward High-Five like Steve and Brenda or anything at all. Robin is right there next to her and Vickie does nothing.

Fast forward to their next scene and this is what Vickie sees right after she notices Robin and Steve standing not that far away from her and Dan. She sees Robin and then Steve right behind her licking his lips.

I don't even know what to make of this whole scene were it not for the fact that I suspect this is a lot more about Steve and Vickie than Robin and Vickie.

Vickie sees Robin next to Steve giving her the information that they probably know each other which then could be revealed to her as true when Robin leaves and Steve looks after her.

This then could make her question in what kind of relationship they actually are. Are they friends? Or a couple perhaps? Vickie would not know.

Yes, I know the common interpretation of this scene is that Vickie is shown to be upset because Robin sees her with her boyfriend but that would require at least some sort of interest in Robin which she hasn't shown before. If Vickie had done anything to express interest in any form this could be the correct interpretation but she hasn't. So why would she be upset because of Robin?

Now Vickie is suddenly eager to talk to Robin which to me seems to come out of nowhere. She had no interest before but now she can't keep her mouth shut and is revealed to be pretty similar to Robin in personality. It just doesn't make any sense to me. What happened to cause that change?

After apologizing for making it sound like she isn't happy to see Robin Vickie starts talking about Dan and how she is no longer together with him before she mentions Fast Times and how he didn't like the movie. This indicates that she does in fact like the movie but she also never tells us the reason why she likes it.

Dan dislikes it because it has no plot but why does Vickie like it? Is it because of Phoebe Cates or is it because of Judge Reinhold?

Then she talks about the people who are suffering which makes her look into the general direction of where Steve is standing before she realizes she created a "peanut butter monstrosity." She apologizes again for talking to much and gifts Robin one half of her peanut butter monstrosity and we also get to see Steve again who's smiling at them.

Again, this whole interaction between Robin and Vickie ended with Steve! It started with Steve and it ended with him and I have to ask why this has to be the case if he does not play a role here?

---

Then when I try to interpret this whole chain of scenes from a standpoint in which Vickie is crushing on Steve everything just clicks together for me. So let's look into that too.

First Steve learns that Robin has a crush on Vickie (He's learned that before S4 starts which we can assume due to Steve mentioning Vickie in the very first episode)

Then Vickie came to Family Video either to rent a movie or give it back. Steve would be the one to serve her and I think we can assume that he talked to Vickie at least for a bit especially since he knew Robin liked her

So Steve probably praised Fast Times in order to endear it to Vickie to maybe find out if she likes girls or not as it features Phoebe Cates who is objectively hot (according to the show)

Vickie gave the movie back at 53:05 which showed Judge Reinhold but Steve takes this as confirmation that she is into girls at first as Phoebe Cates shows off her chest a bit earlier in the movie (Except that is not what Vickie wanted to tell Steve at all. She paused it at Judge Reinhold to send Steve the message that she is into him as he is extremely Steve-coded - Many thanks to @greenfiend for pointing this out earlier)

Vickie laughs at a joke from Steve Robin repeats at the basketball game (Note that Vickie may or may not have realized that Steve is even there. I don't know)

Later when Vickie is with Dan at the Weapon Store she spots Robin and Steve not standing far away from them which makes her realize a few things: 1) Robin and Steve are close as they are standing together 2) Steve might have gotten the correct message she wanted to send him with Fast Times as he is licking his lips and is smiling at her and 3) Steve also knows now that she has a boyfriend which must complicate things for her

Dan leaves for college meaning Vickie is free again

Vickie meets Robin in the gym at the food stand and is surprised to see her there. Then she strikes a conversation and tells Robin exactly the things she wants to get across to Steve: 1) She doesn't have a boyfriend anymore meaning she is now available to him and 2) confirms again that she likes Fast Times (as it also features Judge Reinhold who is very reminiscent of the guy she wants to be with)

Vickie hopes Robin will take her message to Steve so they can meet and get to know each other better/ get to be a couple

It just makes so much more sense to me if viewed through that angle. Everything just clicks into place.

It's just a whole bunch of misreading each other. Steve misread Vickie when she gave the VHS back. Then Vickie misread Steve's behavior as him reciprocating her feelings and in the end Robin misreads Vickies behavior as her being interested in Robin.

It's a complete mess but it'd fit very well into the overall theme of the show where so many characters just assume things about others to be true based on their own observations about them. (Compare this with Dustin, Eddie and Robin pushing for stncy in S4. Or Will pushing for mlven. It's the exact same thing. They are all part of the club of mismatch makers)

Again, let me state that I do not think Vickie will get together with Steve as her feelings for him are not reciprocated and I doubt this is going to change in the future.

Vickie is straight

... and she has a crush on Steve

I know how controversial it is to state such an opinion given how Vickie seems to be one of the few characters in the show who actually seem queer. Yet if we are being honest she has never expressed any direct or indirect signs of actually being in love with Robin. It's Robin who is incredibly biased as she has a crush on Vickie and Steve who is trying to be supportive of Robin who gave us this assumption.

This whole thing is not as bad as it seems though. I can promise you this. So if you still care let me explain to you why I think Vickie is straight and has a crush on Steve.

Part 1: The Muppet joke

While still in the car with Steve in early S4 Robin gets reminded of her own advise: Just be true to yourself and stop pretending to be someone you're not. We need to keep this in mind as she is soon shown to not follow said advise.

When Steve reminds Robin at the basketball game that Tammy Thompson does sound like a Muppet she agrees with him. Vickie overhears this and in turn agrees with Robin.

The joke however doesn't originate from Robin. She just repeated what Steve told her before. Therefore the joke that made Vickie laugh comes from Steve. Or in other words: It was Steve who made Vickie laugh and not Robin.

We even get conformation of this a bit later in episode 2 when Steve admits and agrees out loud that it was his joke that made Vickie laugh.

Robin wasn't entirely herself.

While everyone is looking straight ahead it's Vickie who makes a point not to look in Robins direction after Robin is embarrassed of herself. There is distance between them.

Part 2: Vickie and Robin (and Steve) meet at the Weapon Store

It's Robin who notices Vickie first in the weapon store which is followed by Steve looking at her as he knows she has a crush on Vickie which is then followed by both of them looking sad as Vickies boyfriend enters the scene.

Robin is obviously sad because her crush has a boyfriend while Steve is just sad for his friend.

This shot is often brought up to proof that Robin is standing between Vickie and Dan as it's believed that her crush on Vickie is reciprocated but I don't think this is what it means exactly. It's Robins POV and she believes her feelings to Vickie are reciprocated so she sees herself as standing in between them.

But is it true? Let's look at what Vickie sees next.

Vickie notices the both of them and while Robin is just staring at her Steve is licking his lips. Then Robin turns around and leaves while Steve is still looking at Vickie and Dan and then smiles awkwardly at them.

So Steve is licking his lips and then smiles at Vickie and Dan. What message would Vickie receive here? My guess would be 1) Steve and Robin are close and 2) Steve might like Vickie as well.

This however is the last look we get of Steve in this scene. It's his back while he is still looking after Robin. So whatever made him lick his lips and smile is no longer of interest to him the moment Robin leaves. I think this means that he is Robins friend first and foremost. He is not romantically interested in Vickie and doesn't reciprocate her feelings at all.

Robin is gone and Steve has turned his back on Vickie but her gaze still lingers. Maybe her feelings towards her own boyfriend aren't as sincere as it seems and everything considered I think it's fair to ask who this is truly about? Robin or Steve? Is she saying the truth when she makes it about Robin who she did meet in band or is she using Robin as a shield as she doesn't want to admit to her boyfriend that she has a crush on another man aka Steve?

In the end she looks back towards her boyfriend and then again to the place where Robin and Steve just were. Is he perhaps still standing there?

Then we get a scene transition to Nancy holding a very long gun. It's not subtle at all.

Part 3: Providing Food for the Suffering

There is light behind Robin which can indicate that she is the one who is most sincere in this scene. This makes sense as it is true that Robin has a crush on Vickie.

It's Vickie who gives her the information that Dan is no longer her boyfriend but from the scene in the weapon store she also knows that Robin and Steve are close. So everything she says to Robin is likely to reach Steve as well which means that Robin could be the one to tell Steve that Vickie is single again and therefore available to him.

First notice how Vickie wears spiral earrings. This is very interesting to me as it's triangle imagery that is used to indicate queerness in the show. So here we have the supposed love interest of one of the only confirmed queer characters in the show not wearing triangle imagery when it really matters. Why? Because she is straight.

Vickie also mentions how she rambles about her boyfriend when there are people out there suffering at which point in time she looks up and slightly to her right. Later when the scene transitions from Robin and Vickie to Steve we also get him at a alight angle which to me indicates that Vickie was looking at him as she was lifting her head.

It's Steve who Vickie perceives as the one suffering and who she wants to provide with food. Or to put it a bit differently: It's Steve she has a crush on and who she wants to be with and support.

Steve on the other hand is also smiling and looking at Robin and Vickie. He is happy for the both of them as everything seems to be working out for Robin and Vickie which could not be further from the truth. He's also shaking his head just slightly. Most likely because he thinks a certain assumption he's made just an episode earlier turned out to be wrong.

That assumption about Vickie pausing Fast Times at 53:05 however might be true after all. Steve is just misreading the signs Robin and Vickie are giving off at the gym.

Tbc in a reblog because I almost hit image limit. Look here.

[starrihan]

hi starri! this is kinda my first time submitting an ask ever which is crazy since I've been on tumblr for months haha

anyways, i am a sub!jo truther for sure, but lately I've been wondering if there would be any times he'd be especially dominant, and I'm intrigued to hear your thoughts on that! preferably both sfw and nsfw :)

I'm not that imaginative when it comes to these so feel free to get as creative as you want with it!

→ Pairing: dom! Jo x afab! Reader

→ Genre: fluff, smut

→ Warnings: none!

→ Word Count: 1,100 words

→ Notes: Hello lovely! I’m so honored that I’m the first person you’ve sent an ask to, really thank you so much! I hope I did your idea justice and that you can use this as fuel for future ideas you may have! 😚

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

༄ ༄ ༄

SFW:

I feel like there are a couple of scenarios in which Jo would show a more dominant side in your everyday life. Aside from the usual him helping you reach stuff that are on the top shelf or doing you little favors here and there, I feel like he has pretty good control over his life.

He's a very free spirit in that he will do as he pleases, unless he has something planned out. I feel like he would mostly use his dominance when it comes to keeping you safe though. Always throws in a "be careful/ safe" or "call me if you need anything or feel uncomfortable," whenever you go out without him. Always offers to go with you if you’re going out alone or to tell him if he needs to be alert in case you wanna leave early.

He uses his height and build to his advantage, often intimidating people with how big he is. But especially if he sees that someone is making you uncomfortable. He'd brood over you, making sure you couldn't see the person and shoot them a glare. Isn’t really the type of person who likes PDA but will do it if he sees that it’s the only way to get someone to take their eyes off of you.

I could also see him being calm and peaceful as sort of dominant when you ask him for advice. He just gives off the vibe of "a man of few words" but that somehow makes him seem even more dominant. He not scared of anything, and doesn't express his emotions much. He's also very reliable which screams dominant to me.

Specifically if you're doing something with him, like playing basketball, and he sees you struggling or messing up, he would gently tell you how to do better or help you out.

Your friends all love him because he’s so reliable and responsible. If he’s ever out with you and your friends he’ll always offer to pay for everyone. Even if they reject his offer he comes off as personable and caring and therefore makes him seem more dominant.

༄ ༄ ༄

NSFW: MINORS DNI PAST THIS POINT

I thought of this after seeing clips of their recent concerts. I've said before that during Deer Hunter era Jo got a lot of praise for his dancing, singing and just his looks overall. He's more built now too, especially since he said that him and Maki would go on endurance runs after practice to build up stamina for their concerts.

I feel like Go in Blind era has given him so much more confidence, and he seems to be happy with the tour and the comeback, something I think definitely has a positive effect on your sex life.

He would come home after practice and his run, sticky with sweat stuck to him, hair flat against his forehead. Of course he always looked good to you, but something about the way his muscles were pumped after his run would have you all over him.

He'd gently remind you that he was dirty and sweaty, insisting he take a shower first. But the way he would grab your face, giving you a hot kiss before pulling away and smiling, leaving you all flustered, it felt like he had put you in your place a little.

His newfound confidence would translate into dominance. After his shower, he's find you on your phone, towel wrapped around his waist as he towers over you. You'd be looking up at him, gulping at how he looked down at you, hand caressing your cheek.

He’s tower over you, bending down and holding your face in his hands as he kisses you, jaw tight as his tongue slips into your mouth. Just the action alone is something that catches for off guard because he doesn’t usually do movement like this, and normally opts for the gentle route.

He’ll have you submitting to him in seconds. But even though he has you where he wants you, in front of him, dick shoved into your mouth, he's still very gentle. "You're doing so good for me baby..." His gentle praises, always asking what you want, and never denying you.

He also uses his muscles to manhandle you a little. If you want him to be a little more rough, he can surely oblige now. You find it hot when he pins you down, using one hand to keep your arms above your head, the other one going down to work on your clit as you beg him for anything.

Maybe he’s in a teasing mood after you’ve complimented his body so much, not giving you what you want until you ask him nicely for more.

He’s not usually like this which is what turns you on even more, begging for him to finally put his dick in you and give you what you want. And he’s nice enough to agree because he loves hearing you plea for him.

When he finally puts it in you you’re moaning really loud, almost screaming at the contact you’ve been deprived of for so long. Like I said before, he’s not much of a talker, but with this new confidence he tries it out more. “Are you enjoying this? Me teasing you so much?” And you can’t even speak and nod instead because you can’t stop moaning and whining.

He loves seeing you like this though, a newfound lust and drive to make you cum as hard as you can taking over him when he sees that his dick is actually making you go stupid. Something awakens in him (the bloodline, mayhaps? 🤔) that makes him go crazy, pushing your legs up to your chest and pounding into you with a force you’ve never known he had.

Each thrust eliciting a new sound from your lips as he sucks and bites down on your neck is like music to his ears, holding off on cumming until you do. And normally he’s really good about pulling out and cumming on you, but watching his love bites bloom on your neck and the way your mouth is hung open from pure bliss after your orgasm has him losing control, cumming in you for the first time.

You can’t even care right now because you’re in heaven, feeling so full from his cum that you fail to produce any coherent words. He’s panting, sweating all over you as he tries his best to not collapse on top of you. 

“I think I might need another shower now…”

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→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession p.14

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 13 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

You sat across from Lucas at a small coffee table tucked behind one of the media tents, a bit more private than the usual café setups in the paddock. The barista had just brought your drinks — your usual iced coffee and Lucas’s hot americano — and you were stirring yours absentmindedly as he watched the crowd with fascination.

“It’s still hard to believe you’re actually part of all this,” Lucas said with a little grin. “You used to hate early mornings and now you’re in full gear before 9 a.m.”

You laughed softly. “People evolve. Especially when they fall in love with someone who lives for motorsport schedules.”

Lucas leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table. “Speaking of… he didn’t look too thrilled when he saw me.”

Your fingers paused on your straw. “Who?”

“Toto.” He shrugged. “I get it, I’m the ex. But he looked like he was about to ask security to escort me out.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not fair. Toto’s just protective. He doesn’t usually expect to see someone from my past randomly walking around the paddock. And let’s be honest, this whole visit was kind of a surprise.”

Lucas held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t start a war. Just… wanted to point out the vibes.”

You sighed, choosing not to argue further. Lucas must’ve sensed it too, because he softened his tone and changed the subject.

“So, what’s been the best part of all this for you?” he asked. “Traveling? Being with your brother? Or is it just the fancy espresso machines?”

You smiled, grateful for the shift. “It’s a mix of things. Being close to George has always been important to me. I didn’t expect to fall in love in the middle of all this… but now I couldn’t imagine life without Toto.”

Lucas nodded thoughtfully. “It shows. You’re… different. Calmer, maybe. More sure of yourself.”

Before you could reply, you heard your name and turned to see Carmen walking over, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair and her arm looped with George’s. He stood just behind her, giving you both a curious glance.

“There you are,” Carmen said with a bright smile. “We’re heading out for lunch. Want to come?”

“I can’t, actually,” you said, glancing at your phone. “I’m meeting Toto soon. We planned to eat together today.”

George raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Carmen nodded, then looked at Lucas. “You should come with us then. You haven’t seen the driver fan zone, right?”

Lucas looked at you for a beat, as if waiting for you to say no.

“Go,” you encouraged him with a smile. “It’ll be fun. Carmen’s the best tour guide.”

“Alright,” he said after a pause, then stood up and gave you a small wave. “Thanks for the coffee. And the company.”

You watched as they walked off together, Lucas glancing back once before disappearing into the paddock crowd. With a sigh, you picked up your things and headed toward the Mercedes motorhome.

Toto was already there when you arrived, standing by the table with a folder in hand, still dressed sharply in his black team shirt and slacks. He glanced up as soon as you walked in, his expression softening slightly.

“There you are,” he said, stepping toward you. “Did your little coffee date run long?”

You rolled your eyes, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “It was just coffee. George kind of roped me into babysitting while he had meetings.”

Toto didn’t respond right away. He crossed his arms, gaze slightly narrowed. “So… Lucas. Your first, right?”

You gave him a look, knowing exactly where this was heading. “You say that like it means something.”

“It means,” Toto said carefully, “that I’d like to know why he’s suddenly reappeared in your life after all these years. And conveniently during your engagement.”

You sighed, sitting down across from him. “It’s not that deep. George ran into him. They talked. George invited him — not me. I was just being polite.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Toto said, sitting down too, the crease between his brows deepening. “This isn’t a playground for your exes.”

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I get it. You’re not thrilled. But you know I love you, right? I chose you. I’m marrying you. That should be enough.”

His eyes met yours, full of something stormy and possessive, but also deeply protective.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I just… I’ve worked hard to keep things stable. And people from the past have a way of complicating things.”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re not letting anyone complicate what we have. It’s just a weird coincidence, and it’ll pass. Please don’t let it ruin your day.”

Toto exhaled slowly, then gave a short nod. “Fine. But if he steps out of line—”

“He won’t,” you cut in gently. “He’s just curious. This world is completely new to him.”

Toto didn’t look entirely convinced, but he forced a smile and stood up, brushing a kiss over your forehead.

“Alright,” he said. “No more Lucas talk. Let’s have lunch. Just you and me.”

You smiled up at him, letting him help you to your feet. “That’s all I want.”

And as the two of you walked out of the motorhome hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel like the shadows from the past were still following behind you — quiet, but persistent.

[hyper-fics-sationn]

ok guys pls come on this delusional Slow Horses theory with me (someone who hasn’t read the books)

Back in the day, Jackson and Standish were obviously in love

David Cartwright picks up on this and tells Jackson that he needs to make a decision, ‘it’s either your personal life or your professional life, you can’t have both because then you will be distracted’

Jackson ends things with Standish – but isn’t entirely truthful with her about how much it hurts him to do so

Standish, obviously sad, is approached by Charles who asks her what’s happened and why she’s not as chirpy as she used to be, so she tells him… since she thought she could trust him with anything

Charles, not a fan of Jackson and obviously vice versa, then takes it upon himself to flaunt Standish in front of Jackson and Standish plays along, creating the intensified bitterness from Jackson that we see in current day Jackson

— here’s where I get extra delusional, thank u for making it this far xoxo —

Jackson, being the petty guy we know he can be, once he gets wind (no pun intended 🤣) that Standish and Charles may be a little bit more than just colleagues, he feels the toxic urge to retaliate

Enter a young Diana Taverner… a young Diana Taverner who has always had a bit of a crush on a younger Jackson Lamb…

Jackson uses this to his advantage… thinking with his 🍆 instead of his 🧠 and he and Taverner end up having a one night stand

— side note: I feel like Jackson and Taverner give off ex vibes, constantly trying to one up each other, but we’ll come back to this —

Taverner ends up pregnant

The child is SID BAKER

That’s why Jackson actually shows some warmth towards her

That’s why Taverner chooses HER to watch River

That’s why Jackson and Taverner are ALWAYS trying to get at and one up each other on whatever it is that they are doing; always trying to be ‘the better parent’

Cue scenes such as Jackson warning Sid and River about ‘extracurricular activities’ could be taken as a protective dad not wanting his daughter to get involved with the grandson of the man who pretty much forced him to break his heart by ending things with Standish (coz why is he so fine with Min and Louisa having a workplace romance???), Diana expressing how Sid is such a good agent, Jackson wanting Sid to turn up in his doorway whenever he thumps on the floor — more than anyone else either of them work with…

Bonus content: CUE THE ATMOSPHERE ALWAYS BEING AWKWARD BETWEEN TAVERNER AND STANDISH BECAUSE THERE WAS A TIME WHERE THEY WERE BOTH IN LOVE WITH THE SAME MAN☝️

Let’s be real… I think we all know Sid isn’t dead… but could she be the puppeteer keeping Slough House and The Park on good-ish terms with each other because her dad is at one and her mum is at the other?

Both Jackson and Taverner have the status and the power to pull some strings to make Sid ✨disappear✨ for her own protection because they’ve seen just how close she can come to death and they obvz don’t want their daughter die after having such a close call already — which brings me to the scene where Ho says that ‘there is gonna be no funeral or memorial service or so much as drinks at the pub for Sidonie Baker. ‘Cause no one named Sidonie Baker ever existed.’

My last point is the theme tune… it LITERALLY SAYS “you don’t even know my real name” 👀

Thank u for coming on this journey with me, can’t wait to be proven wrong as the series’ unfurls 🤡🤡🤡

PS if it doesn’t happen I might just have to write it xoxo

[aroacenezhaanddainsleif]

the kids share one braincell and its purpose is to help people