tags: no Y/N (ever!!!), dub-con, mean but sweet Joel, unprotected vaginal sex, pronouns for genitals, slight power imbalance if you squint, reader is afab, size kink, ~just the tip~
came up with this on a whim while writing a paper, as one does. just a short drabble. if anyone wants more, let me know? i could be easily persuaded to write a second part...
reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!
thank you @saradika for your header
Joel is kissing down your neck, hot and wet across your skin, his breath making your skin break out into goosebumps. He’s undressed you so tenderly, worshiping every bare part of your body presented to him.
“You are so fucking pretty,” he breathes against your soft tummy. “Too fuckin’ pretty for me.”
He licks his way down your lower tummy to your bare pussy, public hair covering your mound. Joel pulls back to stare admiringly, his thumbs running up and down your outer lips, his tip of his thumb just pushing in. “Is she ready for me?” His eyes look up at you.
Your arms are covering your breasts and your chest is breathing heavily. You still haven’t let Joel enter you - doing everything but.
You want to, oh god do you want to, but you were nervous. You’d never taken anyone as big as him and you were scared.
You bite your lip. “I’m not sure if I’m ready…”
Joel smiles sweetly at you. “She sure feels ready,” he says as he lets his index finger slip just inside you, not touching your clit. Just resting inside you. You choke on your breath and your hips squirm in response. “Your body is ready too, I reckon,” he says as he lets your heat pulsate around him.
You look down at Joel, who is looking down at your pussy. He seems mesmerized by it. You take this moment to appreciate his soft, broad body; the strength you can see underneath his skin when his arms are caressing your legs. The grip you feel when he pulls your head close to his, rutting against your leg while kissing you deeply.
“What if I give her a little kiss?” He coos as he bends his face to your pussy, inhaling your arousal. “You want that?”
You moan and nod slowly, your arms still covering your breasts shyly. Joel smiles darkly at you and leans in, kissing your lips sweetly, excruciatingly slow, and letting his tongue slip inside. You gasp and raise your hips; you feel Joel smile against you and his hands skim your fleshy outer thighs. He presses his face harder against you, his thumbs coming up to slowly spread you apart, your pussy glistening in the low light of the bedroom. He pulls back for just a quick look and leans in again to lick a long stripe up to your clit. You let out a guttural grown, which makes Joel swirl his tongue around your hard clit.
“I think she’s ready now,” he murmurs against you; you can feel his hot breath against your desperate cunt.
Joel doesn’t wait for a response. He sits up on his haunches and pulls his hard cock out of his boxer briefs. You’ve seen him before but not like this. Ready, stiff, throbbing at the thought of you. He brings a heavy large hand to his cock and strokes lazily, noticing your eyes fixated on him. “You think you can handle him, baby girl?”
You look up at Joel with nervous eyes. He smiles and leans in to give you a breathtaking kiss - his tongue sweeps across the inside of your mouth, sucking on your tongue like he sucked your clit.
When Joel pulls back from you, he whispers, “let me just put him inside you. Just the tip. You can handle that, can’t you sweet girl?”
Your mind is so foggy and you nod absently, dumbly. Joel smirks; he holds his cock in his hand and lets it sweep up and down your slit teasingly, pulling out an embarrassed moan from your mouth. He then lets the head of his cock slip into you, your wet warmth enveloping his sensitive head and he lets out a throaty moan. Your skin feels on fire, down to the roots of your hair on your scalp.
Joel lets himself just stay inside you, cooing and murmuring softly to you to settle you down. When he feels you relax more, he starts thrusting shallowly, careful to keep just the head in you. He lets out words of praise, telling you you look so pretty, you feel so good, he wants all of you soon. Told you it didn’t hurt so bad, now did it? Will you let him slip all the way inside you, let him show you how much he loves you? He slides the tip of his cock up to your clit, the precum wetly circling your hard bud, getting under your hood, and you hum out the sweetest sigh. Joel, Joel, Joel.
Joel pulls your arms away from your breasts and suckles on your left nipple, letting his hips groove against you. “Prettiest fucking tits I’ve ever seen, don’t hide them from me, sweet girl,” he rambles; he slips his cock head into your tight heat again and you keen so prettily.
“Oh fuck, baby, I’m going to come,” he croaks out and lifts himself up, holding your hip bones tightly in his grasp. “I’m gonna fucking come right now.”
“Not inside Joel, please,” you rasp, watching him through half lidded eyes.
Joel doesn’t respond but keeps thrusting superficially. He brings his thumb to your sweet clit and rubs a haphazard circle in time with his thrusts. “Come first, baby, please, I need to see your face, please,” he begs.
You let yourself succumb to him, your back arching off the bed, crying out until actual tears fall from your face over how fucking good you feel. Over how he feels just inside you. Joel starts to feel his cock leak and sees your eyes widen open at him, silently begging not to come inside you yet. He pulls out just in time to come messily over your pussy, his thick white ropes of cum tangle in your pubic hair.
Joel collapses on you, your chests heaving in tandem. He kisses you wetly and sloppily, humming against your mouth. “See? Not so bad was it?”
You close your eyes and purr quietly.
“Think you can take all of me next time,” Joel says as he buries his face in your neck and you lift your arm to glide your fingertips across his broad back.
“Mmm, yeah, next time,” you agree.
Joel’s already got an idea on how to prep you next time.
As a married person I do need to tell you all that Shane and Ilya do weird shit all the time.
They routinely have entire conversations where Ilya is very softly smacking Shane's foot the entire time. Shane enjoys the percussive feedback.
Ilya mispronounces the word "Application" and they just sit there mutually whispering 'Aaap-li-caaa-shun' at each other for the next thirty seconds.
Ilya comes up behind Shane while he's trying to make a smoothie and says 'HELPING HANDS' and puts his arms under Shane's armpits.
Ilya sees Shane undressing in the bathroom and yells, "Take it all off!"
Shane carries Anya into the bedroom and holds her over Ilya's chest and moves her paws and says, "Papa it is me. Papa it has been an whole hour since I ate. Papa I am so hungry and sad." then drops her on his stomach.
Shane comes into the home office and grabs a pen off the desk and puts it against Ilya's cheek and says, "Any last words?" and Ilya says, "I wish I had eaten more dumplings."
Ilya spends an entire episode of House Hunters International with his hand down Shane's pants. It's not doing anything in there either it's just keeping warm.
Sometimes they are just mutually awake at three AM for No Reason and they go stand on the porch and stare at the empty street together.
Sometimes they are laying there playing footsie on the couch while on their phones (Parallel play) and Shane says, "Does your mouth ever do that squeezing thing. You know. When you eat." And Ilya says "Explain" and they spend the next ten minutes dissecting whether this is a Human Experience or a Shane Experience.
Sometimes Ilya will put his head on Shane's stomach and say, "Show me your boooones" and wait for Shane to lift his shirt so he can burrow under it.
I just think that we as a fandom need to embrace how Weird married people get about each other. From personal experience I am telling you it is SO FUN.
Summary: When your coffee shop and bakery is hired to cater an important meeting for the private equity division of The Castillo Group, Harry Castillo finds himself so enamored with your pastries that he decides to pay your shop a visit for himself. There, he meets you – a young, confident, vivacious entrepreneur struggling to keep your head above water through the holiday rush. Nothing about this new connection makes sense on paper; the two of you come from completely different worlds. But Harry can’t deny – he’s never felt anything like this before.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Post-canon. Canon compliant. Coffee shop AU. Plus size reader – otherwise minimal physical descriptions (reader has hair long enough to pull back, no references to skin tone or hair texture). No use of Y/N. Told fully from Harry’s POV. Unspecified age gap (it’s as big or as small as you want it to be). Mostly cozy, holiday-themed fluff. Mild angst. Hallmark movie vibes. Some sugar daddy behavior from Harry. SMUT – Desperate Harry, praise kink, grinding/thigh riding, light spanking, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, P in V sex, creampie.
Word Count: 13.5K
Dividers by @saradika-graphics. For @80ssong. Merry Christmas, babe. Love you to the moon and back. ❤️
Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist
DECEMBER 1
Harry Castillo likes to think of himself as a fair but exacting leader.
He’s measured in this approach to business, driven by data, not whimsy or ambition. As the Vice President of the private equity division of The Castillo Group, the goals he sets are aggressive but achievable, and he prides himself on never asking more from his employees than he would ask of himself.
Which is why, when he arrives at the Manhattan office to host his team’s Q4 all-hands meeting, he is initially aggravated to find that his executive assistant has failed to procure his preferred catering fare. It’s not a complicated order, perfectly run-of-the-mill as far as corporate breakfasts are concerned. Platters of bagels from his favorite shop. A selection of plain, scallion, blueberry, and vegan cream cheeses. Danishes – an even mix of fruit and cheese, preferably. And enough hot coffee to satisfy the caffeine addictions of 50 white collar professionals with pressing deadlines who would rather be anywhere other than there.
Not unreasonable asks, he thinks. And Perlah has been working with him for long enough that she seems to always know precisely what he needs before he even asks, so it hadn’t even occurred to him to confirm with her that the refreshments for this morning’s meeting would meet his standards. Instead, when he enters the conference hall, he is greeted with a long, tidily-dressed table covered in an assortment of pastries he’s never seen before.
Huge, buttery croissants, golden-brown pains au chocolat, cream-filled éclairs, and sugar-glazed miniature fruit tarts sprawl across the buffet, filling the room with a warm, sweet scent that annoyingly makes his mouth water. It’s a tempting display, but as delightful as it might be at any other circumstance, it’s not what he wants. It’s not what he expects. And so he resolves to confront Perlah about her decision to go off-script for what is quite possibly the most stressful meeting of the last quarter.
However, his mother had always taught him to lead by example. Conscious of wearing too much of his annoyance on his face, he carefully schools his expression into something pleasantly neutral and helps himself to a chocolate-iced éclair and a cup of coffee.
Shockingly, frustratingly, both are positively divine.
Light, crisp pâte à choux. Sweet, velvety crème pâtissière. Rich, intense chocolate ganache. Paired with the deep, fragrant, full-bodied roast of the coffee, it’s quite possibly the most satisfying thing he’s eaten in months, which is saying something coming from a man who is known to frequent the most exclusive restaurants in the city on an average Tuesday. Suddenly, the sternly-worded line of questioning he has planned for his assistant transforms into something like a plea.
He has to know who catered this meeting.
When the all-hands concludes, Harry finds his assistant at her desk. She has a litany of apologies at the ready, explaining that the caterer she normally works with is booked out through the end of the year with holiday events, so she took a chance on a small business in her neighborhood, and she was so sorry if it wasn’t to his liking, and she would be sure to place her catering orders earlier in the future, and –
“Perlah.” At the sound of her name spoken softly, gently, firmly, she cuts off her stammering apologies. “Stop fussing. Everything was perfect. Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you share with me the name of the bakery. I don’t think I can wait until the end of next quarter to have another one of those éclairs.”
DECEMBER 2
The following day, Harry has Perlah block a rare full hour on his calendar for lunch.
If he’s honest, he isn’t really a lunch person; he likes a wholesome breakfast, a hearty dinner, a decadent dessert. But at work, he subsists entirely on coffee. After all, if he doesn’t have time to sit down and truly enjoy himself, what’s the point?
Today, however, he is on a mission, one that is worth the midday absence from his computer and the do-not-disturb on his incessantly-ringing phone. He absolutely has to visit the shop responsible for the best catering he’s ever had at a corporate event. It feels like a compulsion more than a choice, like until he uncovers the business behind such a flawless product, he will know no peace. Harry likes to think he knows the New York City food scene. If one were to ask him for a recommendation on the best version of almost any dish, any cuisine, he would have an answer.
How is it that such a gem of a bakery exists, and he has never heard of it? It simply won’t do.
He enters Vesper Coffee & Bakehouse just after noon, his black wool overcoat somehow managing to end up dotted with thick, fluffy snowflakes in spite of the shortness of the walk. His driver had dropped him directly outside the entrance, but even so, his perfectly coifed hair is disheveled, and he suddenly feels a bit damp. It doesn’t take long, however, for the warmth and the liveliness of the shop to melt away the chill.
The place is packed. It’s the height of the lunch rush, and Harry thinks there must be 15 people in line ahead of him. Every table is occupied, few of them though there are, and there seems to be a small mob gathering at the end of the counter waiting on their to-go orders. In spite of the crush of people, the patronage seems to be in a generally pleasant mood, and the staff behind the counter move with an efficiency and economy of movement that tells him that they work together often. Vesper runs like a well-oiled machine, and the whole place hums with a welcoming, engaging energy that Harry finds captivating.
As his gaze flits from the warmly-lit, well-stocked bake case to the shining espresso machines to the old-fashioned brass cash register, his eyes catch on a particular figure darting back and forth among the chaos.
There’s something about it that feels inevitable, the way he’s drawn to you. The warmth of your smile, the spirited sparkle of your eyes – he swears he can feel them like physical things even from a distance. It’s like the light, the glow of you shines so brightly, he can do nothing except allow it to dazzle him.
He watches you work as he waits in line, and he finds himself utterly enraptured. With every customer, you seem to have your own distinct cadence, the kind of banter that comes only after taking the time to get to know someone beyond a simple, one-time interaction across a coffee counter. You brush your hair out of your eyes when you laugh, the gesture thoughtless yet elegant, and he cannot help but trace the generous swells and curves of your body as you flit from task to task like a butterfly among a field of flowers. There is a confidence, an effortlessness to you that has a flush of heat rising beneath his collar, and suddenly, in spite of how briefly he has been out of the December chill, it’s too warm in here for his winter coat.
Harry has always been attracted to self-possessed women.
Perhaps the only detractor, he thinks, is your age. You’re young. Well, perhaps not so young, but younger than him, young enough for him to notice. He doesn’t relish the idea of being that man – the older businessman leering at the pretty young barista. He likes to think he’s better than that. However, the moment he reaches the counter and you hit him with your thousand-watt smile, he decides very quickly that he doesn’t care. Lucy had been young, and he had nearly married her.
“Afternoon!” you greet him pleasantly. There’s a light sheen to your skin, a delicate radiance that he can see now that he’s up close, and you’re slightly breathless in spite of your infallible cheer. Wiping your hands on your apron, you ask, “What can I get started for you?”
Fuck.
He had spent the entire span of his wait in line watching you. He had no idea what he actually wanted to order.
Clearing his throat, he musters every ounce of charm he possesses and leans on it like a crutch. “Actually, this is my first time here,” he says with a practiced, apologetic smile. “I was wondering whether you might be able to recommend something.”
You arch a singular brow at him, intrigued. “Sure, I can do that. Mind if I ask you a few questions? Get to know your tastes a little bit?”
At that, Harry’s smile transforms into something softer, something more real. “Please.”
The two of you go back and forth a handful of times – salty or sweet? Light or rich? Pastry or cream? Quantity or quality? Your questions come at him in a volley, like a master playing tennis, and he gets the distinct impression that you are enjoying putting him on the spot like this. What he isn’t certain you have realized, however, is that he might be getting even more pleasure out of the exchange than you are.
A handful of moments later, Harry watches as you bring your finger to your chin and examine him thoughtfully. There is a beat of silence, and then, “I know exactly what you need.”
You make for the cash register, and he is quick to follow you, meeting you there just as you finish plugging in his order. “That’ll be $15.75,” you say with a grin, and he cannot regulate his expression fast enough for you to miss his surprise.
“For what?” he asks, bewildered. It’s not that he has an issue with the cost – money is very rarely a reason for him to choose not to do something. Instead, he can’t quite believe that he is about to hand over his credit card without even knowing what exactly he’s purchasing.
On the other side of the register, you flash him a sly, almost flirtatious smile. “It’s a surprise.”
Behind his ribcage, Harry’s heart thumps thickly. A warm, heavy weight settles low in his abdomen.
“Can I get a name for the order?” you ask. Your long lashes cast shadows on your cheeks, and he is struck with the absurd desire to count each and every one of them.
Instead, he removes his wallet from his coat pocket and hands you his black card. “Harry.”
Accepting the card, you complete the transaction quickly and pass the sleek, dark plastic along with a small paper receipt back across the counter to him. “All right, Harry. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”
Dutifully, he retreats to the now-dwindling congregation of patrons waiting on their orders at the far end of the counter. Around him, the light buzz of their chatter mingles with the sound of Christmas jazz piped through discreet little speakers overhead. He’s never been an especially festive person, but as he takes in the flushed cheeks of his fellow customers, the swags of garland adorning the windows, the flurry of snow dancing just outside, he thinks he might be starting to understand the appeal.
“I have a pain au chocolat aux amandes and a double ristretto for Harry.”
Blinking at the sound of his name, he catches sight of you hovering on the other side of the order pick-up counter. You have a white pastry box in one hand and an almost startlingly small to-go cup in the other. Both have been hand-stamped with a rendering of the Vesper logo in slick, black ink.
“That’s quite the mouthful,” he says as he shoulders his way to the front of the crowd.
“I don’t know.” Handing him his order, you hit him with a knowing wink and a grin. “You seem like a cultured guy. I think you can handle it.”
Now Harry knows he is blushing. He can feel it in the tips of his ears, and he knows that if his chest were visible, he’d be able to see it there, too, all splotchy and damning.
“I’ll do my best. I wouldn’t want your faith in me to be misplaced.” He takes a moment to sit his coffee on the counter and take out his wallet once more. This time, he withdraws a crisp $20 bill and stuffs it into the overflowing tip jar.
You follow the action with wide eyes, and for the first time since he stepped foot inside this coffee shop, Harry feels as though he has taken the upper hand.
“Have a good afternoon,” he says, inclining his head at you.
You huff a laugh so soft, it is nearly drowned out by the holiday din around you. “You, too.”
Harry finishes both the pastry and the coffee in the back of the car that comes to fetch him. Flaky, buttery, sweet, nutty. Rich, acidic, velvety, smooth. It’s like nothing he’s ever had before – perfectly complimentary, perfectly delightful.
Just as with the éclair the day before, it’s a small but powerful indulgence. And just like that, Harry Castillo has a new favorite coffee shop.
DECEMBER 8
There are a great many advantages to being a senior leader in a multibillion-dollar company founded by one’s parents. The money, the glamor, the travel, the deference… For Harry, his personal favorite is the privilege of getting to set his own schedule. He does try not to take advantage of the perk too frequently (no amount of family connections will get him out of his deadlines and deliverables), but every once in a while, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of looking at his calendar, determining that he has done enough for the day, and walking out the door.
So when the sudden craving for another one of Vesper Coffee & Bakehouse’s incomparable pastries strikes at the highly inconvenient time of 3:07 PM on a Monday, he doesn’t fret. Instead, he shoots a quick IM to his assistant – “heading out early, plz reschedule my 3:30 and 4:00” – throws on his scarf and overcoat, and ducks out into the blustery Manhattan afternoon.
When he arrives at the coffee shop, he finds it to be significantly calmer than his last visit, though no less pleasant or welcoming. Hours after the hustle of the lunch rush, there are only a handful of customers at the counter waiting in line, and the seating area actually appears to have an open table or two. He joins the queue, but not before quickly scanning behind the counter for a certain bright-eyed, full-curved barista.
Spotting you by the cash register, Harry releases a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and allows himself the small indulgence of looking you over as he waits. You seem a bit less harried than when he was here last, though even then, you had handled the demands of the mob of patrons with impressive poise. The only evidence on your person that perhaps the day hadn’t always been quite this calm is the amount of flour and icing smeared across your black apron. He recalls watching you wipe your hands on it during his last visit, thoughtless and reflexive as if you do it a hundred times a day. Are you a baker, as well, he wonders?
He has no time to think on it further, however. As he steps up to the counter, you happen to glance in his direction, and your eyes meet across the distance. Harry watches as a spark of recognition flashes in yours, and you are quick to call over a coworker to replace you at the cash register.
“I wondered if I’d see you again. Welcome back!” you say as you approach him, a wide, genuine smile splitting your cheeks.
He can’t help but blink in surprise, though a ball of warmth settles in his chest all the same. “You remember me?”
“Of course!” There’s laughter in your voice, an arch to your brow. “You made quite an impression.”
Oh, dear. He isn’t sure what to make of that. “I trust it was a positive one,” he says and prays that he sounds more confident and coy than uncertain.
Your smile takes on a mischievous gleam. “What can I get started for you today?” you ask, leaving his fishing comment unaddressed.
This question, at least, he knows the answer to. “Actually, I thought I might ask for a recommendation again. If you’re amenable.”
“Did you not like what you got last time?” Confusion and concern mingle in your tone, the sparkle in your eyes dimming ever so slightly, and he rushes to shake his head.
“The opposite! It was incredible! The best coffee and pastry I’ve had in a long time.” Your posture seems to melt at the reassurance, the tension in your shoulders loosening, the tightness at the corners of your eyes easing. “I just enjoy variety. And if there’s anything else you offer that can match the quality of what I’ve already had, I can’t not sample it.”
Thoughtfully, you nod. “I can respect that,” you reply. Crossing your arms over your chest, you shift your weight to one foot, and Harry suddenly has to work very hard to keep his eyes on yours and not allow them to drop to your soft, ample cleavage or the tempting curve of your hip. “Well, with that in mind, I guess I only have one question for you this time around.”
“Hit me.”
“How indulgent are you feeling today?” you ask, eyes narrowed.
A slow, almost salacious grin that tugs on the corners of his mouth blooms before he can tame it. Allowing his voice to drop into something soft and gruffly intimate, he rasps, “Insatiable.”
Your throat bobs in a swallow, your lashes fluttering in a way that might have been interpreted as coquettish if you weren’t so taken aback. For a moment, he wonders whether he has made you uncomfortable, if he has taken his own flirtation too far, but after a beat, you seem to recover enough to hit him with a smile that is equal parts friendly and chastising.
“Understood,” you say with a mock salute. “Come on down, I’ll ring you up.”
Once again, you give him a total without revealing what he is purchasing, and Harry once again hands over his credit card blindly. As you scan his card, you glance up at him through your lashes and ask, “To go?”
“Actually, I think I’ll settle in here today,” he replies, and somehow, that seems to please you.
“Of course,” you agree with a nod, gesturing toward the seating area behind him. It’s small but charming, much like the rest of the shop, and furnished with mismatched tables and chairs. Candles of various heights and styles adorn the centers of each, casting a warm glow that he thinks would be welcoming regardless of the season, though at the moment, each of them are wrapped in little strands of evergreen garland. There is a single open table in the far corner, its chair facing inward toward the shop rather than outward toward the wide picture window of the shopfront.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you say. “I’ll bring your order out to you in a few.”
Harry claims the open table, depositing his phone on its surface, draping his overcoat across the back of the chair. Across the shop, you duck behind the glow of the bake case, withdrawing something from one of the trays that he can’t make out from the distance. All he can see is that it is large and tinged a tempting golden brown. You make his coffee yourself, your hair falling into your eyes as you work, and he watches as you brush it out of your face so delicately, it looks like a rehearsed act.
If he were as much of a gentleman as he likes to think that he is, he would do you the courtesy of looking occupied as you emerge from behind the counter. He would open his phone, study his watch, glance out the window, anything other than blatantly eyeing the sway of your hips as you bring him his order, anything other than following the subtle bounce of your breasts with his gaze like a caveman. It’s ridiculous what you do to him. It's a wonder he isn’t drooling by the time you arrive at his table.
“Here you are,” you proclaim, depositing a small, white plate and a matching cup and saucer in front of him. “One croissant pistache and a whole milk cortado.”
The croissant is huge, flaky and fragrant and tempting, and it has been split down the center to be filled with a thick, voluptuous ribbon of pale green pistachio cream. Across the top, a liquidy frosting in a deeper green has been artfully drizzled, and a thin crust of crushed pistachios finishes the pastry. The cortado looks unremarkable, the same milky brown liquid topped in dense foam that could be found at any coffee shop in the city, but the scent pouring from it is singularly sweet and bold. His caffeine addiction can hardly resist bringing the cup immediately to his lips.
“This looks delicious,” he sighs earnestly, hitting you with a grateful look. “Thank you.”
You blossom under the praise, pretty face shining with a smile that crinkles the corners of your eyes. “Of course. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
And with that, the afternoon seems to melt away, sweet and luscious and comforting. The pastry is too divine for words, the coffee smooth and velvet on his tongue. The soft, nostalgic music piped through the speakers provides a soothing backdrop as he disappears into his phone, making his way through a stack of emails, coordinating with Perlah, chatting with his brother. Around him, the clientele ebbs and flows, the other occupants of the seating area swapping every hour or so. There are a few others like him, working from phones or tablets or laptops, who stay put, and every once in a while, you or one of the other workers comes by and offers to get them another cup of coffee, a glass of water, a snack. Harry politely turns them all away. He’s so content precisely as he is; he wants to continue basking in it.
Miraculously, he also finds a few moments to chat with you. It’s all light, all small talk, but he learns that you’re a transplant, that you moved to the city for college and never left. He learns that you love the winter holiday season, finding it cozy and cheerful in spite of the harrowing December weather in New York. He even learns that you have a little dog at home, a mutt with wide, dark eyes and a scruffy coat who would much prefer to never leave your side if he didn’t have to.
In return, he tells you a bit about his work, a bit about his family. He keeps it high-level, certain that it will bore you, but no. Somehow, in the span of a handful of conversations in between customers, you manage to pull more personal details out of him than anyone else has in a long time.
It is an inclement weather alert on his phone that eventually pulls him out of his sugar-and-caffeine-induced flow state. Snow headed their direction, six inches predicted overnight. Outside, the winter sun has long since set, driving snowfall already illuminated by the street lamps, and he quickly confirms with a glance at his watch that it is just after 6 PM. For the first time in hours, he gets to his feet.
“Heading out?”
Harry glances up to find that the shop has almost entirely emptied around him. There is only one other staff member with you behind the counter now, and the seating area has been abandoned but for himself and one other remote worker. The young man has on a pair of bulky over-ear headphones, and he hasn’t moved since before Harry arrived.
“Afraid so,” he replies, offering you an apologetic smile. You’ve got a stainless-steel steamer cup in your hands, polishing it with a thin black dishcloth. “It looks like we’ve got some snow rolling in tonight. I want to get home before the worst of it hits.”
You nod in understanding. “Smart.”
“Will you be closing up soon?” he asks as he sweeps his overcoat over his shoulders.
“Yeah, I’ll start closing here in the next…” You check your own wristwatch, one of those fitness tracker ones with a thick, waterproof band. “…half hour or so.”
Harry sighs in genuine relief. “Good. Please be safe getting home.”
At that, you smile softly. “I will. You, too.”
Buttoning up his coat, he flips up the collar, pulls a pair of leather gloves from his pockets, and makes for the door. The moment his hand grips the handle, however, he hears your voice call out once more.
“Oh, Harry?”
He pauses and turns to look at you, brow risen, heart suddenly in this throat. You’ve remembered his name.
“How’d it measure up?” you ask, and he can’t help but grin.
“Somehow you continue to outdo yourself,” he confesses. At that, the smile quirking your mouth widens, and god, your joy is infectious. It illuminates the whole room, makes his stomach tighten and his heart race. You drink in his approval like a flower drinks sunlight, and not for the first time, he wonders whether this hunger for admiration, for praise is something you extend to all of your customers, or if he, perhaps, might be an exception.
DECEMBER 10
Harry Castillo can’t stay away.
From the moment that he steps out the door and into the snow, his thoughts are filled with bright eyes and generous curves and soft smiles and buttery pastry. Vesper Coffee & Bakehouse seeps into his dreams, warm and welcoming like an embrace, sweet and indulgent like a kiss. For a man who prefers variety in his life, who can’t bear to eat the same meal or complete the same workout more than once a week, who resents the obligation of weekly family dinners with his parents and monthly nights out with his brother, he feels dangerously close to becoming a regular.
He makes it two days before he’s back in the queue, again at the peak of lunch hour, but this time carrying a sleek leather laptop bag over his shoulder. He plans to spend the afternoon here today, and somehow, having his laptop with him makes it feel more like a productivity choice rather than an almost primal need to just exist in your orbit.
Something about this place, something about you, soothes him. He feels nourished when he’s here – like the stress of his job has had all of its sharp edges sanded off, like his body can finally relax and indulge, and there will be no unsavory consequences. It’s a feeling he’s chased for years with designer clothes and expensive vacations and luxurious meals at every critically-acclaimed restaurant in the city. But here, it comes so easily.
“What can I get for you?”
Harry blinks, finding another barista smiling welcomingly at him. She’s a lovely girl, perhaps mid-twenties, with wide, dark eyes and short, coily hair pushed back from her forehead with a festive, candy cane-themed headband. He’s seen her here before, though they have never spoken before today.
Taken aback, he takes a breath to scan the rest of the workers bustling away behind the counter. He looks for the curve of your silhouette, the flip of your hair, the glow of your smile. You are nowhere to be seen.
Across from him, the young barista’s brows raise, and it strikes him that it’s been an awkwardly long time since she asked him for his order. He swallows, pushing down the undeniable wave of disappointment at your absence, and forces himself to reply.
“I’ll take a pain au chocolat and a double ristretto, please.” A safe order. Something he knows he likes, something uncomplicated.
The girl nods. “Of course, coming right up.” Just as she is about to head for the espresso machines, however, Harry flags her down, your name a question on his lips before he can think better of it.
At that, the barista replies easily, “Oh, yeah, she’s here – she’s in the back finishing a batch of croissants. Is there something specific you need? I can pass along a message if you want.”
“Actually, I’m going to take a seat. Could you let her know that she’s welcome to join me when she has the opportunity?”
Her expression shifts from pleasant to doubtful, and he can feel the suspicion with which she eyes him up. “Sure. I’ll let her know.” While still unfailingly polite, there’s something about her tone that strikes him as placating.
Regardless, Harry inclines his head at her in thanks. “I appreciate it.”
He pays for his order without incident, though he does spot the slow, appraising glance the dark-eyed barista gives his black card, and then he finds himself snagging the same corner table he had camped out in earlier that week. He takes the liberty of stealing an unoccupied chair from a neighboring table, which brings the seating count at his table up to two.
Discarding his coat and pulling his laptop out of his bag, he is eyeballs deep in his inbox when he hears the delicate sound of someone politely clearing their throat.
And there you are – flour dusted across your apron, your sleeves, your cheeks. His order is in your hands, and you’re staring at him with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile that makes his heart stutter in his chest.
“Astrid thinks you’re a creep,” you say in greeting, voice light with mirth.
The sound draws a smile out of him in spite of the accusation. “Oh?”
“I don’t exactly get people in here asking for me by name very often.” Deftly, you squeeze his plate and cup into the narrow space on the table not occupied by his laptop. “She thinks you’re stalking me.”
“Do you think I’m stalking you?” he asks playfully.
You shrug. “I think at the very least you might be developing an addiction. It’s been what, two days since you were here last? The time between your visits is getting shorter. I’ll be referring to you as a regular before you know it.”
Well. Out of your mouth, it doesn’t sound so bad.
“An honor,” he replies with a wink. Gesturing toward the chair opposite him, he adds, “Would you care to join me?”
For a heartbeat, you appear tempted as you glance back and forth between the open chair and his face. “I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to leave the rest of the crew on their own during the lunch rush for longer than I have to.”
You have a point, of course. The place is just as crowded as it was the first day he visited, the line just as long. Behind the counter, your coworkers move quickly and efficiently, but even from a distance, Harry can spot the sweat on their brows and the fatigue in their smiles.
“I understand.” In spite of his disappointment, he feels a bit of pride, too. That that’s the kind of person you are, that you wouldn’t leave your teammates high and dry during a time of need. So he leans back in his chair, folds his hands over his belly, and says, “Well, I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon. And that seat will stay open in case you change your mind.”
At least an hour passes, nearly two, before he spots you once more lurking at the edge of his peripheral vision. You’ve changed aprons, this one completely spotless, and someone must have pointed out the flour on your cheeks, because you’ve brushed it away. Your eyes are bright, though your smile carries the weight of exhaustion as you slide into the chair opposite him. You’ve brought a to-go cup with you, larger than any you have ever served him, and he can’t help but wonder what’s inside.
“I have 15 minutes,” you announce with a sigh, taking a deep drink from the cup in your hands. Immediately, Harry closes his laptop and gives you his full attention.
“Longer than we’ve ever had,” he quips, and you laugh, the sound warm and honest.
“This is true.”
“How are things going today?”
There’s a flash of pride in your gaze as you nod. “Good! So busy! We already sold out of éclairs for the day. This time of year, people can’t get enough of the patisserie.” You tap the surface of his closed laptop, the gloss of your red-painted nails catching his eye. “How about you? Is this work, too, or pleasure?”
“Can it not be both?” he counters, to which you simply arch a brow dubiously. Smothering a smirk, he says, “It’s work. We’re about to close out the financial year. Lots of Ts to cross and Is to dot in the meantime.”
The look you give him is thoughtful, intrigued. “And yet you’ve chosen to spend the afternoon at a coffee shop.”
“I’ve…been enjoying the atmosphere.”
At that, your eyes soften, and you glance down almost bashfully, long lashes fluttering as you demure. “I’m glad. It’s always nice to come across people who like being here as much as I do.”
Harry studies you for a moment, noticing the fond, affectionate expression in your eyes as you look around the shop, taking in the festive holiday décor, the customers, the ambiance. “You get a lot of joy out of what you do, don’t you?” he asks. “You take a lot of pride in your work.”
“I do,” you reply with a nod. “Getting to be here, getting to do what I do, it’s a dream come true.”
It isn’t really your words that take him aback. It’s the deeply earnest, heartfelt way you say them. You really mean it, he realizes. Doing this – being a barista, a baker, whatever you were – is your dream. And before he can swallow it, before he can put a damper on his instinctual reaction, a scoff makes its way out of his throat.
The sound makes you frown, brows pulled low. “Does that…surprise you?” you ask, confused.
“It does.”
“Why?” The question comes sharply, quickly, and later, when he replays this conversation in his mind, he will wonder why he didn’t stop here, why he didn’t course correct now. Instead, he plows right on through the warnings you are flashing him with your eyes and your body language, and with all of the confidence of a man in his tax bracket, he proceeds to stick his foot directly into his mouth.
“Because you’re…brilliant,” he says. “You’re confident. You’re driven. And the way you interact with people, the way you see them, you make them feel like the only person in the room even when you’re under pressure. It’s something people in my line of work can only wish for, and it’s almost impossible to teach. Guess I just have a hard time believing someone like you would dream of…this.”
From the bottom of his heart, he means it all as a compliment. It’s praise honestly given, and from past experiences, he fully expects you to light up, to melt at his words, to gift him one of your stunning, megawatt smiles that make him weak in the knees. Instead, your frown deepens, and you lean back in your chair hesitantly as though unconsciously trying to put a bit of distance between you.
“And…what is ‘this’ exactly?”
Again, an opportunity to rethink his words is presented, and again, he does not see it.
“Food service,” he replies with a casual shrug. “And everything that goes with it. The long hours, the backbreaking labor, and the terrible customers... I just think someone like you could aim higher.”
Suddenly, it is as though a brick wall has slammed into existence between you. All softness hardens, all openness shutters, and you narrow your eyes dangerously. “Oh, so you think this is beneath me? Is that what you’re saying?”
Oh, fuck.
There it is. Foot, meet mouth.
“Oh. Well, no, I didn’t mean – ” Harry’s brows shoot up to meet his hairline as he begins to stammer, floundering spectacularly at the bottom of the hole he confidently dug for himself.
“No, no, you did,” you interject, getting to your feet. You brush the palms of your hands across your apron, as though physically ridding yourself of this conversation. “You know, I should get back at it. My lowly food service job isn’t going to do itself.”
“Hermosa – ”
But you’re on a roll now. An obviously tender wound has been poked and prodded, and for all your warmth and sweetness, you don’t back down from showing your teeth.
“What even was this? This ‘lonely rich guy with a heart of gold’ act you’ve been putting on the past few weeks, what was the point of it all? Praising my pastries, my shop? Leaving all those massive tips with those big, brown, baby cow eyes? What were you trying to accomplish?”
Your words fly like darts, hitting their marks one right after the other, and for a moment, Harry feels powerless to do anything other than sit back and eat them.
“Oh, I get it,” you sneer, cocking your head to the side thoughtfully, studying him with cold eyes. “You thought I was some cute, young thing who was down on her luck. Maybe a college dropout, or a night school student. Somebody strapped for cash for the holidays, somebody without any other options. What, did you think you would save me, with your personal driver and your Rolex and your little black credit card?”
The two of you have started to draw a bit of attention now – surreptitious looks from the other patrons seated around him, a couple of furrowed brows and concerned glances from your fellow staff members behind the counter. The young woman who served him earlier – Astrid, you had called her – looks particularly perturbed, hovering near the cash register as though waiting on some signal from you to intervene. The tips of his ears burn in embarrassment. He had better hope no one decides that this encounter is juicy enough to break out their phone and record. His mother would bury him alive if he attracted any kind of press for an argument with a worker in a coffee shop…
“No, Jesus,” he hisses, dropping his voice low. “I wasn’t trying – I just…”
He trails off then, the last minutes replaying in his head on a loop, your words echoing in his ears.
My pastries, my shop...
A dream come true…
“Wait, did you say your shop?”
The look on your face could only be described as incredulous. “Yes,” you reply emphatically. “My shop. Vesper is mine.”
Breathing deeply, Harry feels the weight of his own words for the first time. Your shop. This is your shop. You are an entrepreneur, a business owner. And he has just spent the last several minutes belittling everything you have dedicated your life to.
As ugly as it was, as unpleasant as it was to admit, so many of your assumptions about him and his perceptions of you had been true. When he looked at you, he hadn’t seen a successful businesswoman. He had seen the potential for one, but it had never occurred to him that you might have already made it there.
On your own. Without him.
The revelation hangs between you for a moment, leaving the air icy and crackling with tension. Eventually, he rasps, “I see. I…seem to have made a mistake.”
A humorless scoff leaves you, the sound so alien coming from you that it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Yeah, you might say that,” you agree. Your sweet, open face shows him the precise moment that it happens – the moment you pack away your hurt and your anger and replace it with professionalism. You stand a bit straighter, push your hair back off your shoulders, and fix him with a close-lipped smile. “Enjoy the rest of your coffee, sir,” you say, and then you turn on your heel and disappear into the kitchen.
DECEMBER 17
Harry avoids Vesper Coffee & Bakehouse for a week.
You don’t want to see him; he’s sure of it. Not after his colossal fumble the last time he saw you. It isn’t often that all of his social graces fail him so spectacularly, but god, there’s just something about you. You disarm him. You make him forget about his obsession with always saying the right thing. The version of himself that he becomes when he crosses through the doors of your shop is one that he hasn’t seen in years – earnest, open, bumbling but well-meaning.
There is, after all, such a thing as too much honesty. It’s how you reveal to pretty girls that you’re a snob. It’s how you expose yourself as a rich asshole who has always implicitly recognized the divide between himself – the customer – and people like you. People who serve him.
You are right to be angry at him for that. He’s angry at himself for that.
But eventually, the gut-churning knowledge that if he stays away, if he says nothing, that will be how you always remember him… It becomes too much for Harry to handle. And so he ducks out of the office over lunch, and Perlah doesn’t even have to ask to know exactly where he is heading.
When he arrives, he discreetly joins the line queued up in front of the counter. The scene before him is much the same as it has been during past visits, though there are a few key differences that he spots almost immediately.
The bake case is nearly empty. The crowd of customers is strangely tense, their pleasant chatter noticeably sharper. And the staff? The staff are frazzled.
Gone is the cozy, welcoming atmosphere he had fallen so deeply in love with the first time he visited. Instead, it looks like every other coffee shop in Manhattan during the lunch rush. Overcrowded, understaffed, and stressed.
When he reaches the counter, he spots you. Your bright eyes are tight at the corners, your shoulder held high and stiff by your ears as you work. There’s sweat at your temples, slicking your hair, and the smiles you offer your customers are tense and joyless. All of it feels so unnatural, it actually has his stomach tightening with sympathetic anxiety. Something is wrong here.
As though feeling the weight of his stare, you turn to face him, and Harry watches as your expression slips from fatigue to anger. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you sigh under your breath, meeting him at the counter. “What are you doing here?”
He swallows, brows drawn and knotted in the middle. “I came to talk to you. To apologize.”
“Well, your timing is impeccable. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a bit swamped at the moment.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he replies earnestly. “I’m not in a rush. I can wait until you’re free.”
You’re already shaking your head before the sentence leaves his lips. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I really don’t mind – I can just grab a table, and – ”
“I swear to god, Harry Castillo, if you take my one open table in the middle of this rush, I will – ” You hesitate, glancing around to see if others are listening. Voice dropping to a soft hiss, you say, “I will spit in your espresso.”
Harry draws back as though slapped, eyes wide and blinking. He has never witnessed such hostility from you, not toward anyone, even the most challenging of customers. For a painful heartbeat, he nearly admits defeat. If this is the point he has brought you to…
Maybe there is no fixing things. Maybe this is where it ends.
You seem to register his expression then, and he watches as all of the aggression and anger leech out of you, melting like frost on a windowpane. In their place, there is only a despondent exhaustion, limp and hopeless.
“Okay, I won’t do that. I would never do that,” you confess tiredly. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, smudging your mascara. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m drowning today.”
His heart thuds thickly behind his ribs, concern and sympathy and remorse like a physical ache in his chest. “What’s going on, hermosa? Talk to me.”
“Our largest oven died this morning during prep. It was already on its last legs – there’s no fixing it this time.” You lean heavily against the bake case, arms folded over one another as though preparing to lay your head there. “So now we’re running out of patisserie left and right, and I’m already so late on all my catering orders today that I doubt I’ll end up getting paid for any of them.”
“What can I do to help?”
Sighing, you offer him a sardonic smile. “Nothing,” you reply. “Unless you happen to have 20 grand laying around for a new oven. And could get it installed before open tomorrow.”
To this, Harry says nothing, merely hums.
You pull yourself back upright and fluff your fingers over your hair, which has gone stringy the longer it rests against your sweaty forehead. “Can I get you something?” you ask blandly.
“Just a double ristretto, please. Sans saliva, if you don’t mind.” He winks, and that finally is enough to pull a weak, wry smile out of you. Huffing a soft laugh, you stick your tongue out at him.
When you ring up his order, he leaves a ridiculous tip, more than twice the cost of the beverage, and you simply shake your head, exasperated but appreciative. And he does take that last open table, which you roll your eyes at but accept. Settling in, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and brings the steaming cup to his lips.
Two hours later, a large white box truck pulls up to the curb outside the coffee shop. A young man, broad and strong and dressed in a rugged, navy-blue jumpsuit, hops out of the cab and makes his way to the door, while another man – identically dressed – rounds the back of the truck and begins to open it up.
The first man carries a clipboard to the front of the shop, flagging down a member of staff for a signature. The barista shakes his head and instead calls you over, and Harry watches as you and the man in blue go back and forth for several minutes. You shake your head; he presses the clipboard into your hands. You frown and cross your arms; he merely shrugs.
Over the din of the afternoon bustle, Harry thinks he hears you say, “This is ridiculous. I don’t know how many different ways I can tell you that I didn’t buy this. There has to be some mistake.”
With the air of a man on the edge of his patience, the delivery man replies, “There’s no mistake, miss.”
“Then who the hell signed the check?”
“I don’t know, miss. Anonymous donor. Boss just said it was ‘somebody interested in the success of local businesses.’” The man has a thick Long Island accent and says the last bit like the words don’t mean anything to him, like he’s quoting them from memory. “Now, if you could please just sign here to acknowledge you’ve received the delivery, we’ll bring it in and get it all hooked up for you.”
Eventually, you capitulate. Snatching the clipboard from the young man’s hands, you scribble your signature furiously along the dotted line.
Just as you are handing it back to him, the second delivery man props open the shop door and wheels a long, heavy-duty platform dolly inside. The bed carries a massive cardboard box wrapped in layers of plastic wrap. Emblazoned across the side of the box is the brand name “Doyon.”
You watch, stunned, mouth agape, as both young men guide the dolly through the shop, headed directly for the kitchen. For a wonderful, awful moment, he thinks you might burst into tears. Instead, aware of the small audience you have accumulated, you seem to gather yourself.
A smothered cough into your apron. A firm press of your ring fingers into your tear ducts. A deep sigh. And then you follow them into the kitchen, and Harry Castillo smiles.
DECEMBER 23
Nearly a week passes before Harry is able to return to Vesper. With The Castillo Group staring down the barrel of the end of the fiscal year, he hasn’t been able to justify any activities that aren’t somehow work-related. He goes home to shower, to work out, to sleep. Otherwise, he’s barely left the office in days.
The close of business today, however, marks a brief respite from the mad dash to the finish line. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are both company holidays, and when 7:00 PM rolls around, he can’t bear the thought of burning the midnight oil any later.
And if he wants to catch you before the holiday, he really needs to get a move on.
When he tells his driver where to drop him, Harry catches the younger man smothering a smile in the rearview mirror. He says nothing, of course – the kid is too much of a professional to comment. But Harry knows he has just handed him an excellent piece of gossip for the next time he has to spend hours in a parking deck somewhere with the other family drivers waiting for an event to end.
He arrives at the shop just as you are flipping the kitschy “open” sign in the front window to “closed.” You don’t seem to spot him, however. Instead, you turn back around and continue wiping down tables and flipping up chairs. There’s a towel draped over your shoulder and a spray bottle in your hands, and your body sways rhythmically to music he can faintly hear even from the sidewalk. Backlit against the dark, wintry night, you cut a mesmerizing figure – soft and deeply feminine.
Swallowing back a sudden, uncharacteristic wave of nerves, Harry steps through the door and closes it firmly behind him.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately, at first not even looking up from the table you are wiping clean. “We’re closed – ”
He interjects softly with your name, and that is enough to have you whirling around on the spot.
“Harry!” Your brows arch high, eyes widening in surprise.
Burying his hands in his pockets, he lowers his head, takes a humble step toward you. “May I come in?”
“Looks like you already have,” you reply wryly, putting your hands on your hips. There’s less hostility in you than the was the last time he saw you, though there is less exhaustion, as well. You look tired, but in a comfortable, satisfied kind of way. He decides quickly that he likes the look of it on you much better.
“I can leave if you’d rather,” he offers.
His words seem to surprise you, but you shake your head. “What do you want?”
“I, uh.” Harry pauses and clears his throat. The nerves are rising up again, shortening his breath, making his mouth feel unpleasantly dry. He wonders if he took his hands out of his pockets, would they shake? Would you be able to see?
He likes to think that he’s a pretty charming guy. He’s educated, cultured, well-spoken, a practiced balanced of sincere and flatteringly smooth. It’s been years since a woman has made him nervous. Not since before his surgery has he felt so out of his depth with a member of the fairer sex. He wishes he understood what it was about you that always had him feeling so off-kilter. It’s terrifying.
It’s exhilarating.
“I remembered you mentioning you were spending Christmas with your parents out of state,” he says eventually. “I just wanted to wish you safe travels tomorrow.”
You blink back at him, surprised. “Oh. Thank you.”
“And I, uh. I have a gift for you.” He takes another step toward you, testing, waiting, watching to see how you will react. He won’t press in where he isn’t wanted; he’s not that kind of man. Thankfully, instead of backing away, drawing more distance between you, you hold your ground.
“I think you’ve already given me more than enough,” you say, and the words feel weighted, significant, as though the message they carry is greater than the sum of the words themselves.
A little thrill zips along his nerve endings, lighting up that little ball of warmth he has carried in his stomach for you for weeks. The smallest of smirks tucks the corner of his mouth into his cheek, and he has to fight to keep it from turning into a grin. You’re so smart, he thinks.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Taking another step, then another, he pulls a small, impeccably-wrapped box from the depths of his coat pocket. Your gaze snaps immediately to the gift, taking in the glossy sheen of the red and green plaid wrapping paper, the sleek black ribbon, the matching bow. It’s longer than it is wide, about the length of his hand, and the edges of it are so crisp and perfect, it looks almost unreal.
“Merry Christmas,” he says softly, extending the gift toward you.
You eye it hesitantly for a moment, glancing back and forth between his face and the box, and then you are swallowing thickly and taking it from him.
“Did your assistant wrap this?” you ask, the red-lacquered tip of your finger slipping under one of the flawless seams in the paper. Harry can hear the attempt at snark in your tone, but there’s no real bite to it. He has managed to surprise you, leaving you more curious than irritated.
“She did,” he confesses. “I’ve tried to wrap my own gifts in the past, but I’ve found it’s better for my dignity to let her handle it. I did, however, pick it out myself.”
This seems to intrigue you, and the delicate, ginger way you’ve been unwrapping the present gets a bit more reckless and eager. The bow falls first, then the ribbon, and finally the paper in a torn, crumpled heap at your feet. In your hands is a black box, shallow and oblong, with a dainty little hinge along the edge. You open the lid, and the moment your gaze lands on the box’s contents, you let out a soft gasp.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, quiet and awe-struck. “It’s… It’s beautiful.”
Inside the box rests a gold hair clip. The surface of it has an aged effect, a light patina taking it from a glimmering yellow to a softer, more antique finish, and it has been inlaid with delicate little mother-of-pearl details in a fine celestial pattern. It’s precisely the right size for your hair type, large enough to hold most of your hair back should you wish it. It’s feminine and decorative yet still slightly understated, the kind of piece that could easily become a daily accessory without being gaudy or overly formal.
“You prefer gold, right?” he asks, more to fill the sudden silence than out of a need for reassurance on his choice.
“Mm hm.” As though to corroborate your words, the gold pendant at your neck glistens as you nod, and tiny gold hoops sway from your earlobes.
“I thought… Well, I’m always seeing you brushing your hair out of your eyes. I thought maybe this might help. And it seemed like something you might not buy for yourself.”
At that, you look up sharply, expression unreadable. He holds your gaze for the span of a heartbeat and fights the urge to keep talking, to reach out and touch you, to feel your skin against his.
As he watches, your throat bobs with a swallow, and you draw your lower lip between your teeth. “Why?” you ask. Implicitly, he knows what you are asking – not why he would think that, but why he would bother to get you a Christmas gift at all.
The answer to that question, of course, is easy.
“Because you work so hard bringing joy to so many people. You deserve to have nice things,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Something soft and vulnerable flashes in your eyes then, and you draw a breath so deep and trembling that just the sound of it aches. Harry understands you without words – that few people had ever said such a thing to you, that you had badly needed to hear it. Shifting on your feet, caught between discomfort and relief, you look down at the box once more.
Your fingers shake faintly as you take the clip out of the box. With a soft, dazzled smile, you turn it in your hand, taking in the weight of it, the texture of the metal against your skin. As he watches, he swears he spots the moment something clicks in your thoughts. You’ve come to some kind of decision, and the tension stretches and yawns like a physical thing as you slowly, methodically set the now-empty box and all of your cleaning supplies onto the surface of the nearest table.
Your eyes meet his once more, glossy and soft, and then you are handing the clip back to him. “Would you…would you help me?” you ask, turning your back to him, brushing your hair back over your shoulders.
You might as well have punched him for how powerfully your words land. Heat rips up the back of Harry’s neck, blooming across his scalp, his ears, his chest. In spite of the December chill, he is sweltering, his blood turned molten, his heart thundering against his ribs. He’s got lightning in his veins as he shuffles forward, every nerve ending alight with energy, and god, he can feel it in you, too. Even without touching you, he can feel it – the way your heartbeat skips and jumps like his, the way your breath catches in your lungs. You can feel his breath on the shell of your ear, the scant inches between you like a canyon.
Cautiously, tenderly, he reaches for your hair the way he might a temperamental horse that could spook – tentative, open-palmed, and warm. A shiver wracks your frame when his hands make contact, and when he gathers every strand into a single bundle, he thinks he hears you bite down on a sound. A gasp, perhaps a whimper. He twists your hair around his hand, twirling it all together, and suddenly that noise is escaping your lips, and yes, fuck, it is a whimper. Beneath his trousers, Harry feels his cock twitch.
Another twist, and the back of your neck is bare. Soft, fragrant, and painfully intimate, right there on display. It would be so easy, so effortless for him to bend down and run his nose along your skin there. You smell fucking edible – sweet and warm and every bit as delectable as the pastries you make, the pastries that first drew him here, to this shop and to you. His mouth fills with saliva at the thought, stomach hot, cock beginning to swell. He shudders to think what he would do to be allowed to taste you. You had called him a gentleman not long ago; he knows you wouldn’t think so if you knew the lengths he would go to to have you.
His touch is gentle as he slips the clip into your hair, securing every strand in a practical twist. Satisfaction floods his chest at the sight; it’s just as perfect of a fit as he had imagined. The gold and mother-of-pearl are beautiful against your coloring. It looks completely natural on you, as if it were something you had always owned.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and rasping. “Hermosa.”
His hands move of their own accord, cupping your shoulders, pressing into your muscles there. They’re so large, his thumbs meet at that little patch of skin on the back of your neck, and with the barest caress, goosebumps erupt in his wake.
God, you’re so soft. And so warm.
And suddenly, you’re turning to face him, and your eyes are wide, pupils blown huge and dark, lips wet and parted, breasts brushing the front of his coat.
“Harry.” His name is a whisper on your tongue, the sound sending little electric shocks down his spine.
Maybe it’s you that moves first. Rising to your tip-toes, hands wrapping around the collar of his overcoat, a pleading pull to meet you.
Maybe it’s him. Fingers cupping your cheek, cradling your jaw, sliding over the swell of your hip, tucking into the small of your back.
Whichever happens first, the collision is cataclysmic.
It’s a bit trite, he knows, to compare a first kiss to fireworks. It’s downright cliché to say the world stopped spinning the moment your lips touched his. But Harry is willing to give himself some grace on this particular occasion, because never has he gone so utterly stupid from a simple kiss before in his life.
There’s not a single thought in his head as he fits his mouth to yours. There is not a single worry, not a single question as your lips part, as you touch the tender sweetness of your tongue to his, as the taste of you floods his body and brings every cell to song. Your hands slip into his hair, nails scratching on his scalp, fingers tugging at his curls, and he couldn’t tell you his own name if you asked.
Somewhere, in some dark, unacknowledged corner of his mind, he recognizes that he has never been able to get out of his own head like this with another person. Not even in the middle of sex. Not even in long-term relationships. Not even when he bought a goddamn engagement ring for another woman.
This kiss is singular, unlike anything he has ever experienced. He doesn’t feel like he is going through the motions, doing what is expected or normal or right. He doesn’t feel like he is putting on a performance. He’s not afraid, not uncertain, not hyper-focused on being so good for you that he has no idea whether he is actually enjoying himself. Instead, you let him simply…feel. And fuck, he feels it all.
Your body is everything he thought it would be. Palms wandering, fingers squeezing, the plush of your hips gives way to the curve of your ass, and he grabs you there, hauling you closer, reveling in the way the lushness of you yields to his touch. He lets his tongue travel from your mouth to your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses across your skin as he tracks to your exposed neck. Your back arches eagerly, tits pressed to his chest, and he mourns the distance his thick wool coat puts between your body and his own. He needs to feel them against him, skin to skin, knows they would be perfection.
You’re breathless and panting when you finally pull away, lips swollen and slick, gaze hazy and heavy-lidded. For a brief, terrible moment, he thinks you might be having second thoughts, that you might be putting a stop to this, but instead, you flatten your palms against his chest and whisper, “Don’t move.”
Harry simply nods, putty in your hands.
Ducking around him, you eat up the distance to the door in a handful of strides. Your fingers move with practiced ease as you flip a series of locks, the sound of each one falling into place settling low in his belly. You reach up high to grab the cord of a set of opaque blinds, and the little sliver of skin it reveals above the waistband of your jeans is enough to have him drooling. Dropping the blinds, you then turn your attention to the panel of light switches on the adjacent wall. One by one, you flip them down, and all around him, lights begin to extinguish. The recessed ceiling lights in the seating area, the pendants hanging down over the order counter, the Christmas light strung up throughout the shop, all of them fall dark.
By the time you are finished, there is only the light from the street lamps outside and a faint golden glow emanating from the kitchen door.
And then you are on him again, slipping your hands inside his coat, balling your fingers in the fabric of his dress shirt, tugging his lips down to meet yours once more. There’s a note of urgency to your touch now, a hunger that matches his own. You’re so fucking sweet – your little gasps and sighs, the beautiful arch of your back, the way you shiver at the gentle drag of his lips against your neck…
Your nails dig into his sides as he worries a patch of skin behind your ear between his teeth, and he looses a growl into your neck. Goddamn it, there’s too much between you. Too much fabric, too many layers. The heat and the softness and decadence of you is wrecking him, and he needs more of it immediately or he thinks he might go insane.
Thankfully, you seem to be on the same page. Wrenching yourself out of his grasp, you meet his wild gaze for the briefest of moments before threading your fingers through his and tugging him in the direction of the kitchen.
“Away from the windows,” you pant, and he nods in eager agreement. Brilliant. He had always known you were brilliant.
You lead the way, pulling him through the shop, and he is hot on your heels, watching the sway and bounce of your ass as you walk. Is this what he has been missing all this time, he wonders? Every inch of you oozes sensuality, even when you aren’t trying. He needs to get his hands on your skin, needs to feel more of you give way beneath him.
He wants the weight of your thighs wrapped around his hips, resting on his shoulders, muffling his ears.
He wants your soft tits in his mouth. He wants to watch your perfect ass bounce and ripple as he pounds into you. He wants to make you shake, make you moan, make you come.
Beneath his trousers, he is achingly hard, and he’s begun leaking into his boxer briefs. You make him feel unhinged, insatiable, and he’s barely even touched you yet.
When the two of you burst through the kitchen door, Harry wastes no time. He spots the prep counter a few feet away, big and sturdy and topped with well-loved butcher block, and in a heartbeat, he has spun you around and backed you into it. You both stumble a bit as your hips hit the edge of the counter, but it doesn’t slow him down. Instead, he uses the sudden leverage to wedge one of his knees between yours, pressing his thigh into your heat, urging you to rest your weight against him.
You pick up on the cue immediately, and he spies a wicked grin curling your lips as you tug him down into another kiss. Your hips grind against his thigh, breath stuttering in your chest at the friction, and then you are unwinding his scarf from around his neck, tossing it to the side, parting his overcoat, sloughing it to the ground. Just that much is a relief, but you don’t stop there. Next is his suit jacket, then your fingers are pulling on his necktie – deep blue today, with a French dot pattern.
“Easy, hermosa,” he murmurs, lips still brushing yours as he smirks into your kiss. “I’ll take it from here. Just let yourself feel good – I’ll take care of everything else.”
Grip on your hips tightening, he encourages the grind of your hips, flexes his thigh muscles beneath you to give you something firmer to rub against. You let loose a breathy whine, hands falling back to brace yourself against the countertop, and Harry takes advantage of the momentary distraction to whip off his tie and unbutton his dress shirt. Tugging his shirttails out of his waistband, he lets them fall loose and open, exposing his white cotton undershirt.
The sight catches your attention, and you slow the roll of your hips just long enough to tuck your hands underneath this dress shirt, to feel the heat of him through the thin layer of cotton still shielding his torso.
“Jesus, so many layers,” you complain with a frown. “They just keep going.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Tell me about it,” he commiserates. “Could say that same about you, though.”
Eyes narrowing, you sink your fingers into the curls at the back of his head and coax his mouth back down to yours. This kiss is soft and sensual, though no less hungry, and he can feel the curve of your lips against his as you smile.
“Why don’t you find out?” you whisper, the tip of your nose dancing along his, and god, he thought you’d never ask.
Time slips away from him then, melting into something warm and fuzzy and close and precious. There is no winter wind here, no gray slush or heavy snow. There is no Castillo Group, no looming deadlines, no stressful board meetings, no holiday pressures or expectations. There is only the sound of your apron hitting the floor, the zip of your jeans, the groan he lets out as he sinks to his knees at your feet.
He helps you out of your sneakers, your socks, your puddled pants. You’re so warm it makes his head spin, and fucking hell, he can smell you now, musky and sweet and so feminine, it makes his mouth water. There’s a wet patch on your panties, and he can’t help but play with it a bit – run the pad of his thumb over the dampness, watch your breath catch and your hips stutter. He doesn’t ask for permission before threading his finger through the gusset and yanking it to the side. He doesn’t speak as he leans forward and buries his nose in your thick, wet curls. Instead, he simply pulls your thighs wider apart, hooks one over his shoulder, and smothers himself with your wetness.
“Holy shit, Harry,” you gasp, hands flying to the crown of his head, and he groans into your cunt, tongue lapping at your wetness, teasing your fluttering hole. You taste so fucking good – rich and hot and all woman. Tracing the tip of his tongue along your folds, he softly, delicately circles your clit, brushing it with his lips, sucking lightly, feeling you twitch and throb in his mouth.
His groans become a growl, fingers digging into your thigh, cupping your ass, dragging your closer, urging you to grind against him again. The noises you’re making are intoxicating – soft, trembling, pleading, desperate, and your pussy is so wet, he can feel you dripping down his chin, slicking his beard. The scent of you feels branded into his skin, permanently sunk into his pores, and just as you start to beg, “please, please, inside, need to feel you,” he’s already there, one finger at your entrance, then two, urging your body to relax, to accept him, to let him fill you up.
Tongue on your clit, fingers crooked and beckoning, eyes locked on yours from his place at your feet, it’s an immersive experience when you fall apart.
“Ha-ah-ry, I’m – oh, you’re gonna make me – ”
And he does. And it’s intoxicating.
You barely catch your breath before you are scrabbling against his shoulders, yanking him to his feet, sealing your lips against his. You whine at the taste of yourself on his mouth, shaking under his hands, and when one of your hands drops to cup him over his trousers, it’s his turn to whimper.
“Hermosa.” The endearment drops breathlessly from his lips into your hairline. “Beautiful girl. Please. Let me fuck you, baby.”
Nodding, you make quick work of his belt buckle and don’t even bother to pull the strip of leather from its loops before you are hooking your thumbs into his waistband. In a single clean motion, you divest him of both his pants and his boxer briefs, leaving them halfway down his thighs.
“Jesus, Harry,” you moan, eyes widening as you get a look at him for the first time. Thick, blushing red and uncut, the tip brushing against your stomach in a way that has his hips hitching, seeking more of your softness, more of your warmth.
Gritting his teeth against a groan, he slips one hand between you, giving himself a few quick, perfunctory strokes. “Turn around and bend over,” he grunts.
You do as he says, bracing your hips against the edge of the counter, bending in half over its surface. The sight of your back arching, your ass round and soft and perfect, offered up to him like this… Your panties are nearly see-through now with how wet you’ve become, your thick, swollen pussy lips peeking out temptingly from between your thighs. His cock throbs in his grip, leaking slick all over his palm.
Glancing over your shoulder, you meet his gaze with pleading, heavy-lidded eyes. “Come on,” you beg, impatiently wiggling your ass. Harry lands a sharp crack on one of your cheeks with his free hand, and you yelp. The jiggle, the reverberation through your body has him slamming his eyes shut and squeezing the base of his cock, suddenly on the ragged edge of embarrassing himself.
“Settle,” he growls, though whether he is talking more to you or to himself, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that if he doesn’t get inside you soon, he might actually pass out. So with a desperate tug, he pulls your panties to the side once more, notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and slowly, smoothly presses in.
Both of you let loose a string of curses as he works his way inside your body. You’re fucking dripping for him, hot and molten and soft. Unused to the intrusion, your deepest muscles flutter and clench, but as Harry soothes a hand up your spine, the arch of your back deepens, and your walls begin to part for him. He carves a space for himself there, at the very core of you, and your body welcomes him by sucking him deeper, clutching at him harder.
“Thaaaat’s it, hermosa.” He is babbling now, no thought to his words, eyes rolling in pleasure. “Perfect little cunt, taking me so well. Such a good fucking girl for me.”
The praise makes you shudder and clench, and you push your ass back, driving him further into your heat. He feels himself bottom out, the tip of him reaching the end of you, and the sensation has you burying your face in bend of your elbow to muffle your shout.
“No, no, no.” Wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, Harry pulls your face out of hiding and takes up a relentless, almost punishing pace, pulling you back on his cock. “Let me hear all your sweet noises, baby. Show me how good it feels. You deserve to feel so good.”
“Ah – ah – ah – fuck – yes – ”
God, the sound of it – your helpless, punched out whimpers, the sloppy wetness of your pussy, the force of his thrusts, the damp skin-on-skin of your ass clapping with every impact, the groan and rattle of the prep counter shaking beneath the onslaught. Harry tightens his grip on the back of your neck, lands another slap on your ass, watches it bounce as a familiar tightness begins to coil away low in his abdomen. Every ripple, every moan, it sparks like something sharp and electric at the base of his spine.
He doesn’t have much longer. He needs to feel you come on his cock. He’ll die if he doesn’t.
Bending low over your back, never slowing his thrusts, Harry presses a kiss to your still-clothed shoulder. “Tell me what you need, pretty girl. What’s gonna get you there?” he murmurs, and you tremble beneath him.
“My – ah, god… My clit, I need – ”
He’s already nodding, already pulling your hips out away from the edge of the counter, already tucking one of his hands under your body. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Just breathe, baby. Just feel it.”
After half a beat of fumbling, he finds your clit with his fingertips, and he knows the moment he finds the right rhythm, the right pressure. Your body goes limp beneath his while your cunt clamps down, and he makes no attempt to hide his breathless, self-satisfied laughter as your hips begin to twitch and buck against his touch.
“Harry – !”
“Shhh,” he soothes. “I know, can feel how close you are. I’ve got you. You can let go.”
The way you squeeze him when you come, Harry can barely fuck you through it. You soak him, pleasure dripping down your thighs, and in your ecstasy, you nearly push him out. But he stays the course, takes his thrusts from quick and brutal to long and languid, and just as you start to come back down, he falls over the edge himself.
It takes a long time for him to come back to himself after. His knees feel like gelatin, his back stiff and aching, and for a second there, he thought he might have lost his hearing, he came so hard. He’s convinced, however, that the weight of his body pressing you into the counter is the only thing keeping you upright at all. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably, your new clip only barely hanging on to your messy hair, and you’ve hidden your face in your arms again as you pant and let out faint little moans as you work through the aftershocks. Beneath his hand, your puffy, swollen clit still twitches, and with every twitch, you drip a bit of his cum onto the floor.
That…had been irresponsible. It had been years, decades even, since he had been so worked up, he had forgone a condom. He would need to talk with you about that at some point –
“I can hear you thinking back there,” you say, your words muffled against the butcher block counter. “Not having regrets already, are you?”
“Wha – ?” He pulls out then, the sensation making you shiver, and pulls you upright. Spinning you around to face him, he takes in your watery eyes, your disheveled hair, your swollen lips. “No, hermosa. Fuck, no. No regrets.”
Your eyebrows quirk up in surprise, hands coming to rest tentatively on his chest. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely none,” he replies. “I’ve been head over heels for you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I couldn’t regret this if I tried.”
Surprise morphs into shock, then shock into joy. “Head over heels, huh? You barely know me.”
He shakes his head, feeling a matching smile crinkling his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Tell me anything. Tell me everything. It’s not going to change the way I feel.”
“So you’re not just…what was it that delivery guy said? ‘Interested in the success of local businesses?’” Your eyes flash knowingly, and he knows he is blushing now, can feel it in the way his ears burn and his chest goes hot.
“Of course, I am,” he says glibly. “But I’m especially interested in your success.” Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “And your hopes.” Another kiss, this one to your right cheek. “And your dreams.” Another on the left. “And your joy.” Another on your chin. “And your sorrow.” This one on the tip of your nose. “And everything else, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Your eyes are shining with unshed tears as he finally places a soft, tender kiss on your lips. “Okay,” you breathe, so soft and fragile he would never hear you if he weren’t so close.
“Okay,” he echoes. “Can I have your number, so I can call you while you’re out of town?”
At that, you snort, dropping your forehead to press against his sternum. “Think we might be a little beyond that at this point, but yeah, Harry, you can have my number.”
He smirks and kisses you once more, this time on the top of your head. “Good. I’m going to want to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Hi. So, I'm popping my 'hosting a fic writing challenge' cherry with a silly idea. 🫣 There are a lot of Pedro characters who don't receive as much attention within the fandom, and I thought it would be fun to create a challenge to help generate more fic for them! To put some methodology behind this, I searched AO3 character tags and compiled a list of characters that returned fewer than 500 search results (as of 10/6). The characters included in this challenge are listed below, along with their current AO3 fic count. *I used AO3 for ease of search because the tags are more consistent*
This challenge is open to everyone! That includes YOU! 🫵🏼
If you'd like to participate:
Send me an ask with a number between 1 and 22 (characters are not in the same order as listed below), and I'll provide a character for you. There is no limit on how often a character can be assigned.
The world is your oyster when it comes to your fic's content. All themes, tropes, reader types, and pairings are welcome. Please tag your fics appropriately. No RPF, please.
If you'd like a prompt, let me know in the ask, and I can spin for a random trope.
due date: whenever. But if you need a deadline (like me), it's 12/31.
challenge tag: #ficsforthePPCUfic-less
please @ me when you post your fic and use the challenge tag
Reach out with any questions. I hope you'll consider participating!
-Kat 🫶🏻
🏥 Charlie (SNL - LA mush mouth) - 0
💒 Renaldo (SNL - Vow Renewal) - 2
🌊 Juan Badillo (Graceland) - 3
⚖️ Nathan Landry (The Good Wife) - 8
🧛🏼 Eddie (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) - 13
👨🏻🏫 Mr. Ben (SNL - Fan Cam Assembly) - 20
😷 Ted Garcia (Eddington) - 24
🐎 Silva (Strange Way of Life) - 27
🏔️ Comandante Veracruz (Burn Notice: The Fall of Sam Axe) - 30
✋🏽 Shane "Dio" Morrissey (NYPD Blue) - 34
🥵 Lucien (The Uninvited) - 39
📼 Clint Flood (Freaky Tales) - 43
💵 Harry Castillo (Materialists) - 112
🤑 Maxwell Lord (WW84) - 169
🎥 Javi Gutiérrez (TUWOMT) - 261
🩸 Max Phillips (Bloodsucking Bastards) - 267
🦸🏻♂️ Marcus Moreno (We Could Be Heroes) - 301
🥼 Reed Richards (F4: First Steps) - 363
⚔️ Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II) - 378
🗡️ Pero Tovar (The Great Wall) - 400
🧎🏻 Dave York (Equalizer 2) - 462
💊 Dieter Bravo (The Bubble) - 462
tagging some mutuals for visibility and reach (let me know if you'd like to be removed): @80ssong @half-moon16 @baronessvonglitter @ak-vintage @bergamote-catsandbooks @iknowisoundcrazy @peepawispunk @kedsandtubesocks @lotusbxtch @inept-the-magnificent @mandaloriankait @cosmickid-inmotion @sin-djarin @burntheedges @whocaresstillthelouvre @justagalwhowrites @almostempty
Pairing: Lucien de Leon x Cursed Mannequin (Vivien)
Summary: You were made to be looked at. Created as an empty plastic object, modified to be a set dressing. But you want to be used. He doesn’t notice right away. But something about you is uncanny. Too perfect. Too still. The shape of you presses on the back of his brain like deja vu dipped in rot. You’re only plastic, but your mouth is parted just enough to whisper. You’re cold and rigid. He’s warm. Alive. (see the rest of the prompt here if you'd like).
tags/warnings: E-rated, dd;dne, MDNI!!: Heed all warnings PLZ you're on your on after this, P in V (unprotected), oral (f receiving), character deaths (murder, suicide), jealousy, obsession, drinking, cursing. Think that's all the big ones.
word count: 12.7k (lol oops)
note: This was written for @gothcsz & @almostempty for the Every Angel is Terrifying (EAT!) Challenge (sorry it took me forever lmao). I've never written something like this and then IDK what happened LOLL...It got away from me like crazy. Hope y'all enjoy this demented fucking fever dream.
The thought has crossed your mind before—or whatever it inside you that possesses you, drives you.
You’ve craved the gentle but firm touch of a man—the warmth of his body against your cold plastic.
You’re well away of the price of getting what you want. You’ve seen other men who were attractive, charismatic—but none that look at you the way he does. You’ve thought about doing it before just to be freed from the stiff plastic that confines your spirit but now you know for sure—he’s the one worth following through with it for.
A soul for a soul was the trade off you were left with when you were cursed. There were no instructions, just that you’d know what to do when the right time came.
You only get one chance. And now you plan to take it.
Decades—its been decades that you’ve been the perfect prop. You’ve been used on countless movie sets, but you’ve never been the star.
You could never be under these conditions; because you’re just a beautiful hunk of plastic—the perfect body, tits, and lips. If only it weren’t for your lack of a soul—lack of humanity—your dreams could come true. You’ve watched actors all around you, both incredible and those who make you question how they even landed the job. You’ve spent years taking notes, studying, practicing to be the best—been dressed in all the most gorgeous costumes that the actresses you model them for could never pull off the way you do—only to be placed back in the dark dampness of a props closet at the end of shooting.
It should be you in front of the camera. You’d never age, forever youthful by design. It should be you walking the red carpets, arm and arm with your handsome costar—flirting for the media, stirring up rumors amongst your fans. The thought of it would warm your skin and stretch a smile across your face if you were capable of it—especially since you can only picture it with him…Lucien DeLeon.
He doesn’t notice you at first even though you’re dressed up in a slinky silky get up, modeling what his co-star will wear during their love scene.
You find it funny they label it “love,” because you’d like him to do the same type of things to you and it's the furthest thing you could imagine from love—or whatever the magic of the movies has shaped as your vision of love.
The costume designer is finishing up some last minute measurements as you watch him rehearse in the corner with her. You don’t know her name and you don’t fucking care, a surge of what you assume is jealousy. If your eyes could roll, they’d be in the back of your head as you evaluate her performance.
When it’s time to shoot, you’re stripped bare—your costume being handed off for her to go change into so they can get going. You’re there, frozen in the corner with your tits in his direct line of view off-camera. When he steps onto the set of the bedroom, he catches a glimpse of you—of them—out of the corner of his eye and you swear you see him do a double take. They’re deceptively life-like, although still uncanny on second glance.
You watch intently when they call action—the way he slinks up to her, wraps his strong arms around her waist, the way he squeezes her ass as he backs her up to the bed. The way his voice dips in sickly thick seduction is something you want to hear over and over again. When you see his tongue roll against hers a sound is compelled out of you—something new even for you—and the director calls, “CUT!”
“What the fuck was that, huh? Who was it? Is it your first day on Earth? How many times do I have to say it? QUIET ON THE FUCKING SET!”
If you could, you’d feel bad for whoever is going to be chewed out privately later for your mistake.
But seriously, what the fuck was that?
You were manufactured a long time ago and you’ve never done something like that in all your years of being “alive.”
You notice he glances your way again as they reset—you imagine yourself biting your lip in return.
When the director calls “ACTION!” again, you know you’re not just seeing what you want to see. His eyes bore into you as he goes in for a kiss with his costar again, dropping down to your firm breasts before he closes his eyes.
He’s handsome—strikingly so—and moves like he knows he is. His confidence borders on the verge of cockiness, but somehow he still manages to be charming—a dangerous combo that apparently even plastic isn’t immune to.
After filming is over for the day, you’re stashed back away in the closet, shut in darkness until they need you again tomorrow.
That’s why you’re surprised when you hear the door creak open quietly—after you know everyone is usually gone for the day.
You catch a split second of his silhouette as he slips inside before it goes dark again when the door clicks closed.
“This is so fucking stupid, what are you doing?” you hear him mumble to what he thinks is himself as a light from his phone shines toward your direction.
He came back for you.
If you had a stomach, you’d feel what you’ve heard be described as butterflies there.
He approaches you cautiously, as if he’s afraid of the dark and the uncanny vision of you amongst it. He walks up to you, inquisitive, as his eyes scan your always made-up face then slowly move down your body. His hair is a mess, but he’s still devastatingly sexy—even more so up this close. He has deep brown eyes that he can flip at the drop of a hat from alluring innocence to a gaze so intense and focused you can almost feel alive.
He reaches a hand up, slowly, stopping just short of touching the curve of your perfectly sculpted waist. You can’t move, of course, can’t coax him along to touch you with a sweet tease, but in your head you’re begging him to. You want to feel what she got to feel earlier today.
He shakes his head to himself at his ridiculousness and then follows through—his hand slowly sliding from your side up to cautiously cup the side of one of your tits. He exhales hard and you swear you feel it again—a sound compelled from your barely parted lips—a quiet sigh that’s amplified in the isolation of the closet.
Suddenly his hand jerks back and he stumbles away, knocking over one of the other mannequins that stood next to you.
“What the fuck?” he hisses in surprise, “no fucking way. You’re fucking hearing things. You’re losing it again, asshole,” he continues as he makes his way back to the door.
If you could call out for him, you would. As hard as you try, words are impossible. All you leave him with is a string of quiet pants that you hope echo in his head tonight.
…………………………………….
He stumbles out of the props closet door, trying as hard as he can to play it cool—he wasn’t afraid. What is he? A child? Scared of the mannequin in the dark?
No, he wasn’t scared.
Well—maybe he was for a second, but now on the other side of the door, he swears he heard you make a sound that he’s heard so many other women make and it sends blood directly to his cock.
“Jesus what the fuck is wrong you with?” he mumbles as he adjusts himself.
Back at his apartment, he can’t erase it from his brain—even if he imagined the sounds you made, your tits were most definitely not imagined—and to be honest, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s jerked off too.
He doesn’t know what it is about you that intrigued him enough to seek you out after hours—some kind of omnipresent pull seemed to tell him to do it so he obeyed.
He cracks a beer that he carries with him to the shower—following the same routine as most of his nights when he’s not making himself comfortable at one of his conquest’s places instead. He’s started seeing one of those kookie LA healers that told him he needs to channel his energy differently if he truly wants to succeed.
Be intentional, leave the recklessness and empty sex behind. You’re not getting any younger.
He figured he should heed the advice—he has a weakness that’s left him with three unplanned kids already.
He hops into bed after finishing up his nightly routine and settles in. Flashes of the day crossing behind his eyelids until they land on you. The images of the curve of your breasts, long legs, and painted lips dance across his mind—he slowly sinks a hand down to grip his hardening cock, an urge he can’t resist even though he’s aware that he’s fucking his hand to the thought of an inanimate object.
When he comes, he’s struck with a feeling he hasn’t experienced before. He can’t place it. It’s so….foreign—it feels like that same pull he felt that led him to the closet to find you earlier, only stronger, and it infiltrates his mind.
A couple days later, he’s called back to set. He finds the props manager and asks if he can borrow a mannequin from the closet—something to take back to his trailer to practice his lines against when his costar isn’t available. She looks at him like he’s insane, but he doesn’t care. He’s decided he has to have you.
He does what he does best and charms her into giving into his ask. She rolls her eyes and walks him over to the closet. When she opens the door for him, he acts confused until she directs him to where you and your other plastic friends stand. He thanks her and makes his way inside.
He slides his hand across the others as he comes up to you, inspecting them as if he ever considered another. When he’s face to face with you, he looks to the manager who waits by the door, “is this one okay to borrow?” he asks with an innocent pout.
“Sure, whatever Lucien. Now get out of my props closet,” she steps aside, her arm outstretched to guide him out.
“Thanks, I owe you,” he mumbles as he grips your waist.
…………………………………………
You nearly jump when you hear the door open earlier than usual—or you would’ve if you could. You’re preoccupied by something strange that happened to you last night. It’s hard to tell time in the darkness of the closet, but you think it was later in the night that you felt something you haven’t experienced before—a rush of warmth between your legs, followed by a louder sound than what you had slipped from you earlier that night when Lucien touched you. You’ve been reeling ever since and even though you’re confused at the sensation, you know you need to feel it again.
You’ve never felt something so good in your entire life.
You think you feel yourself shudder when you hear his voice—when you realize your surprise visitor is him. He came back for you again.
“Is this one okay to borrow?”
You watch with your permanently sultry painted on eyes as he asks the props manager to have you, a hand gently cupping your side.
When she gives her approval, you wish you could scream with excitement. You’ve never been brought to an actor’s trailer before.
He slings you over his shoulder as he exits. You feel like those girls in the movies who get swept off their feet and into bed on their honeymoons.
His trailer is small, but he makes a space to stand you up. You’re still naked, but that seems to be the least of his concerns—in fact you prefer it this way so you can revel in the way he looks at your form.
“Fuck am I crazy?” he says to himself once he’s done setting you up. “Am I crazy?” he turns to ask you.
You pretend you can laugh and tell him “no, of course not.”
He splays across his tiny trailer couch and yawns as he stares at you. You’re flattered at how enamored he seems to be with you. You imagine straddling his lap, playing with his hair as he relaxes in between takes. His eyes dip to your tits, their favorite place to rest apparently, and you feel a subtle pulse where your pussy would be.
“Hmm, maybe I should name you? Or do you already have a name?” he narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Nevermind, don’t answer that,” he chuckles to himself.
You’ve never had a name before, though you have desired one—maybe one like one of your favorite old Hollywood stars or something based in nature.
“What do you think about….” he draws out, “Greta?”
Silence.
“Nah. You’re not a Greta. Hmm. Scarlet?” he ponders.
Silence.
Inside you’re giggling and telling him you think he’s close. One of your favorites played a “Scarlet.”
“Vivien,” he says at the same time you think it.
In whatever makes up your imagination, you’re grabbing his face and laying one on him.
He gave you a name—this is the closest you’ve felt to being real.
Pleased with his conclusion, he gets back up off the couch and walks over to you. A bit of your hair has fallen into your face in the shuffle and he brushes it away to see you better. The feeling of his fingertips delicately sweeping the perfect waves from your face sets off a string of those pulses again and another sigh slips from your lips.
He jumps back again, startled as he stares at you, but he shakes it off and scoots up to you again. He wraps a warm arm around you, pulling you into him, and now you’re the one who’s curious.
What is he doing?
“I don’t know what it is,” he almost whispers, “but I needed you—” he’s interrupted with a knock at the door.
“Lucien!” you hear through the door, “its your call time, what the fuck are you doing in there? You better not have one of the PAs in there again.”
“Fuck,” he huffs, “Coming! Sorry, lost track of time!”
He grabs his script off the counter and looks back at you one last time before he closes the door behind him.
If you weren’t sure before, now it's confirmed. It’ll be worth it for him.
…………………………………………..
You wait in the trailer all day for him to come back—as if you can do anything else. You can’t…at least not yet. You imagine him coming home to you, calling you by your name—you’d greet him at the door with a kiss and a drink. Later that night, he’d take you to bed and fall asleep still buried inside of you.
Inside you—you have no context for how it should feel, but for all the talk you’ve heard about sex around you over the years, it sounds transcendent, indescribable unless you’ve felt it for yourself. You imagine what it would feel like to be warm like him as he buries himself into you— eyes clenched shut at the sensation of wrapping around him.
You have to make it happen no matter what.
When he comes back to the trailer, he sighs and rubs his temples. It must’ve been an exhausting shoot day and you didn’t get to see any of it—a weird, but welcome change.
“Hey Vivien,” he says as he yawns. Then he laughs and shakes his head again—still seemingly in an amused disbelief that he’s talking to a mannequin.
You figure he’ll get used to you. He’ll have to once you carry out the necessary steps to become his—for real.
Its fate—it has to be. No one else has made you feel before—or at least that’s what you assume you’ve been experiencing since he’s taken an interest in you. He must be feeling the same—he even said he doesn’t know what it is, that he needs you. Something in the universe wants this to happen—now is finally the time.
You just have to identify your target.
“You know what…I think I’ll take you back to my place tonight, how’s that sound?” he smirks in your direction. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that. They re-worked some of my lines tonight and I need to practice.”
If you had a heart, it would be swelling right now.
………………………………………………………
He got his ass handed to him on set today. He was unusually in his head, thoughts floating back to you between half-assed takes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” his frustrated costar had asked.
“Nothing, Anna. Let's just run it again, okay?”
As he loads you up in the passenger seat of his car, he makes a joke about being able to drive in the carpool lane. He immediately feels ridiculous again that he’s talking to a piece of plastic, but somehow he still feels nervous. As if he’s trying to impress.
He tells you all about his day, the way you were in his head, the annoyance Anna had at his ability to stay focused.
He swears he sees a soft smile grow across your face as he drives, like you’re listening.
When he parks at his place, he carries you upstairs and delicately places you down on the floor of his living room. The kitchen is connected in one open-concept type plan, so he walks over to the fridge to throw some Chinese left-overs from the night before in the microwave.
“Guess I don’t need to worry about making sure you eat, do I Vivien?”
After he eats and cracks open a drink, he carries you to his bedroom, setting you in the corner across from his bed. He adjusts you just right as he sips a beer, unabashedly taking in your perfect form now that it's only you and him. He runs a hand up your side, like he did that first night he touched you, and then swipes a thumb across an always-hardened nipple. Despite how crazy he feels, he’s trying his best to funnel the recklessness into a less harmful channel—you can’t get a mannequin pregnant.
“You know, I really did want to run lines tonight but…” he trails off before setting his beer down on a small night table next to him.
……………………………………………..
His warm thumb brushes across your nipple and the warmth you’d felt between your legs the night before ignites again. Something within you feels powerful and grows the more his attention is on you. You’d heard this is how it goes—the very beginning steps that set off the chain of events to make you real—the more you’re touched, the more he thinks about you, the more real you become so that you can carry out the rest to become complete.
It would get bloody before then, however.
But it would be worth it.
You know, now, how he desires you. You’ve never felt it before, but his hardened cock pushes into your leg as he shifts in front of you. When he looks you in the eyes, inches from your face, you actually feel yours shift for the first time. He’s startled again, but this time, he doesn’t stumble backwards or jump away from you—he leaves a hand planted on your hip, though it trembles.
“Are you in there?” he jokes, laughing nervously.
“Yes,” you try to whisper, but you’re unable to say the word.
You listen as he gets ready for bed, the sound of the shower running, steam leaking from under the door into the bedroom where you wait. You feel your eyes shift again and realize you’re gaining control of them—and just in time too.
He emerges from the bathroom with a towel draped around his waist. He uses another to squeeze water from his hair as he walks across the bedroom. He sighs heavily, then drops the towel around his waist as he climbs into bed naked.
You’ve never seen a fully naked man before. The sight of his half-hard length bouncing as he makes himself comfortable has you entranced, desperate to know what it feels like in your hand—the way he’d react to your touch. He drops a hand down to play with it briefly but sleep gets the best of him before he can really get going.
You’re what you think is called disappointed.
You know you should use your newly realized power carefully—too much too fast could scare him away—but you can’t help it tonight. You need to be inside his mind. Inside his dreams. You can plant yourself there, speak to him, touch him, show him you can be real—fuel it on so you can become stronger.
He twitches in his sleep and you see his eyes frantically moving beneath his eyelids. He’s dreaming—now is the time to slip into his subconscious.
………………………………………………..
You enter his dream and find him at a bar. It’s lively and people laugh loud and toss drinks back. On the other end, groups play darts and pool. You’re wearing the slinky slip dress you’d had on on set the other day. It clings to your newly fleshed out curves even better than the cold plastic of your real life body. You spot him sitting at the bar, chatting someone up—she looks like his current costar and you feel your blood run hot.
Blood. You think. You have blood.
Some drunk asshole stumbles into you and you push him up and away from you.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he slurs in your direction.
Touch?
“You could feel me touch you?” you ask in surprise.
“Uhh yeah? What the fuck are you smokin’ lady?” he asks belligerently.
Smoking?
“Um, Nothing?” you reply, confused.
He huffs and then yells to his friends as he walks back over to them “this chick’s a fuckin alien, man, what the fuck!”
The shouting seems to get Lucien’s attention. He cranes his neck back to see what the commotion is until his eyes land on you. They immediately go from annoyed to soft as you get closer to him. His co-star is next to him, patting his arm to get his attention, but he ignores her as he stands to greet you.
“Vivien?” he asks surprised.
“Yes, uh hi—it's me, Lucien,” you say too quietly, still not acclimated to the sound of your own voice or the way it carries. The fact that you have one here ignites something in you. Now that he can hear you, you can voice what you’re feeling—actually talk to him. You have skin and real hair and—warmth.
He reaches a hand up to cup under your elbow, guiding you closer to him.
“But—you’re—you’re warm. You’re walking, talking,” he stammers.
“I’m real now, Lucien! I came to find you—so you could see,” you smile—a real smile.
“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he’s still confused, but he looks happy to see you. The compliment makes your face heat and your heart rate spike.
“Oh, wow,” you say as you giggle at the new sensations.
“Oh, wow, is right—uh,” he shakes his head in welcome bewilderment, “I should introduce you to Anna,” he says.
“Anna?”
“Yeah—my costar. Maybe you’ve seen her around set?”
Anna.
“Oh, Anna. Yes, of course,” you plaster on the biggest fake smile you can muster.
He guides you over to where she’s propped on a bar stool, looking at you in a much less amused way. You shift where you stand, uncomfortable with the energy she’s projecting that only intensifies your dislike of her.
Suddenly you understand the true feeling of jealousy.
“Anna, this is Vivien. Vivien, Anna,” he motions between the two of you.
“Hi,” you both say at the same time, with equal amounts of vitriol. You knew she was into him. You could tell by the way she follows him around set like a sick puppy.
Anna—she’ll be your target. She has to be. You’ll exchange—then you’ll have the career you’ve always loved and Lucien on your arm.
“Can I get you a drink, Vivien?” he asks.
You’re in the middle of answering with a “sure” when the location of the dream jumps to his apartment—dream time isn’t like real time at all, you realize. You’ve never been in a dream, let alone someone else’s.
He’s leading you inside with a hand at your lower back. You shiver—really— at the feeling of it there as he closes the door behind him.
You stand in the middle of the living room, taking it all in. It looks exactly as it does in real life, but there’s a certain quality to it that feels so surreal. It almost glows.
He approaches from behind and ghosts his lips down the back of your neck causing your body to break out in goosebumps. Your hair stands on its ends.
A quiet shaky gasp leaves your lips as the new sensations rip through your body and you grip onto his arms where they’re wrapped around your waist. You’re afraid if you let go your newly usable knees will give out underneath you.
“God, you’re so sensitive aren’t you, Viv?” he mumbles against your skin.
Your mind is reeling from the overwhelming presence of him pressed against you. His gruff voice vibrating against your back sends jolts of electricity to your core—another new sensation.
“I’ve never—felt this before, Lucien,” you breathe and then turn around in his arms to face him.
“Oh? Yeah. I guess that would make sense wouldn’t it?” he chuckles under his breath. You bite your lip as you giggle. When you release your plump lower lip, his eyes drift down to look as you instinctively dart your tongue out to wet it.
The look in his eyes has your head spinning.
“You wanna make me feel good, Lucien?” you whisper.
“Its all I’ve been able to think about for weeks,” he ghosts against your lips.
You whimper in response and then he crashes his lips against yours, slowly backing you up towards the bedroom as he consumes each one of your breathless pants. You tangle your fingers in his soft brown locks while he grips handfuls of your ass, moaning quietly when his tongue drags across your lip.
You’d always heard kissing could be something amazing, but not like this. Its intimacy is overwhelming and though you’re not sure you know what you’re doing, it doesn’t seem to bother him.
He backs you up to the edge of his bed and you sit when you feel it hit the back of your knees. He stands in front of you and unbuttons his silky shirt and you stare in awe as it drops to the floor.
He’s so beautiful, you think.
And now he’s going to be yours.
As he leans over you, you begin to scoot back up the bed. He captures your lips sloppily as he crawls above you, pushing you onto your back once you’re fully settled. He cages you between his strong arms and your hands fly up to grip his shoulders—the taut muscle flexing under your fingers and holds himself up on top of you. When he settles between your legs, you feel his length press against you through his pants and you gasp in surprise.
You do what you remember seeing in some scenes you’ve watched be filmed before and drag your hand down to rub him through his pants. It elicits a deep groan from his chest and you feel empowered by his reaction.
“Am I doing it right, Lucien?” you pout seductively.
“Yeah, baby, fuck. You’re doing it right,” he hisses when you grip him harder. When your eyes catch his again, warmth floods your core as you recognize his expression—one you’ve always wanted to see bestowed upon you.
Lust, desire, raw want.
He looks like he could tear you apart and it makes your newly usable pussy clench around nothing.
As he rubs his hand up and down the length of your curves he asks, “can I take your dress off? Want to see how pretty you look laying naked in my bed.”
You nod your head quickly in response and that’s all it takes for his hands to dive under the silky fabric. You sit up as he pulls it up over your head, then lean back on your hands, your chest heaving in anticipation—you want his hands, his mouth, all over your skin. He looks down at you in awe, your perfect tits now on display for him in your human form.
You watch as he brings his thumb to his mouth to wet it, then starts to circle it around a nipple. Your mouth drops open in a silent O and suddenly your arms can’t hold you up anymore.
“So fucking pretty for me, baby. So perfect,” he mumbles as he drops his head down to suck your nipple in his mouth.
At this, your mind goes blank as you writhe underneath him—a loud moan rips from your throat as you grip onto the back of his neck.
“Fuck, Lucien. Ohmygod,” you pant.
“Feels good doesn’t it, pretty girl?” he pants against your skin as he starts to kiss a trail down your tummy.
“Mmmh, yes,” you whine.
Then it hits you—he called you a “girl” and in this moment you feel real. You are real—and there’s no way you can go back to being a cold piece of plastic. You won’t give up this feeling, no matter the costs.
When he reaches the waist band of your panties, you sit back up again to look at him. He kisses and licks on top of the fabric as he inhales your scent—something you didn’t even know you had—looking up at you with wild, deep brown eyes.
It's the most beautiful you’ve ever seen a man look.
You want him to look at you that way forever.
“So wet for me, baby. I can feel you soaking through,” he breathes against your pulsing core. “Do you want me to take these off?”
“Yes, please—but wait. I want to see you, Lucien. Can I please see it?” you beg.
He pushes off the bed wordlessly, standing at the side as you watch him. He pulls his pants and boxers down all at once and his thick cock springs free. You watch, fascinated, as it bounces as he crawls back onto the bed. Once he’s back between your legs, he slowly drags his fingers gently up your thighs and then hooks them underneath your panties, nudging you to lift your hips up so he can remove them.
He tosses them to the floor and then his eyes dart back to your exposed folds, spread bare and glistening in front of him.
“Fuck,” he pants, “that’s the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. Bet you taste so good.” He pushes himself back to lay in front of you, taking in every bit of you.
“Taste?” you ask, confused.
Before you get an answer, he drags his tongue slowly up your slit and you feel your brain short-circuit. You immediately collapse back against the bed, a desperate sound you’ve never heard before leaves your lips.
Your eyes flutter closed as he flattens his tongue and drags it through your folds again, teasing your clit at the top with a suck.
“Ohh, what the fuck?!” your cry reverberates off the bedroom walls, shocked by the sensation.
“That feel good, baby?” he breathes against you.
“Ohmygod, yes. Don’t stop, please, please,” you chant.
“You wanna see how wet you are for me?” he taunts, his voice low.
“Yes, Lucien. Show me,” you pant.
You whimper quietly as he glides his fingers through your entrance, gathering up your slick. Then he brings his fingers out in front of him to show you, your sticky sweetness stringy between his fingers as he separates them. You watch, enthralled— high—off the fact that you are most definitely real here—your body able to produce what you need for one of the most basic, primal human functions. It fascinates you.
When he brings his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean, your jaw drops. Before you have time to close it, he’s crashing his lips against yours again—teasingly rolling his tongue against yours to give you a taste of yourself.
He moans into your mouth as you lick into him, desperate for more. It’s an intoxicating, musky sweet—its you.
He settles between your legs again, his pulsing cock dragging against your folds as you start grinding against each other. You’re surprised that you don’t even have to think about what to do. Your body just knows—so you give into it completely.
Little moans and gasps leave your lips and he drinks every single one of them in, his eyes squeezed shut as the chorus of the both of you fills the room.
“You want me to fuck you now, Viv?” he pants desperately against the crook of your neck. “Please let me fuck you. Need to feel this tight pussy choke me.”
“Yes. Wanna feel you fill me up,” you whisper against his shoulder, leaving kisses along it before you bite down. A groan rumbles in his chest as he bites down on the sensitive skin of your neck in return.
At your approval, he lines himself up and starts to push in slowly. His eyes lock onto yours as he sinks deeper. You struggle to keep yours open, but force yourself to anyway.
You don’t want to miss a single flash of pleasure across his face.
When he bottoms out, you moan into each other's mouths and he pauses—his lips move to pepper kisses across your cheeks. You feel yourself adjusting—fluttering around his thickness, your heart swelling simultaneously at his tenderness.
Is this what it feels like to be in love?
“How do you want it, pretty girl? Tell me,” his hips start to rock and your eyes squeeze closed at the feeling of him barely dragging through you.
“Fuck me how I know you’ve been wanting to, Lucien. I want to feel what you think about when you look at me,” your voice drips in seduction.
Suddenly you feel bold. Powerful. Alive.
He starts slowly, savoring every roll of your hips against his—your lips meeting in sporadic messy kisses. You watch him, intrigued, as his face pinches in ecstacy before he buries himself in the crook of your neck. You whimper and pant quietly in his ear and it eggs him on, his pace increasing when you suck and bite his ear lobe.
He hooks an arm under your leg and pushes into you deeper. Your eyes roll back in your head as you let out a drawn out moan that surprises you.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he pants as he props himself up on his other arm. “Need to feel how hard you squeeze me when I make you come all over me.”
“Do I feel good?” You ask curiously.
“You feel fucking incredible, Viv,” he grits as he starts to take long, deep strokes that make your head spin.
“Ohhh, Lucien, yes. Right there, yes,” you hiss and throw your head back against the pillow. You don’t even know what he’s hitting deep inside you, but you know you don’t want him to stop.
When he brings a hand down between your bodies to slowly circle your clit, your back arches off the bed as you cry out. He keeps the pace, long and deep, attuned to the way your body responds to him—he knows you’re close even before you do.
“Yeah, pretty girl—fucking come for me,” he brings himself down to hover over you again, his lips brushing against yours—swallowing every moan and whimper that escapes you.
You push your head forward to suck his bottom lip between your teeth and he groans, his thrusts getting sloppier the closer he gets to his release.
You can’t wait to see it. To feel it.
The thought of it sends you into a spiral—combined with the drag of his tip against what you assume is your g-spot, you’re sent over the edge. Your vision goes white as you squeeze your eyes shut, your body tenses and spasms underneath his as you dig your nails into his shoulders so hard, you draw blood.
“Fuck,” he pants, “ohmyfuckinggod. I’m gonna come, Viv,” his thrusts become frantic as he chases his end.
“Wait, Lucien. I want to see,” you push yourself up onto your elbows and he makes room for you to watch as he slams in and out of your flesh over and over.
You’re entranced by it—the shine of your slick on his shaft, the sounds he makes that hit your ears when he plunges in again. You look up at him through your lashes, your lips parted as you watch him fall apart with a loud moan. You look back down at where you're attached to watch as he pulses inside of you, hot ropes of him coating your walls.
“Oh my god,” you whisper in complete amazement.
He slows down and his breathing returns to normal, but your eyes are still glued to the way his cock looks inside of you. When he slowly pulls out, a quiet moan leaves your lips as you watch his spend begin to leak out of you.
He rolls off of you the rest of the way and onto his side. You follow his lead and lay back, drinking in the feeling of being fucked into a state of ascension for the first time. You’ve never felt so incredible in your entire life.
“You doing okay, Viv?” he rasps as he draws soft circles against your skin.
“I’m doing great,” you giggle. “That was—fucking amazing.”
“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” he chuckles. “I’m sure there’s better out there somewhere.”
“I don’t want better. I want you, Lucien,” you turn on your side to face him.
You thought he was beautiful before, but now—with the way his freshly fucked out face glows in in the soft light of his room you swear you’re in what you’ve heard be described as heaven.
“I want you too. I just—wish this wasn’t a dream. I wish this could be real,” he reaches a hand out to cup your cheek gently.
“It can be—it will be real. I’ll be real,” the words tumble out of your mouth with conviction.
“What? How would that even be possible?” his face pinches in confusion.
“It just—will be. I can make it happen,” you assure.
“Viv, what? How? Can you tell me how?” his voice begins to muffle—like he’s becoming out of reach. You hear a harsh beeping sound that grates your nerves and the room starts to feel cold and gusty. “Vivien, tell me. When will I be able to see you again? Like this?”
His voice sounds warped, like he’s being sucked away from you. You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Your mouth begins to morph back into hard plastic and before you know it, you’re shot back into your plastic shell of a body as Lucien hits the alarm next to his bed.
He sits up slowly, like he’s dazed. You watch as he rubs his hands over his face in disbelief or shock—you’re not sure which. The more he wakes, the more you want to go to him. You crave what it would feel like to wake up next to him every day, his strong arms holding you against the warmth of his body, to experience a lazy breakfast together—finally find out what all the fuss over coffee is about.
He pries himself from bed and immediately walks over to you in your corner, his gaze would’ve lit you on fire if you could still feel your skin. He comes to stand in front of you, then brushes his hand against yours gently. You try with everything in you to hold his hand, but the most that happens is a tiny wiggle of your index finger.
He pulls his hand back in disbelief—unsure if what he just felt was real or if he’s still in the haze of his dream and imagining it.
“Viv, do it again. If this is actually happening, move your fingers again. I feel like I’m going fucking insane. Please, Vivien,” he reaches his hand out to touch yours again.
If you had a heart, it would be bursting at the seams.
If you could cry, you’re certain tears would be rolling down your cheeks.
You focus again on connecting your growing consciousness to whatever is slowly giving you the gift of movement. He needs this.
And you need him to know he’s not crazy.
You try and try but nothing happens. His face drops down to where he holds onto your cold hard plastic hand, desperately willing it to move.
And then you do it.
You wiggle all five fingers against his. His breathing hitches then quickens. He looks up at your face, his brow furrowed in an emotion you can’t quite place. You don’t know if you’ve ever even seen it before in anyone else—whether real or acting.
It has to be tonight.
You can’t wait any longer.
You need him. He needs you.
Now you just have to figure out how to strike.
………………………………………………
You want to send him off to set for the day with an embrace and a kiss that promises something more for when he returns. Instead, all you can do is watch as he looks back at you one last time before he steps out of his room and into the hallway.
Your head floods with the images from the dream and the way you finally felt—alive. A barely audible whimper slips from your lips when you remember the way he felt dragging in and out of you and the barely contained restraint he showed as he watched the way your eyes rolled back because of him.
You hope he thinks of you today—you need him to if you want to have any chance of being able to move your body fully in order to carry out what needs to be done next.
Slowly throughout the day, you feel your hands and feet shift from their hard plastic state to something more pliable and you know…
He’s thinking about you.
Just a little while longer and you’ll be that much closer to becoming his. The thought makes you remember the way your heart felt as it raced when you caught sight of him in your shared dream.
Your knees can bend slightly, although stiffly—followed by your elbows, your neck. You wiggle your toes with amazement and count down the last couple of hours before he’s home.
As the light of the LA sunset caresses your face through the blinds, you hear the front door open and click behind him. You feel as excited as you can be, given your circumstances. You wait for him to enter the bedroom, for him to greet you, tell you how much he missed you all day and how he couldn’t wait to get home to you—
And then you hear a laugh.
Another woman’s laugh.
What the fuck?
Your mind races, but you can’t place what you’d be feeling if you could.
Anger? Betrayal?
All things you weren’t able to experience during your brief time in his mind.
“Do you have your script?” you hear him say to her.
It must be Anna.
Fucking Anna.
You know she’s been waiting to push things further with him. Now, in the quiet privacy of his apartment, she has more opportunity than ever to try it.
You can’t let that happen.
“You want a drink?” he asks.
“I’d never say no to you, Lucien,” you hear her respond.
The flirty lilt of her voice would make your fucking blood run cold if you had any. You haven’t been drunk before, but you’ve seen what it can do to a human’s inhibitions. You have to finish this before she gets a chance.
You have no choice but to listen to them run lines in between her giggles and failed advances towards him for what feels like an eternity, but you figure is actually only a few hours. The sun has long set and you wonder when the fuck she’s going to leave.
You hear Lucien yawn loudly and shuffling that you imagine is him getting up from the couch—hopefully walking her out until you hear her whine.
“I should probably head to bed soon, Anna. We can work on blocking on the set tomorrow,” he says.
“Lucien, I can’t go home now! It’s too dark and I’m drunk,” she giggles and you wish you could bash her face in.
“Anna…I—I’ll call you a cab or something, okay? I’ll even pay for it. You’ll get a better night's sleep at home,” he tries to convince her.
“No, no. That’s okay. I’ll sleep fine here,” she protests.
You hear him let out a heavy, defeated sigh.
“Fine, fuck it. You can sleep on the couch I guess. Here’s a blanket,” he mumbles.
You want to seethe. You want to go out there and yell at her and tell her to get out. That he’s asked her twice to leave, so what’s her problem?
Then it hits you.
Her being here is actually the perfect set up for you to carry out the rest of the steps.
Now is the time—and it just fell into your cold, plastic lap.
Lucien finally enters the bedroom for the first time since he got home. He comes to greet you and places a strong hand on your waist.
When you automatically twitch at his touch, his eyes go wide. An uncanny smile spreads across your face when he looks at you.
“Did you just—move like that? All on your own?” he whispers—careful not to be too loud. The last thing he needs is Anna hearing him talking to no one.
While you can move your mouth some, you still cannot speak the way you want to. So you use your slightly more elastic neck muscles to nod your head. Then you show him how you can wiggle your fingers and toes and slightly bend your knees.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles, “is it happening?” his breath quickens.
You nod your head again, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You want to tell him it will all be clear soon—that you can explain more when he goes to bed tonight and you’re able to enter his dream again.
For now, you just have to wait.
He brings a hand up to cup your face and a bashful smile spreads across your lips. He kisses your cheek sweetly before dragging his lips over to meet yours.
You want to pull him into you, tangle your fingers in his hair as he breathes you in—but you can’t perform the movements yet.
“If I go to sleep and start dreaming, will you be able to meet me there?” he ghosts against your lips.
You nod again and his eyes light up. He rushes to the bathroom and you hear the shower turn on.
Soon you’ll be able to join him for such things. You’ve always wondered what it would be like to share a shower with someone you love.
………………………………………………
He scrubs his body clean as fast as he can. Usually he prefers to draw his showers out and use some aromatherapy shit that was recommended to him by the healer had recommended to him, but tonight he has somewhere to be.
He shakes his head and chuckles quietly to himself that somewhere is just in his bed, in his own dream. He’ll be waiting for you in that bar again, a stool saved for you right next to him.
He worries his excitement may be a deterrent to getting to sleep, so after he hops out of the shower, he grabs a sleeping pill from his medicine cabinet. He pops it into his mouth, then dips his head under the bathroom faucet for water to swallow it. He wants to be able to get to you as soon as he possibly can. He wants to be able to get to you as soon as he possibly can—to feel your skin again, fingers ghosting along your soft curves, to hear the way his name sounds escaping from your lips as he plunges into you over and over. It sends a shiver down his spine in the best way.
When he walks back into the bedroom, he tosses his towel to the floor then crosses over towards you. He winks and gives a quick pat to your ass.
“See you soon, beautiful,” he says as he crawls into bed.
You wiggle in your fingers in what you think is called anticipation as you wait for him to start dreaming. You focus intently on the movements of his face and body as he twitches while he enters another realm of being.
When you notice the way his breathing changes, you know now is the time to go find him.
Entering this time feels different—more intense almost. You feel even more real than you did the first time, as if you were always meant to be like this. You push your way through the crowd, undeterred this time by any drunken rambunctiousness—your sole mission to make it to him.
He’s already waiting for you at the bar. His eyes automatically find yours when you reach the outskirts of the bunch of people behind you and a huge grin spreads across his face. He stands and comes over to meet you with a breathless kiss. You melt into him the way you wished you could have earlier tonight. When he breaks the kiss, he grabs you by the hand, guiding you to your saved place.
When you settle, you rest a hand on his strong thigh and beam up at him. He reflects your brightness back to you like a mirror and you’re reminded of what it feels like to have butterflies in your stomach again.
“I missed you so much, Viv,” he sighs.
“I missed you too, Lucien. When I started to be able to move more today, I knew you were thinking about me,” you giggle.
“Oh yeah? How did you know?”
“That’s just how it works,” you shrug, “the more you think about me, the more real I become. You asked me last time how I could do it—and that’s part of it, but I needed to meet you here tonight to ask you if you really want this—to ask you for…permission to go forwards,” you bite your lip nervously and dart your eyes down towards your lap.
He reaches a comforting hand over to your thigh and rubs up and down, “what is it, Viv? Don’t worry. I want this—I want you. I don’t care what it takes, okay? Just do it. Please,” he looks at you with such sincerity it makes your chest hurt.
“Okay, Lucien. I’ll do it. For you. For us,” you place your hand over his where it rests on your leg.
You stand from the bar stool as you prepare to leave his dream and enter your plastic-self once last time. Before you go, he grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in place. You look up at him with big, round eyes through your lashes.
God, he looks so pretty under these lights.
………………………………………………..
When you enter your plastic shell again, you notice that last contact with him in the dream has enabled you to be fully mobile now. You were hoping it would be enough to get you here. You needed the ability if you were going to take Anna out.
You quietly tip-toe to the bedroom door, then look back at Lucien’s sleeping form one last time before you step into the hallway. While not the same intensity of when you’re real deep in his mind, you still feel your heart swell.
The apartment is cloaked in darkness—it would be pitch black if not for the glow of the street lights glowing behind the closed blinds. You cross by the couch where a lump made up of blankets and Anna’s body lies fast asleep. You clench your fist at the sight of her and make your way to the kitchen.
You stand there in the dark as you think—should you smother her with a pillow? Choke her? Does Lucien have a gun? You’d never asked him. You never thought deciding on a method would be so hard.
You slide your hand down the cool granite counter top, then down to a handle on one of the drawers. You pull it open quietly and the sight within it forcing you to make up your mind—
A knife it is.
You slip your hand around the thick handle and lift it up slowly—the steel blade practically glowing in the deep blue light of night cast across it. You catch a blurry reflection of yourself on the broad side of the blade and it startles you at first—your face somewhere between that hard plastic and human—but powerful. You’ve reached where you need to be to finish this.
You’re so close.
You grip the knife in your hand tightly, determined. You move almost like a big cat stalking its prey as you slink up beside where she sleeps. Before you strike, you remember in movies you’ve seen filmed that people tend to scream in the face of death—especially when they’re being stabbed. It clicks to you to grab a pillow down by her feet to muffle the sounds.
You freeze when her breathing stutters a bit, afraid she’s sensed you or that she’ll open her eyes and see you standing there above her. You will her in your mind to just stay asleep, to not move, to not fuck this up for you. When her breathing steadies again, you know you have to do it.
There can be no more waiting.
You were gifted with this chance.
All at once, you straddle her while shoving the pillow hard into her face then plunge the length of the knife into her chest where you think her heart sits. Her arms flail around frantically at first, confused and unable to breathe. You pull the knife out and watch as deep red blood starts to stain her clothes, then drive it in again—again, again—until she’s stopped moving. You’re panting from the exertion as you look down at her, pillow still over her face. You pick yourself up off of her and realize you’re covered in her blood as your own has now formed within you—your confirmation that she’s gone. That you’re finally almost complete. Your eyes travel down to take in your arms, then your legs— they’re made of skin now, but they’re tainted with red.
You smile to yourself at the realization that you’re existing the way you were in his dream, except this is real—you’re really real. You’re breathing, you’re warm, a heart beats in your chest now.
You can’t wait to surprise Lucien, but you figure you should clean yourself up for the final act—to become fully human, you need him to fill you up the way he did when he fucked you in the dream. It sounds crazy, but you didn’t create the parameters needed to break the curse you suppose.
You make your way to the bathroom, a room you’ve never had to need to use before, and flip on the light. The sight of your now completely human face covered in Anna’s blood frightens you at first, but then you laugh to yourself at the way you look like a horror movie villain.
You don’t exactly know how to work a shower, but it doesn't seem too hard to figure out. You turn the knobs back and forth as you try to find the right temperature—something you’ve never had to consider before. You feel so alive even just from this small revelation. You can’t wait to experience all of what actual life has to offer—especially doing it all with Lucien by your side.
As you step out of the shower and tip-toe back to his room, your heart races and skips. Your hands tremble with excitement. When you get to the edge of the bed, you carefully lift the corner of the duvet up and slide yourself underneath. You’ve never laid down in a bed before. Your rest came in the form of the dark dampness of the props closet before Lucien.
You scoot yourself over closer to him—somewhat timidly, unsure if you should wake him, but when he feels your bare skin press to his back and your arm slowly wrapping around his waist, he stirs.
Your heart is beating so hard you hear the blood rushing in your ears. Everything since you met him has led up to this moment. He lifts his head slightly and peeks over his shoulder with one eye open, still half asleep as he takes in the sight of your face. You smirk nervously and can’t help but to avert your eyes. You hope you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
His eyes grow in surprise as he turns onto his other side to face you.
“Vivien—you’re here? Is this real?” He whispers, heavy with sleep.
“Yes, Lucien. I’m real. I’m not just in your dream anymore. Hi,” you giggle.
“Hi,” he smirks and brings a hand up to cup your cheek. You lean into his touch and bring your own hands up to hold his there as you take each other in.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Viv.”
“Really?” you hide your face slightly under the covers— embarrassed by actually being perceived for the first time as you.
“The most beautiful I’ve ever fucking seen,” he rasps. “C’mere.”
He pulls you in against his broad body and you quietly gasp at the contact. The warmth exchanged between you makes your head feel dizzy. When you think you can’t get any closer, he glides a hand up behind your thigh and hitches it up to drape over his hip before running it back up to caress the curve of your ass. Your breathing shudders as you look up at him.
“Is that okay, baby?” He lilts.
“Yes. It’s okay. It feels…nice to be touched. For real,” you breathe out. He’s got you wrapped in his arms and you’ve never felt so engulfed by someone in every way. He feels safe. It feels like this is where you’re supposed to be. Finally.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks quietly as he strokes your skin.
“Of course you can,” you purr.
His hand slides up your side before he settles it tangled in the hair at the back of your head as he pulls you in to meet his lips. You reach an arm over to drape across his shoulders and trail your fingers through the long waves at the base of his neck. It makes him sigh into you and deepen the kiss—you grab onto him with a growing neediness.
When his tongue drags across your top lip slowly, you part them wider for him then roll your tongue against his when he pushes his past your lips. You whimper into his mouth and feel him smirk—pleased at your response—against your lips. He takes his time with you at first with slow, gentle touches and kisses that turn your thoughts hazy, but when you feel his hardened length bump against your entrance a fervor washes over you. As much as you want him to take you apart the entire night, you have a mission you need to complete as soon as possible. You’d have the rest of your lives to take it slow anyways now.
You begin rolling your hips into his desperately, coating him in hot slick, urging him on to flip you onto your back and fuck you.
“Fuck, baby. You’re so wet already,” he dips his hand down between the two of you to tease your swollen lips. You moan and bite your lip as you nod at him drowsily. “Been losing my mind waiting to get you like this,” you groan in unison when he slides two fingers into your heat.
“Lucien, please—I need you,” you pant against his lips.
“Tell me what you need, Viv,” he grits before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth, fingers still dragging in and out of you slowly.
“I—I need you to fuck me. Please,” you whine. Your head spins at the overwhelm of sensations flooding your body. Fucking him was so good in the dream, but being here—in reality, with a real body—everything feels so much more visceral.
“Yeah? You think this pretty pussy’s ready for me, baby?” he pulls his fingers from your core, then smears your arousal along his throbbing cock as he pumps slowly into his hand.
“Yes. Please,” you pant, “I can take it,” you punctuate how serious you are by pulling his own hand off his cock to replace it with yours. You grip it hard and swipe your thumb over his leaking head, drawing a lewd hiss from his lips. The look of blown-out lust in his dark eyes makes you feel powerful and sends another wave of need through your core—your smirk at him darkly, daring him to finally give in and take you.
At your permission, he snaps. He rips your hand from his length by your wrist and flips you onto your back in one fluid motion, pinning your arm above your head. You let out a surprised gasp and arch your back into him.
“You gonna take it like a good girl? Gonna be the first and last cock you ever fucking take, huh?” he slurs across the sensitive skin of your neck.
“Oh my god,” you moan and tangle your fingers in the hair at the back of his head.
“Answer me, Viven,” he commands as he pulls your earlobe between his teeth.
“Yes, Lucien. Yes. I’ll take it like a good girl,” you babble, rolling your hips against him mindlessly—dying for any bit of friction.
He drops his face down to yours, capturing your lips in a deep kiss as he lines himself up against your folds. When his head slides through the tight ring of your walls, your mind goes blank and you cry out.
“You okay, Viv? Look at me,” he whispers as he gently cups your face, trying to draw your attention back to him.
“I’m okay, Lucien—feels so good,” you ghost across his lips.
“Fuck, baby. I know it does. You want more?” he rasps, his gaze locked onto yours.
You nod hurriedly and grip onto his shoulder as he repositions himself on his elbows above you to push in deeper. As he stretches you more, you dig your nails into his skin as the sting from his width mixes with your pleasure. You watch him as he looks down in between your legs as you suck him in, inch by inch—his mouth agape at the feeling of you adjusting around him. You swear it's the hottest thing you’ve ever seen—and it's all because of your body.
Once he’s bottomed out inside you, you only give him so much time before you urge him on to fuck you harder. You coo and encourage him with words that almost make him lose complete control, making you both more frantic and desperate. He thrusts into you with hard, deep strokes that push you up the bed from the force and weight of him, each one punctuated by one of your moans.
“Oh my god, Lucien—harder please,” you beg as you feel the crest of your orgasm beginning.
He groans and pants above you as he creeps closer to the edge— giving you what you asked for before he suddenly pulls out and grips your hips to flip you over. Something between a giggle and a moan rips from your chest—enthralled by how easy it is for him to manhandle you. He plants a hand down by where your face rests against the mattress and uses the other to prop your hips up. Without a word, he plunges back into you with one rough thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs and sets an unrelenting pace as he pushes you towards your end.
“Yeah, baby. Let me see how fucking pretty this ass looks bouncing on me,” he grits.
You chant his name over and over as if its the only word you’d ever need to know again. You remember your last thought before the white flash of light behind your eyelids being you’d worship him until you no longer could—he gave you life after all. He is your god. He deserves it.
As you come back into your body, eyes wet with tears of your overwhelming release, he pulls your hips back into him hard, followed by a wrecked moan as he fills you—each thick hot rope, met with a twitch and a shudder as he comes down from his high.
You roll over onto your back as he pulls out with a quiet gasp and lays beside you.
This is finally it.
Now you’re human forever.
You’re his forever.
As you both lay panting in complete satisfaction, he pulls you into him. You feel so pliable and warm wrapped in his arms. He brings a hand up to cup your face as he looks down at you, enamored in his post-sex haze.
“I need to see you in the light,” he mumbles then leans over you to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. The warm yellow glow fills the room and lights your features softly. “Fuck. You’re even more beautiful than in my dreams, pretty girl.”
You giggle and feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. You bite your lip as he glides his hand down the side of your body, pushing the duvet off of you as he goes.
“Lucien! I’m cold!” you giggle louder, “that feels so weird for me to actually be able to say.”
“Sorry, baby,” he smirks as he goes to bring the covers back over you. But before they get all the way back up, he freezes suddenly. You look over at him confused as he studies your body.
“What’s that?” he asks as his face contorts.
“What’s what?” You sit up now, concerned.
He smooths his thumb over an area of your thigh. You look down where he’s swirling it around a smudge of blood.
Fuck. You missed a spot. Ugh.
“Oh, umm…” you start.
“Is that blood? Are you okay, Viven? Did I hurt you?” he looks back at you with worry in his eyes.
“No! No. Of course not, Lucien. I’m fine,” you reassure him, thinking nothing of it.
“Well, where did it come from then? Are you sure you’re okay? Did you like—I don’t know, get a period or something when you became real?”
“What’s a period?” you ask.
…………………………………………………..
That’s when he feels his blood run cold.
“Viven—where did you go when you left my dream? Where did this come from?” His breath shudders and he pulls his hand away from you.
“My curse is broken now, Lucien. That’s all that matters, right?” You sit up, an urgency now surging through you.
“How did you do it, Viv? How did you break the curse?”
“I did what I had to do,” you whisper, almost defeated.
“What the fuck did you do, Viven? What the fuck did you do?” he stands up from the bed, looking down at you differently now. Almost as if he’s skeptical of you. You haven’t seen this look before or felt how fast bliss can turn to panic and worry as he backs further away.
These feelings don’t feel like anything you wish to experience again.
You’ve heard sometimes humans have a problem accepting death. You figure maybe he just needs some time to realize—you did it for him.
He grabs a pair of underwear from the floor and throws them on in a hurry before he rushes out of the room.
“Lucien! Lucien, wait!” you yell as you get up to follow him.
As you meet him in the living room, he flicks the lights on. You watch as he freezes, eyes and mouth wide at the bloody sight of Anna and her pillow-covered face on his couch.
“Lucien, let me explain, okay?” you try to reason. That will clear it up, surely. He can’t fully understand. You shouldn’t have expected him to without explanation.
You watch as he falls to his knees in front of the couch, then rush over to him with concern. You place a hand on his shoulder and he jerks away from you, as a deep sob rips from his throat.
“What the fuck did you do?! Fuck! What the fuck did you do?!” he screams at you over and over. “Fuck, fuck, oh my god, fuck,” he mumbles as he gets up from the floor.
“I told you, I had to do what I had to do. The only way to break the curse is to trade a soul for a soul. I can’t just create a soul out of nothing. I did it for you, Lucien. For us. You told me to do whatever it takes,” you step closer towards him as you speak.
He stumbles backwards towards his room and you feel your heart drop to your stomach when it hits you that he’s afraid of you.
Terrified.
Disgusted.
How could he be more disgusted by you as a human than he was when you weren’t real?
Your chest pulls tight as you find it harder to breathe. You don’t know what it is that you’re feeling, but you know it feels fucking awful. Tears prick your eyes and blur your vision of him as he darts into his room. You follow right behind him. As you reach his door, he’s coming right back out with his phone in hand as he brushes past you without a look. His hands are shaking as he holds it and tries to dial.
“Lucien, please,” you sob, “I’m sorry. This was the only way. I thought you wanted to be with me! I love you, Lucien. You have to understand. I know you love me too!” You ramble frantically now as you chase him to the kitchen.
For a brief moment, he’s conflicted on what he wants—wanted—versus what he knows he needs to do. He looks down at his screen and you watch as his trembling fingers start to dial, 9-1-
“No, Lucien. Don’t! Please!” You instinctually smack the phone out of his hand, knocking it to the floor. You both dip down at the same time, scrambling against each other, both desperate for your own reasons to come out the winner.
You grab it briefly but as you stand, he snatches it away from you and dials the final “1.” In the commotion and panic, he doesn’t realize you’ve reached back into the drawer where he keeps his knives and pulled out another. You’re sobbing now, completely devastated by his rejection—instead of protecting you, understanding you, he called the cops. As a storm of emotions overtakes your clarity, you lunge towards him, burying the knife in his stomach. He stumbles forward a bit into you at the shock, pushing your back against the countertop. His hands move down to where yours still hold the handle as a sob rips from your throat at his touch. His image is blurry in your tear-filled eyes—you never knew this much water could pour from them—as you pull the knife out and let it fall to the floor. He stumbles forward again and places a hand on the counter behind you as he tries to keep himself steady.
“Viv,” he whispers, his voice weak. You cup his jaw in your hand, your breath shaking as you watch the light go out of his teary eyes. You feel your heart literally breaking.
You swear you feel it. A thousand pieces of shards ripping you up from the inside.
When he collapses to the floor you fall to your knees next to him, clutching your chest. You feel like you can’t breathe, like the world is collapsing in on you and you’re suddenly wishing you couldn’t feel at all again. To be back in your hollow, plastic body, seeing life bustling around you but not living your own. How stupid you were to want to experience such a thing. This is the worst thing you’ve ever fucking felt and its—painful.
You only ever thought that pain referred to the physical. What did you do? He’d asked you over and over and now you’re asking yourself as you look over at his lifeless body.
He was the love of your life. He was supposed to love you, to want you. You made the ultimate sacrifice for him and he rejected you.
And now what do you do? Do you run? Grab some things and take yourself as far away from here as you can? How would you? You can’t drive a car. You don’t have any money. Do you even want to live knowing that this is what it feels like to be alive?
Your breathing steadies as you look at the blood-soaked floor around you. The light of his cellphone catches your eye and you notice the call has been running underneath the blood smeared across the screen. You silently, numbly, hit the end-call button even though it’s useless.
They’ll be coming for you.
Suddenly, a clarity washes over you. The blade of the knife sitting in his blood attracts you with a sparkle, coaxing you. If you can’t be with him in this life, you can be with him in the next for sure. You’ve heard people talk about the afterlife before—you die and when you get there everyone you love who left the Earth before you is there waiting to welcome and embrace you.
He’s the only one you’ve ever loved.
He’s the only one who will be there waiting for you.
You walk your fingers against the floor and run them over the knife before picking it up. You study it and ponder if death by it could hurt nearly as much as what you’ve already felt tonight.
Your hands shake and you cry quietly, steadily as you inspect it as if it’s something you’re just seeing for the first time. A foreign object—like you once were. How simple it was to have only one purpose.
A quiet whimper leaves your lips as you readjust on your knees and bring the tip of the knife to the same area of your stomach where you had stabbed Lucien. You want the last thing you feel to be what it felt like for him when he died—another way to be connected to him one last time in this life. You shake harder as you try to work up the courage to force it to break your skin.
Your breathing increases and shakes as you mentally march yourself closer to the edge, then with one last breath in, you plunge it into you with one motion that forces you to exhale. Some strange sound mixed with a primal sob leaves your throat and rips through the eerie silence of the apartment. You double over, placing one hand against the floor as you look down at where the knife has entered your body. You shake as you watch blood leak from the wound around it and decide that no—it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as the pain of losing him does.
You feel yourself getting weak. Holding the weight of your body up feels like such a difficult task now, so you lay down next to Lucien as close as you can get as you pull the knife out.
Blood pours from your wound now, mixing with his on the floor. You scoot closer to him and wrap an arm around his broad middle as your breathing starts to slow and a drowsy, sleepy feeling washes over you.
“I’m sorry, Lucien,” you whisper, “I love you.”
His face—still handsome as ever even in death—is the last thing you see before everything goes black.
In your final conscious moments, you think about how dying so soon after finally becoming mortal and falling in love was never supposed to be a part of your Hollywood ending…
…but you suppose you’ll live on in Hollywood infamy instead.
@80ssong and I are back with our favorite materialists girl (gn)
we hope you enjoy! please let us know what you think! ❤️
reblogs are very much appreciated 🫶🏻
🎶more PPCU character playlists🎶
npt for some folks who may be interested: @maiamore @baronessvonglitter @thehotchners @sovereign-seagrass @perfectpoetrybluebird @berryispunk @pedges-world @enchantedreader (let me know if you'd like to be removed)
Pairing: Professor Marcus Pike x plus sized f!reader
Summary: You return to school to complete your degree in pursuit of a career change. You did not expect to fall for your Art History professor.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. reader is in her late 30s/early 40s, wears dresses and skirts, switching POV, public sex (fingering), Marcus is still rocking his revenge beard (FU Lisbon!), no use of Y/N
a/n: We're going to pretend Gustav Klimt's The Kiss is at a museum near you. And security? What security? This was written for @baronessvonglitter's Noun-iversary Challenge. My apologies for posting late. The prompts I received were a museum, a princess crown, and the lyric "I think you're too divine for my human mind" from Soulmate by Mac Miller. Big time thanks to my beloved @peepawispunk for the beta read! 😘
word count: 4,597
ao3 | ml
You've been stuck in a stuffy office job for nearly twenty years, climbing from an entry-level role to your current position as Marketing Manager. However, you're tired of the corporate culture and want to pursue something more fulfilling. Something you can be proud of, rather than just shilling for capitalism and enriching the C-suite of your company while you and your coworkers do all the work.
After your divorce, you decided to use some of the money from your settlement to invest in yourself by returning to school. You've enrolled at the local community college because you need to earn more credits before transferring to the university and earning your Bachelor's degree.
That's how you find yourself wandering the halls, trying to find the room where your Art History class is held. You're already running late. The last meeting of the day ran over at work, and you hit every single red light on your way to school. You stop another student and ask for directions, and they point you toward the right hallway.
As you approach the room, you hear the professor speaking to the class through the closed door. You slowly turn the handle, but the door emits a painful squeal as you push it open. A cranky old hinge in desperate need of some WD-40 thwarted your feeble attempt to avoid disrupting the class.
When you cross the threshold, you feel twenty pairs of eyes on you. But yours are fixed on the broad-shouldered man behind the lectern at the front of the room. With an apologetic wince, you mouth a meek "sorry."
He pauses at your interruption, "You haven't missed much, but I'd ask you to prioritize being on time in the future."
The wave of embarrassment sweeps through you as you hear the low murmur of whispers and snickers from your classmates circulating around the room. You spot the nearest available seat at a table in the front row. You'd do a proper facepalm if the slap against your skin didn't cause another disturbance. This is going to be a long semester.
"As I was saying," the professor resumes. You feel the heat of his gaze as he watches you settle in, arranging your textbook and laptop in front of you. "I'm Professor Marcus Pike. I'm a retired FBI Special Agent. For the last decade, I worked in Art Crimes, and I was looking for a change of pace. I got tired of chasing white-collar criminals, so now you're stuck with me." A low rumble of chuckles spreads throughout the room.
The next couple of hours pass quickly. Professor Pike reviews the course syllabus, outlines his expectations for the class, and discusses the coursework. He follows his introduction with a lecture on the first two chapters of the textbook. You listen closely, jotting down detailed notes. You're eager to learn, even if this course is just an elective. It's important to you for your overall GPA.
Alright, that's it for tonight," his rich voice booms across the room. "I'll stay around for a bit in case anyone has questions. Otherwise, I'll see you next week.
You pack up your belongings, waiting patiently for your turn to speak with Professor Pike, who is currently engaged in a conversation with another student. He's leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out in front with his ankles crossed. His eyes are fixed on the young man, fully engaged in the discussion. You notice the polite head nods and smiles exchanged between them, but you're unable to hear what they're talking about.
Not that it matters, though. You're too focused on him and his handsome face, as well as his beautiful body. The slope of his nose accents the sharpness of his profile and the scruff covering his chiseled jawline. Even the curve of his spine is hot, somehow. It makes your lower back tense up, and you wonder if he'll regret standing in this position for too long.
He's wearing grey slacks, and in this stance, you can see a faint outline of a bulge. You notice the matching blazer draped over the back of his desk chair. On top, he's wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with a red tie.
He's dressed very formally to teach a night class. You guess he hasn't gotten used to civilian clothing after working in the FBI for so long., or maybe he's one of those guys who likes to "dress to impress" and wears suits all the time. You hope it's the former. Your experience with the latter hasn't been great. Men who are so obsessed with themselves and their appearance that they wouldn't be able to find a clit with a flashing neon sign, with arrows pointing at it. Navigating dating apps has been tough since your divorce, having to filter out men like that.
When the other student leaves, you gather your things and head toward him. He's turning to step behind his desk when you catch his attention. "Professor!" Your footsteps quicken as you try to reach him before another student intercepts. You're eager to get home and take your bra off after a long day of work and the last two hours of class. "Excuse me. I--"
He lifts his head from gathering his papers and books scattered across the desk, slipping them into his messenger bag. A soft expression appears as he notices you. "Yes?"
"Hi, um…" you stumble out. "I just wanted to apologize for being late to class tonight. It won't happen again."
"I appreciate the apology." He smiles at you and continues packing his bag.
You nod, grateful he doesn't seem like the kind of professor who punishes on the first offense. "I'm really looking forward to your course." you confess.
"That's good to hear. I hope it meets your expectations."
It was the last night you showed up late for class; you made it a point to arrive 10 minutes early. You leave work early on Wednesdays, with your boss fully aware and supportive of you declining meetings that start after five p.m. Professor Pike took notice. He appreciated your efforts to arrive at class before it started. He had a feeling your tardiness the first night was just a fluke.
He also began to take notice of your attire. You'd come in wearing a flowy dress cinched right below your breasts, highlighting your beautiful curves. Or you wore a tight pencil skirt that hugged your hips and thighs, tapering just above your knees, paired with a button-up blouse.
It killed him. Every. Fucking. Time. Thankfully, because you arrived early, he had time to gather himself before the rest of his students showed up. He needed that time to recover after he was taken aback when you entered his room, with your stunning figure.
You never moved from the front of the classroom. It seemed like, with your attire and your legs stretched out in front of you under the table, you were doing it on purpose. A real test of his resolve every Wednesday night.
He could tell you were older, at least a decade and a half older than the average age of his other students. Your papers were always submitted on time, sometimes even a day or two early. You were fully engaged in every class. He could tell you had read the chapters beforehand, just as he requested in the syllabus. From your seat, he could hear the faint tapping of your laptop as you took detailed notes during his lecture. Your cellphone was nowhere in sight. He noticed you only retrieved it from your purse at the end of class.
It was exhausting how many times he had to remind the other students to put their phones away. Every time he did, his eyes met yours, and you exchanged knowing glances as if to say, "kids these days, amiright?"
He somehow managed to get through the semester without embarrassing himself by doing anything inappropriate. It wouldn't look good if he made a move on a current student, regardless of how age-appropriate they are, especially since he wants to be invited back next semester.
Once he submitted the final grades, he felt now was as good an opportunity as any to reach out.
I hope you are doing well! I wanted to let you know that you earned an A in my class. I thought you'd be interested to hear this before the grades are officially posted.
It was a pleasure having you in class, and I appreciate your participation and engagement with the coursework and lectures.
I wish you much success in your ongoing pursuit of your degree. Please reach out if you're interested in pursuing a career in the arts. You have a talent, and I believe you could be a valuable asset to the community. I can connect you with some people in my network.
Regards,
Professor Marcus Pike
-
Your phone buzzed while you were at your desk, alerting you to a new email. You look down at your phone and are surprised to see the name on the notification. Your heart races. God, even just seeing his name makes you feel weak. It was from Professor Pike, but it was sent from his personal email address. Since he was an adjunct professor, maybe he wasn't used to using the school email.
You click on the notification, eager to read it. Your smile widens as you read his praise. You're excited to learn you earned an 'A' in the course because you worked your ass off. Juggling a full-time job and part-time course load is no easy feat.
You haven't decided on your major yet, so you're grateful for his offer to connect you with people in his network. Meeting with others in the field of study would be invaluable to help you narrow down your decision. You draft your response.
Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate you sharing my final grade for your class. It was one of my favorite classes I took last semester.
Thank you for offering to connect me with your network. I haven't decided on my major yet, and meeting with others in the field would be helpful as I determine my next steps.
I have to ask: Is it appropriate for a professor to contact a student through their personal email? 😉
Cheers.
-
You hedged your bets on whether your question (and the emoji) was appropriate. It might have crossed a line, but you chose to take the risk. What did you have to lose? He's already submitted your grades for the semester, and the idea of spending an evening swiping on dating apps felt torturous.
You earned every bit of that A. I saw how hard you worked. I'm glad you're willing to take me up on the offer to connect you with some of my colleagues. I think you'll enjoy talking to them.
I need to respond: I think it would be appropriate since you're a former student. 😉
Regards,
Marcus
-
After exchanging emails all week, the flirting becomes more obvious with each message. The mutual attraction is clear. Now that the boundaries of the student-teacher relationship no longer hold him back, he finally asks you out. He invites you to his favorite art museum, of which he's a member. There's a new exhibit he'd like to show you.
You've agreed to meet Marcus on the steps in front of the museum. It's a sunny day, and you've picked your favorite sundress, which hits mid-thigh. You wanted to keep your look casual for your date, so you slipped on your trusty white Chuck Taylors. You feel comfortable and confident.
Marcus spots you from the bottom step. A vision in your sundress, he's glad he's wearing sunglasses to hide his gawking eyes. The dress fits you perfectly—an empire waist, thin straps, and a flowing skirt that shows off your shapely legs. You look effortlessly sexy and adorable in your white sneakers.
He waves when he sees you survey the crowds around the entrance, looking for him. He's on time, but you arrived early, full of nerves. This is the most potential a first date has had in a long time; you want it to go well. You smile when you finally spot him, and your nerves begin to settle now that he's there.
He climbs the stairs two at a time, eager to reach you. His eyes catch the briefest glimpse of your thighs when a gentle breeze lifts the hem of your dress. He can't wait to get his hands and mouth on the soft skin there. He can't dwell on that thought for too long; he doesn't want to hide a raging boner in public.
You drink him in as he ascends the stairs. He's dressed in dark jeans and a light blue button-up shirt that complements his golden skin tone. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his toned forearms. He's so gorgeous, in a casually disarming way.
He greets you with a gentle kiss on the cheek as he lightly places his hand on your waist. You breathe out a sigh inwardly at the loss of warmth when he pulls away. "It's good to see you. Should we head inside?"
You nod and follow the direction of his arm, which guides you to the large doors. You feel the faint heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress as it rests over the small of your back. He reaches out when he's a few steps from the door, the veins in his hand bulge as he grips the handle, and he opens it for you.
"Thank you." You smile softly at him as you pass. He returns your smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Marcus buys tickets for the current exhibition and leaves a twenty-dollar bill in the donation box. He has previously mentioned that he has visited this museum often and is eager to show you around.
You both decide to start at the exhibit on the British Monarchy. Neither of you is interested in the Royal Family, so you breeze through the exhibit on your way to the next gallery, only taking a quick glance at the sparkling princess crown resting atop crushed velvet inside a glass case.
You speak softly as you walk through the different galleries. Each is decorated with a collection of portraits, landscapes, artifacts, and sculptures that represent the era or theme. He notices how you take the time to read the plaques of each piece of art, excited to be with someone who shares his passion for art.
Marcus can't help but find ways to touch you. You're absolutely irresistible in that dress. He brushes his hand along your lower back as he walks behind you to stand next to you. He rests his hand low on your hip to squeeze past you when he moves to look at another painting. His pinkie finger brushes yours before he takes your hand in his as you walk together. You smile at him as his large hand wraps tightly around yours.
When you reach the gallery featuring 20th-century Central European artists, the large painting that serves as the room's main focus comes into view. Your neck cranes and mouth drops open as you step closer, taking in the rich colors, shapes, and textures that cover the canvas.
Marcus comes up behind you, "Are you familiar with this one?" His broad chest is so close to your back that you can feel it warm your skin.
"Yes," you nod excitedly, "It's one of my favorite paintings."
"Mine, too," he hums. "Klimt painted this in the early 1900s. It's the last painting of his Gold Period. The post-Victorian society saw it as pornographic."
You scoff. "But they're fully clothed?"
"Yes, they are," Marcus smiles at your disbelief. "Love, intimacy, and sexuality were common themes found in Klimt's works. Depicting a man and woman together in art was very rare back then. So this couple intertwined in a sensual embrace was considered scandalous by many critics."
Marcus explains, "He left the identities of the couple in The Kiss ambiguous. Some historians believe it depicts the moment when Orpheus caresses Eurydice for the last time before losing her forever." He rests his hands on your hips and continues. "Another theory is that it is Klimt himself with his long-time companion, Emilie Flöge."
You hum as you lean back into his embrace. "Orpheus and Eurydice is so bittersweet. As a fan of happy endings, I'd like to think it's Klimt and Emilie."
"I'm a hopeless romantic as well," Marcus reveals. He squeezes your hips gently and presses his lips against the exposed skin where your neck and shoulder meet. The whiskers of his beard tickle as he drags his tongue along the column of your neck.
He slides his palm over your belly. "Professor Pike," your breath hitches, "what are you doing?"
Your heart is racing, pounding in your chest. "Doing what you want me to do. Am I wrong?"
You shake your head, realizing that you and the couple in the painting are in similar embraces, a reflection of the artwork itself. The realization makes your head spin.
"Use your words," he growls lowly. "I know you know enough of them. I've read your papers."
"No, you're not wrong."
"So, what are we going to do about it?" Marcus teases. "Hmm?"
"Touch me."
"But I am touching you, dear."
You whimper. His thick fingers dig into your soft flesh, wrinkling your dress in his grasp. "Please, professor."
His growl is louder this time. It's like you've unleashed something feral within him. He doesn't realize how little he cares about being called "Professor." But when it's uttered from your lips? Oh, does he fucking care. The words travel straight from your lips to his dick. It twitches at the thought of you calling him "Professor" in his bed, while his tongue is deep inside your cunt.
He pulls you into a secluded hallway. Once there, you scan the area to ensure you're still alone. His left palm presses flat against the wall behind you—his face mere inches from yours.
The soft din of the museum fades in the background, drowned out by your racing heart and his shaky breaths. After what seems like forever, he finally leans in to press his plush lips against yours.
His kiss completely consumes you. It's better than anything your imagination could have conjured up. Magical. Fireworks. Butterflies. Lightning bolts. You name it, you feel it. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes, it felt like nothing you've ever experienced before.
His lips begin to trail down the nape of your neck. "I've wanted to do this since the first night you walked into my classroom." He pants out in between kisses as he moves over your collarbone.
Your hands cradle the back of his head, "Me too."
"When you came in late," he continues, "in that tight black skirt and button-up blouse?" He shakes his head at the memory. "Fuck."
You can't believe he remembered an outfit you wore months ago. You barely remember what you wore yesterday. "I had to come straight from work." You purr as his lips trail along your jaw, leaving soft nibbles with each pass.
He groans, "Is that why you were late?" He feels you nod. "I wanted to take you over my desk right then and there."
His words, huffed out through hot breaths, brush along the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
It took everything in me to stay focused on my lecture," he continues between kisses. "I looked forward to every Wednesday night. I couldn't wait to see what skirt or dress you'd be wearing. I had a perfect view of your sexy legs underneath the table. Which kept me behind the lectern most of the class because you had me so turned on."
You laugh off his confession. "You can't be serious, Marcus?"
He smacks a wet kiss on your lips, "Baby, I wouldn't joke about something like that. You're a fucking knockout!" He grips your hips to pull you closer, "Do you feel this? This is what you do to me." His hips rut into yours, and you feel his erection twitch below his jeans.
You feel your body warm, and arousal floods the gusset of your panties. Between his intimate history lesson of The Kiss and feeling the evidence of your effect on him, you've never been more turned on.
His fingertips tease along the hem of your dress. He tugs gently at the fabric and twirls it between his fingers. "I really like this one on you." He looks up at you with a wide grin.
"Thank you." You lower your head to your chest, not used to receiving so many compliments.
He clicks his tongue and curls his index finger under your chin to lift your eyes back to his. "Are we being shy now?"
He slides his thumb over your bottom lip. Your lips curl around it, pulling it into your mouth as you shake your head. "Good," Marcus replies.
Your tongue swirls around his digit, tasting the saltiness of his skin. Eyes half-closed as they hold his gaze, and you draw it in further until your lips reach the last knuckle.
He lifts his other hand from the wall. His warm palm rests on your shoulder as his fingers slide under the thin strap of your sundress before it moves over the side of your breast. He holds it there, feeling the weight of it in his hand. His thumb stretches across the fabric to flick over your nipple, bringing the sensitive bud to a stiff peak, causing a moan to slip past your lips.
He smiles, satisfied with your response. His hand travels down the side of your torso over your ample hips. His eyes flick up to yours, "You ok?"
You nod, his thumb still in your mouth.
"Need your words, baby."
"Yes." You mumble, "I'm good."
He glances down the hall to check if you're still alone before slipping his hand under the hem of your dress. You watch the movement of his hand beneath the flowy fabric. The only thing visible is the sinewy landscape of corded muscle and veins along his forearm. You whimper at the warmth of his hand as it smooths over the silken skin of your upper thigh, excruciatingly close to where you need him most.
His finger traces the edge of your panties from your hip bone down to your core. He slides it underneath the thin fabric, brushing it along your pussy lips before the thick digit breaches your slick seam. Your walls clench around him, pulling him further into your soaked cunt.
"Did you know you could get this wet just by looking at a work of art?" he teases with a questioning gaze.
He moves your panties to the side to uncover your pussy fully. You let out a strangled moan when he inserts a second finger. "It's…" trying so hard to form a coherent thought with his thick fingers inside you. "S'not just the painting."
"Then what is it?" His fingers press deeper, brushing against that spongy spot you can't reach without the assistance of a toy. "Hmmm?"
"It's because of you, Professor."
He chuckles lowly, "Is that right? All I have to do is talk about a classic painting, and she just drips for me?"
You nod. His thumb rubs over the swollen nub of your clit. Your fingers dig into his shoulders at the sting of pleasure. You're sure to leave marks with how tightly you squeeze into his flesh.
His pace quickens, circling your clit as he pumps his fingers into your drenched cunt. Your arousal soaks his knuckles. You rock your hips, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Between the foreplay of the Klimt painting and the thrill of being finger fucked in public, your climax quickly approaches. Your walls begin to flutter around him.
"Come on, baby," he whispers softly into your neck, "I can tell you're close."
Your head drops forward, and you bite into his shoulder to silence your moans. His fingers fuck into you, faster, and your walls clench them in a vise grip. His chest pressed against yours to keep you upright, knees buckling as he works you through your orgasm.
He kisses you sweetly across your face while you catch your breath. "You good?"
"Incredible. I've never done anything like this," you laugh nervously.
He removes his fingers and adjusts your panties before pulling his hand out from underneath your dress. With his eyes affixed on yours, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean with a low hum, savoring your arousal. Satisfied he hasn't missed a drop, he releases them from his mouth with a wet pop.
"Neither have I." With a blissful sigh, he pulls you close and confesses,"I think you're too divine for my human mind."
"Did you just quote Mac Miller?" you tease.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and he winks. "I have to stay up to date with what the kids are listening to these days. Besides, 'Soulmate' is a great song." His eyes soften as he squeezes you tighter, "And I hope I'm closer to finding mine."
How is this man even real? He knows what he wants and goes after it. And he wants you. Unrestrained in expressing his admiration and praise for you.
It's been a long time since you've felt desired. Leading up to your divorce, your ex could barely muster a compliment. Your bedroom had been dead for over a year. There was no effort at affection, and any attempt to initiate was rebuffed. Eventually, you gave up, tired of feeling the sting of rejection.
Now, in just one afternoon with Marcus, you've discovered what you've been missing all along. The attention and care you craved, poured over you without any hesitation.
Even if this doesn't go anywhere, Marcus has shown you how you deserve to be treated, and you'll accept nothing less. You're not one to get ahead of yourself, but you feel that this could be the start of something real. The idea of spending a lifetime with this intelligent, charming, sexy man makes you giddy.
-
You walk in stride with each other back toward the front of the museum, and he takes your hand in his. "So, if I had to rate my professor, I'd give you five stars," you quip.
He bursts out laughing. Another patron shushes him as his laugh echoes through the museum. "Smart ass." he whispers, pinching your hip.
"Well… I did get an A in my Art History class. So, I am smart." You tease with a coy smile, trailing your finger down the ridge of his aquiline nose before you tap the end of it with your finger, "And I do have a nice ass."
A low groan rumbles in his throat, "Let's get you out of here, and I'll be the judge of that."
You squeal when he grabs your hips and guides you toward the exit. Once outside the main doors, he spins you around to steal another heated kiss.
When he finally releases you with a strained exhale, he asks, "Your place or mine?"
Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you think. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! 🫶🏻
npt for folks who engaged in my WIP Wednesday post for this fic (let me know if you'd like to be removed): @bergamote-catsandbooks @half-moon16 @ak-vintage @arcane-fox @stitch-away
Summary: Frankie and Din move into their first apartment together as a couple.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. AU, fluff, domesticity, smut, light finger play, anal, blowjob, handjob, mentions of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" and allusions to homophobia, blink and you'll miss it TF boys cameos
a/n: I wrote this for @burntheedges Summer Tunes Challenge (my apologies for posting late 🫣) I was given the song Feels Like the First Time by Foreigner, and I thought it was the perfect song to revisit Frankie and Din. This is a follow-up to Touch and Go, but it can be read as a standalone. It takes place a few years after they met, and "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" has been recently repealed. Thank you so much to @80ssong for the beta read. I appreciate you so! 😘
word count: 3,078
ao3 | ml
The kitchen is in complete disarray. Cardboard boxes marked with their contents and room locations in permanent marker are strewn across the floor and countertops. A selection of opened, broken-down boxes, while others sit waiting to be unpacked. They've made a lot of progress already, as evidenced by a large black trash bag resting in the corner, overflowing with crumpled packing paper.
Frankie and Din signed the lease yesterday, marking a monumental step in their relationship. The Millers and Santi helped them move in their collective belongings this morning. They left shortly after situating the large pieces of furniture around the apartment, leaving Din and Frankie to unpack for the last few hours.
-
Frankie and Din met during flight school and became fast friends after they were assigned to the same bunk. It didn't take long for feelings to develop, each believing their crush was unrequited. But one night changed their friendship forever. Shortly after their first time together, they confessed their feelings and became official. Still, they had to keep their relationship under wraps due to the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy in the US Military.
While they're happier than ever, the journey to get to where they are today wasn't easy. Navigating the homophobic policy of their employer, they had to weave the delicate balance of identifying who they could trust with the truth of their relationship. The fear of being found out and discharged from the military loomed large. Additionally, they had to manage the stressors of a long-distance relationship for over a year due to their separate deployments. Communication was limited to sporadic emails and staticky phone calls via satellite phones.
When they returned from their deployments, Frankie introduced Din to his family and close friends. All of whom accepted them with open arms. Everyone loved Din and how Frankie was with him. Din brought out the best in Frankie. And Din felt he finally had a family, a home. Somewhere where he felt safe and seen.
Frankie has taught Din a great deal about love and relationships. Allowing himself to be loved. A childhood of instability left him with the conviction that he was never worthy of love. Frankie changed all that. He's been patient and generous with Din while he learned to lower his walls and let Frankie see all of him. Always soft and tender with him, so he was comfortable showing his vulnerabilities.
Frankie has never experienced love in this way before. Growing up, he yearned for a love like the one he saw between his parents. Someone supportive who inspires him and challenges him. Din's calming presence helps Frankie feel at ease when he's anxious. Their love continues to strengthen over time. Each day is better than the last.
With the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," they were finally able to disclose their relationship to their commanding officers and became eligible to secure off-base housing as a couple while continuing to serve out the remainder of their active duty.
-
Frankie has had the radio tuned to a local classic rock station all afternoon. It's been playing "all the hits from the 70s and 80s." Din could recite the radio identification verbatim with the number of times he's heard the exaggerated announcer's voice replay at every commercial break.
It would've annoyed him more if it weren't for Frankie's enthusiasm over every song. A rotation of The Joker, These Eyes, and Mainstreet, had him belting out lyrics and shaking his hips to the beat. Din recognizes some of them, but Frankie seems to know the words to every song. He's unable to suppress a soft smile as he watches his boyfriend enjoy the classic tunes.
While they unpack, they discuss the errands they have planned for the upcoming weekend. There are a few pieces of furniture they need to purchase to help fill out the space. They also need to buy essentials for the apartment, such as cleaning supplies, and stock up the fridge and pantry.
"So, I figured…" Frankie interrupts himself singing along to Go Your Own Way, "Once we get everything unpacked and feel more settled, we could have a housewarming party." He observes Din before he continues. He knows he could be apprehensive about the idea. "We'd keep it small. Probably just the guys, and you could invite your friend from the base. What do you think?"
Din thinks it over for a minute before he responds. He wants to make Frankie happy, and he knows his offer is a compromise, one that keeps the party intimate. "Yeah-" he clears his throat to continue, "Yeah, that sounds good."
Frankie smiles widely. "Awesome. It will be fun!"
Only a few boxes remain before the kitchen is completely unpacked. They've agreed on most everything related to which cabinets the dishes, glasses, and coffee mugs should be stored in. There were a few minor quibbles about which drawer should be designated as the "junk drawer" and where the pots and pans should be stored. But it didn't take long to find a solution that worked for both of them.
"Are you hungry?" Frankie asks. "Figured we could order a pizza from the place down the road. The welcome gift from the leasing office included a coupon."
Din replies, "Yes, I'm starving." He walks to the fridge and pulls out two bottles of beer. He pops the caps and hands a bottle to Frankie, who mouths a thanks. "I'll order the pizza."
Frankie takes a swig of the refreshing ale and returns to unpacking while Din calls in the order.
"Could you pass me the box cutter, babe?" Frankie calls out to Din as he descends the stepladder.
Din reaches across the island in the center of the kitchen and hands it to Frankie. He watches as Frankie bends over the box labeled "coffee mugs" and slices through the packing tape. Din takes a moment to admire his handsome boyfriend's meaty calves and his firm butt straining the seams of his cargo shorts.
I would climb any mountain
Sail across a stormy sea
Frankie bolts upright and shocks Din out of his reverie, "I fucking love this song!"
"I've never heard it." Din remarks.
"WHAT?!?! Oh man, it's a classic!!!" Shocked, Frankie continues, "My dad loves Foreigner, so I grew up listening to all of their albums. It brings me back to my childhood riding around in the car with him."
Din enjoys it when Frankie talks about his childhood. He grew up with two loving and doting parents and a sister with whom he's extremely close. It's something Din never experienced, so he likes to live vicariously through Frankie's stories.
Frankie belts out the rest of the verse as he walks toward Din with a shimmying dance move.
If that's what it takes baby
To show you how much you mean to me
Frankie grabs Din's hands and pulls him into his chest. "C'mon, dance with me."
Din relents, he has a hard time turning down Frankie when he's in this type of mood—always admiring his inhibition to let loose. Frankie's fingers wrap around Din's hand, holding it tight to his chest. His other hand rests on Din's waist. They sway around the kitchen as the song continues.
It feels like the first time
It feels like the very first time
Din stares lovingly while Frankie sings along to every word. He listens intently, and his chest tightens. It feels as if every lyric was written for him. Frankie's eyes never leave Din's, and his calloused hands move lower to rest on Din's hips; his stomach flips. To this day, Din feels the same butterflies he did when they first met.
I have waited a lifetime
Spent my time so foolishly
Frankie continues his serenade, his hands drifting lower over Din's ass cheeks and squeezing. Din's eyes narrow, a mischievous smile spreads, his own hands moving along Frankie's sides, and he pulls his hips in closer to his. Frankie's eyebrows perk up when he feels Din's bulge. As Din has become more comfortable, embracing his sexuality, he's more willing to initiate intimate, teasing moments like this. But it still catches Frankie by surprise when he does.
But now that I've found you
Together we'll make history
The song begins to fade into a commercial, their hands hesitant to pull away, savoring the closeness of the moment. Frankie leans in and softly kisses Din. Din feels his heart rate increase, certain that Frankie can feel it too, given how close they are. Frankie parts his lips with his tongue, seeking entrance to deepen the kiss.
After a few moments, they pull away slowly. Frankie's eyes soften, gazing adoringly at Din. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Din responds with a chaste kiss.
A smile widens across Frankie's face, and his eyes disappear. "I'm so glad we did this. I'm so excited to spend the rest of our lives together."
"Me too. baby." Din brushes an errant curl behind Frankie's ear, eyes sparkling. "Me too."
Din's fingers trail along Frankie's jawline, covered in sparse stubble. They hold each other's gaze as the radio hums in the background, the only indicator that time is even moving. They lean forward at the same time and lock their lips together in a searing kiss. Plush lips against plush lips, separating so tongues can breach and tangle in each other's mouths. The kiss becomes more heated. Hands move up and down over the soft fabric of Army training camp t-shirts that have been laundered so many times they're practically threadbare.
Frankie shifts to maneuver his hand between their solid bodies; his splayed palm makes its way down Din's lower stomach and over the front of his pants. He pauses to feel the warmth of Din through the thick fabric, hardening at his touch. Instinctually, Din ruts into his hand, desperate for more of his touch, for movement. Frankie strokes up and down, ending with a soft squeeze on his length before he moves back up to the waistband.
His fingers wrap around the edge of Din's pants to yank him forward. Knocked off balance by the gruff pull, Din's hands grip tighter on Frankie's ass. A moan escapes Frankie at the feel of Din's fingers digging into his firm cheeks. His hot breath warms the space between Din's neck and shoulder. He bites down gently into the sensitive flesh. Taking his time to soothe the mark he left with his tongue.
Frankie takes a few steps forward, leading them into the living room. When the back of Din's calves meets the edge of the couch, Frankie gently pushes him to sit. He falls into the soft cushions and chuckles. Peering up at Frankie, his eyes dark with lust, he watches as he lowers to his knees between Din's legs.
His calloused palms move over his thighs, and he reaches to unzip Din's jeans. With his fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, Frankie encourages him to lift his hips. He pulls them off, along with his jeans, letting the fabric puddle around his ankles.
Din's cock rests against his soft stomach, and a dribble of precum leaks onto his tanned skin. Frankie licks his lips as he moves to savor his boyfriend's beautiful cock. He leans forward with a long, broad swipe of his tongue over the entire length. A low hiss escapes Din when the tip of Frankie's tongue flicks over the sensitive tip.
A smirk quirks at the corner of Frankie's mouth as he pulls back. Eyes hungry, he moves to take the tip of Din between his lips. He slowly lowers his spit-slicked lips down the shaft, taking him in inch by inch until the tip of Din's cock kisses the back of his throat. He holds there, his nose pressed against the coarse hair that rests above Din's shaft, to inhale in his heady musk.
Frankie pulls off for a breath, a string of saliva drapes from his lips to the tip of Din's penis. He smiles before he goes back for more, taking his time with a steady pace up and down. Frankie teases with brief pauses, his plush lips wrapped around the bulbous tip before easing back down to take all of Din down his throat.
Din's hands grip Frankie's loose curls tightly. Frankie moans at the pleasurable sting of Din's quick tug. The vibration courses through Din, and he has to pull Frankie off of him before he cums down his throat. Not that Frankie would mind, it's just not how Din wants this to end.
"My god, Frankie," Din breathes out, "You're too fucking good at that."
With a smug grin, Frankie moves to stand as he wipes the saliva from the corners of his mouth. "It's not the only thing I'm good at."
Still trying to catch his breath, Din scoffs, "Don't I know it."
Din lifts his hands to the front of Frankie's shorts. "I need these off," He fumbles with the button, "Now!"
Frankie laughs at Din's bossiness, "So demanding, baby."
He proceeds to pull off his shorts and t-shirt, standing bare in front of Din, the tip of his cock glistening with a bead of precum. Din pulls his jeans off his ankles and removes his t-shirt. Frankie moves to hover over his naked body. When Din begins to shift to lie back on the couch, Frankie kneels to stop him. "Nuh uh," He pulls Din's legs up by the calves and rests his ankles against his broad shoulders. "I want you like this."
Frankie strokes his length, pressing Din's thighs into his chest. The tip of Frankie's cock nudges at the tight ring of muscle, ready to enter, but he quickly pulls away. "Oh, shit!" Din looks up at Frankie in confusion, "Where'd you pack the lube?"
"In there." Din points to the duffle bag sitting at the threshold between the living room and kitchen. Their "first night" bag is packed with a change of clothes and toiletries.
Frankie stands up quickly, bare ass flexing as he walks toward the kitchen. Din shifts up to admire Frankie's naked frame, bent over as he rifles through the bag to look for the lube.
"Got it." Frankie waves the tube as he shuffles back to the couch. He kneels again as he flips the top open, a smug smile on his face. "Now. Where were we?"
Din tugs on his cock. His lustful eyes drink in his handsome boyfriend. "I believe you were about to fuck me."
Frankie runs a hand down his thigh and smacks his ass. "Yes, sir."
Din feels the cold lube drip down between his ass. Frankie squirts it over his cock, smearing it up and down his length. With the thumb of his free hand, he coats Din's tight hole. The tip of his thumb dips inside just slightly, and he feels Din tighten around him. "You ready?"
"Yes!" Din sighs, "Please, just stop teasing me."
With that, Frankie lines up the tip of his cock at Din's entrance. He slowly feeds the tip inside. Inch by inch, he moves further. "So. Fucking. Tight." Frankie grunts as he bottoms out, the tip of him kissing Din's prostate.
Frankie checks in with Din, desperate to move, and he nods in approval. He pulls out slowly and thrusts back in, his balls slapping against Din's cheeks. He sets a steady pace while Din grips his cock, stroking his cock to match Frankie's rhythm. "Harder, Frankie." Din pants, "I can take it."
Frankie's fingers dimple into the meat of Din's thighs, seeking purchase as he increases his pace. The muscle tightens around his cock with every stroke, causing a bolt of lightning to shoot up his spine. His orgasm draws closer with every sticky slap of skin against skin.
The chorus of moans and groans reverberates through the half-empty apartment. Frankie leans forward to steal a heated kiss. Din nibbles on his plush bottom lip before letting him go. The feverish pace continues, Frankie's thrusts shifting the couch across the hardwood floor in short bursts as Din twists his hand up and down his cock.
"Fuck!" Frankie grunts out with a final thrust as he spills inside of Din's hole, "That's it. Take it."
His cock slides out, and he quickly pulls Din up to stand in front of him. Frankie, still on his knees, opens his mouth wide, his tongue eager to receive Din's spend. Din continues pumping his cock. His balls tighten as his orgasm quickly approaches, and he grips Frankie's chin between his thumb and forefinger with his free hand to hold it steady. He rests the tip of his cock on Frankie's tongue, just before his load spurts inside his waiting mouth.
Frankie laps up every drop of his spend, and Din watches with pride as his Adam's apple bounces as he swallows it down. He pinches his jaw and leans forward for a kiss that quickly turns heated as Frankie slides his tongue between Din's lips. Din tastes himself on Frankie's tongue.
An unfamiliar trill echoes through the room, interrupting their post orgasmic haze. Fuck. The doorbell. Their eyebrows quirk upward. "Man. They weren't kidding about '30 minutes or less'. Huh?" Frankie quips.
Frankie groans as Din offers a hand and pulls him up from the floor. They gather their scattered wardrobe and quickly dress. Frankie marches to the door as he fastens his shorts, "COMING!"
"You already did, babe." Frankie looks back at Din, hand hovering above the doorknob, and rolls his eyes.
While Frankie tips the delivery driver, Din grabs plates and a couple more beers from the kitchen. They meet back in the living room and sit up against the couch on the floor. The search for a coffee table awaits them on the weekend.
They savor the salty cheese and tangy sauce-covered dough together in companionable silence, exhausted from the move and their quick romp. A pull of hoppy beer follows each bite as they exchange knowing glances. Frankie nudges Din's thigh. "So, we've christened the living room already." His eyes twinkle, a mischievous grin spreads across his face, "Guess the bedroom is next?"
Din laughs and questions, "We need to set up the bed first?"
"We've fucked in a bunkbed, I think we could manage a mattress on the floor for a little bit." Frankie takes a sip of beer and winks at Din. They both erupt in laughter.
Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 🫶🏻
npt for folks who engaged with Touch & Go with a comment or rb. I wanted to tag in case you were interested in more of these two. let me know if you'd like to be removed. @iamsherlocked-1998 @for-a-longlongtime @baronessvonglitter @almostempty @probablyreadinsmut @peepawispunk @galaxyedging @i-own-loki @sin-djarin @itsokbbygrlbutworsethistime @max--phillips @ppascalrain @here-briefly @iknowisoundcrazy @metahigh @94namkooksworld
and that’s why you keep posting what you post: bc you’re banking on being under the cover of darkness and never taking accountability for your shitty takes
He has stated before his obsession with Indiana Jones as a child. Naming that as one of your “crushes” means absolutely nothing except solid confidence in yourself and not finding “crush” to be a serious term. It means the exact same as him listing women.
I had huge crushes on April from TMNT and the Pink Power Ranger (and the Green one!) - guess what? I’m fucking asexual with a romantic attraction only to men 🤣
A large portion of this fandom is in denial that Pedro could enjoy dick, and it's become an unhealthy obsession for y'all to gather all the "straight evidence" and rewrite his words to twist them.
You're putting words into Pedro's mouth and meaning behind his words with this take. He knows how to articulate himself. He said crush, and he meant it.
This fandom is so weird about his sexuality in a way that feels like closeted biphobia and homophobia.
Also, how about reblogging from @cosmic-kid-in-motion instead of taking a screenshot and using it to talk shit. If you've got something to say, say it properly.
Calling people morons is rude and nasty. Do better.
You know, you could've just cropped my name out and I really wouldn't have had an issue.
This comes of the tail of me getting named in the confessions blog for *checks notes* making events that are inclusive to everyone and you dont even have to know me to be in?
Pretty weird. You could've vague posted. That would've been fine to. Or even reblogged my post and argued. This is such a weird way to do things. I wouldn't have seen it is I didn't see this reblog.
I have a few questions. Apologies if I sound incoherent, im coming off a fucking anxiety attack after this.
Did you mean to say assume heterosexuality? because I said bisexual. Im confused.
I have never once in my life assumed heteosexuality LMFAOOOO. That is the last thing I am likely to do. I was talking to my 40 year old classmate about how im convinced Springsteen is bisexual thats how willing I am to die on the queer hill.
I'm gonna say it. I don't actually think it's bad to spectulate on someones sexuality. Dont @ them on twitter, don't ask them irl, don't obsess over it. But guys, pedro isn't gonna see us on tumblr dot com. It's okay.
You can not like that i say this openly. That's fine. You can ignore the fact he's written about relationships with men, that he has compared his sexuality to bisexual oberyn, or him saying he relates to that one play about gay men that i cant remeber the name of rn bc im fucking mad. If you don't wanna see it, its fine. But I'm a gay man and i see my queerness in him so i dont really give a shit.
peepaw is punk came to my defense and made great points about saying harrison can get it now.
Peepawispunk and me <3
I almost panic deleted my blog, i dont handle this stuff well. I have enough on my plate. A lot
He has stated before his obsession with Indiana Jones as a child. Naming that as one of your “crushes” means absolutely nothing except solid confidence in yourself and not finding “crush” to be a serious term. It means the exact same as him listing women.
I had huge crushes on April from TMNT and the Pink Power Ranger (and the Green one!) - guess what? I’m fucking asexual with a romantic attraction only to men 🤣
A large portion of this fandom is in denial that Pedro could enjoy dick, and it's become an unhealthy obsession for y'all to gather all the "straight evidence" and rewrite his words to twist them.
You're putting words into Pedro's mouth and meaning behind his words with this take. He knows how to articulate himself. He said crush, and he meant it.
This fandom is so weird about his sexuality in a way that feels like closeted biphobia and homophobia.
Also, how about reblogging from @cosmic-kid-in-motion instead of taking a screenshot and using it to talk shit. If you've got something to say, say it properly.
Calling people morons is rude and nasty. Do better.
an asexual arguing about what crushes are about is really fucking funny. always insulting everyone else’s intelligence too over wrong takes. it never gets old!
