Hi there, I'm Mina, in my 30s and a dedicated writer - welcome to my slow burn hell fiction blog, for all of you who also crave slow tension building, thrilling plot lines and anticipated salvation (not to forget Pedro in all his forms). Let me introduce myself before we dive into the writing:
✦ she/her, writer of tension, indulging in smut and softness
✦ trope-lover (but only the good ones)
✦ emotional masochist (but a softie at heart)
✦ happy ends and smut as reward (so minors please dni)
I am always open for asks and prompts, love and reblogs! 🤍
Pairing: AUvampire!Max Phillips (just the name for convenience sake. But actually: whatever Pedro you prefer) x you (NYPD detective with a name and hardly a look)
Summary: Being a cop in New York should mean justice. Instead it’s just paperwork, frustration, and watching monsters slip through the cracks. Then he moves in across the hall - too smug, too charming, and definitely not human. You should stay away. You won’t. And hey, maybe an alliance can form, that helps the both of you...
Warnings: blood (well, it is a vampire story), murder, mention but no description of sexual assault (you work SVU), tension for ages, smut later on, but before that: banter, teasing, a smug bastard modern vampire
Honestly? This story is a blast to write! I am looking forward to dive into this slow burn with with you all and get the hots for this bloodsucker!
You absolute cutiepatootie @vodkaandpizza 😭🖤🤍🖤 thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm. This story is one of my absolut heart projects so it makes me so happy that you enjoyed it!
P.S.: you chose the perfect sunglass pics 😏
P.P.S.: hope you found some cookies finally... 🍪🖤🤍🖤
😂🥹 i cant with you. You actually travelled the 40min to the store. Maybe i should consider a career as food influencer... enjoy the cookies, you earned them 🙂↕️🤍🌞 (an Max probably has enough of a stash anyway...)
Pairing: AUvampire!Max Phillips (just the name for convenience sake. But actually: whatever Pedro you prefer) x you (NYPD detective with a name and hardly a look)
Summary: Being a cop in New York should mean justice. Instead it’s just paperwork, frustration, and watching monsters slip through the cracks. Then he moves in across the hall - too smug, too charming, and definitely not human. You should stay away. You won’t. And hey, maybe an alliance can form, that helps the both of you...
Warnings: blood (well, it is a vampire story), murder, mention but no description of sexual assault (you work SVU), tension for ages, smut later on, but before that: banter, teasing, a smug bastard modern vampire
Honestly? This story is a blast to write! I am looking forward to dive into this slow burn with with you all and get the hots for this bloodsucker!
You absolute cutiepatootie @vodkaandpizza 😭🖤🤍🖤 thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm. This story is one of my absolut heart projects so it makes me so happy that you enjoyed it!
P.S.: you chose the perfect sunglass pics 😏
P.P.S.: hope you found some cookies finally... 🍪🖤🤍🖤
Pairing: dark!Priest!Joel x college student!reader
Part 4 of Lessons in Sin (Masterpost)
Summary: Father Joel has his own idea of how to make you remember the seven deadly sins. And he makes sure the punishment stays with you.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, mild dubcon still, spanking with a belt, possessive!Joel, mention of somnophilia, fingering, oral (m!receiving a la deep throating, f!receiving a la teasing for a very short amount), swallowing cum, dom!Joel that turns soft here and there, stalking somehow?, f!masturbation, all kind of petnames (Darlin’, angel, dove, baby girl, babydoll, sweetheart…), unprotected pinv (because they are stupid and you are not!)
A/N: Okay, i might have said it is only three parts. Well... here we are, i was inspired by this ask. You made me do it. But i don't complain...
wc: 9.6k (You asked for longer punishment...)
“You know why I called you in, dove?”
Joel closes the door behind you with a quiet click, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. As though this - late evenings, closed doors, the two of you alone - were simply part of college routine.
It isn’t.
You both know it.
Not since that first time, months ago, when you stood exactly where you are now - nervous, caught, exposed - after he had found what you’d hidden away in your nightstand. What should have been a reprimand had shifted into something else entirely. Something that blurred lines you hadn’t even realized could be crossed.
Since then, every visit to his office has carried that same undercurrent.
Not that you mind.
There has been hesitation, in the beginning. Guilt, too. The weight of it sitting heavy in your chest, whispering that this was wrong, that this was not what a man like him should offer, nor what you should accept.
But Father Joel Miller has a way of reshaping things. Of turning wrong into something that feels earned. Of making indulgence feel like correction, like guidance.
Like devotion.
So no - you don’t know why exactly he called you in tonight.
But you know what it usually leads to.
“Have I done wrong, Father?”
Your voice is soft, careful, as you lift your gaze and follow him further into the room. The office is dimly lit, shadows stretching long across polished wood and worn bookshelves. Outside, the last traces of daylight have faded, leaving only the quiet stillness of evening behind the windows.
He isn’t dressed fully for ceremony anymore. The black shirt remains, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that move with quiet purpose. The white collar - the sharp, unmistakable symbol of his role - is gone though.
A small disappointment tugs at you.
You’ve come to associate that collar with something far less sacred than it should be. Something that makes your pulse quicken in ways you’ve long since stopped questioning.
But it’s been a week.
A full week since he last called you in after hours, since his attention has been solely yours. And since he has fucked you until you nearly collapsed.
Right now, you’d let him take you however he stands before you and teach you new experiences. Training you to his needs.
And he trained you well.
You don’t shy away from the word anymore. Training. It fits too neatly to ignore - the way he guides, corrects, rewards. The way he watches you with quiet scrutiny, offering praise in measured doses that feel far more valuable than they should.
Your mind drifts, unbidden, to a memory from a few weeks ago, where you have stayed so very still with his cock buried in your throat. The way he had held you there, his hands on the back of your head, fingers curled in your hair, demanding stillness and patience. The intensity of his gaze as he observed you - not unkind, but expectant - had given you all the obedience it needed.
You had endured it. Every second. Even when he had pushed himself a fraction deeper, having it made harder to breathe as tears spilled from your eyes.
Because afterward - his voice, low and warm with approval, had made everything worth it.
It always does.
Joel comes to a stop by the window now, his back half-turned to you as he looks out over the quiet campus below. The world beyond the glass feels distant, detached from the charged stillness inside the room.
“Can you recall the seven deadly sins for me, Darlin’?”
His tone is casual. As if he’s asking about coursework, about something simple and expected.
The shift catches you off guard, but you straighten instinctively, hands clasping lightly in front of you as you gather your thoughts.
“Of course, Father. We have greed, gluttony, en-”
“Don’t need you to name them all.”
He cuts you off easily, his voice still calm, but edged now with something more deliberate. “I’d be more interested in whether you understand what they mean.”
He turns then, and the full weight of his attention settles on you.
It’s always like this. No matter how often you’ve stood here, how many times he’s looked at you like he does now - it never fails to send something sharp and electric down your spine.
Because he becomes unreadable.
Stern. Controlled. Every inch the man he is supposed to be.
The anticipation coils low in your stomach, tangled with something that feels dangerously close to fear. Not fear of him - not truly - but of what he might decide. Of where he might lead you next.
Because while Joel teaches you pleasure - guides you through it with a patience that borders on reverent - he also teaches you restraint. Consequence.
Discipline.
And you don’t always know what form that will take.
“I cannot say I study them intensely,” you admit, your voice quieter now, edged with apology. “But I try to refrain from them.”
One of his brows lifts slightly. There’s the faintest hint of movement at the corner of his mouth.
“Is that so?”
You nod, almost imperceptibly.
“Well,” he says, pushing off from the window and stepping toward you, “I beg to differ, Darlin’.”
He stops just close enough to unsettle you, but not enough to break the fragile illusion of propriety that still lingers between you.
Then his hand lifts.
His fingers find your chin, guiding your face upward until your eyes meet his fully. There’s no avoiding him now.
“No,” he murmurs, studying you with a quiet intensity that makes your breath hitch, “I’ve been payin’ attention these past few weeks.”
His thumb brushes lightly over your lower lip. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in its effect. You have to fight the instinct to lean into it, to chase it.
“And it seems like,” he continues, voice dropping just slightly, “you’ve been ignorin’ every single one of ‘em.”
“I -”
The protest barely leaves your lips before his index finger presses against them, silencing you instantly.
“Mm.” A soft, disapproving sound. “No need to argue what’s already been seen.”
His gaze flicks upward for a brief moment, a subtle gesture, before returning to you.
“Under His eyes,” he adds quietly. “And mine.”
He steps closer.
Now the distance is gone. The air between you feels thinner.
His grip on your chin tightens just enough to keep you still as he leans in. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of it against your lips.
For a second you think he might kiss you.
You want him to.
God, you want him to because it is so very rare that he does.
But he stops just short, holding you there in that suspended moment, where anticipation stretches tight and unbearable.
“Only thing left now,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough at the edges, “is for you to take your punishment like the good girl I know you can be.”
The words send a shiver through you.
You nod before you can stop yourself.
His lips meet yours then, the kiss brief but possessive, leaving no room for doubt about the shift that has just taken place.
When he pulls back, his hand falls away from your face.
“Good,” he says quietly. A beat passes.
Then, calm as ever:
“Undress. And get in front of the bed.”
You wait.
By now, you know better than to expect him to follow immediately. He never does. He makes you wait - lets anticipation settle deep into your bones, stretch thin across your nerves until even the smallest sound feels amplified.
It doesn’t make it easier.
The air in his bedroom is cooler than in the office, the dim lighting casting soft shadows across walls you’ve come to know far too well. The space is familiar now - not just in layout, but in feeling. There’s something almost contradictory about it. A place where you’ve been reduced, corrected, pushed - yet also a place where everything else falls away.
Here, there is no noise from the outside world. No expectations beyond the ones he sets. No confusion about who you are or what you’re meant to be.
Here, you have a purpose.
And when he’s pleased - when you’ve done well - there is something else, too. A softness, rare and fleeting, but enough to keep you coming back. Enough to make you crave it.
So you wait like you always do.
Naked. Kneeling in the center of the bed. Hands folded neatly in your lap, spine straight, gaze lowered.
The quiet stretches.
Then - the click of the door.
Your heart reacts before you can stop it, a heavy, sudden jump in your chest. A warmth follows, threatening to pull a smile to your lips. You have to force it down, schooling your expression, lowering your gaze further instead.
You’ve learned what he likes.
Silence. Obedience. Anticipation.
Footsteps cross the room, slow, measured.
“What are you doing?”
The irritation in his voice is slight - but it hits instantly, sharp enough to make your head lift in reflex.
“I… you said…” The words stumble over themselves, uncertainty creeping in as you shift slightly where you kneel. You replay his instruction in your mind, searching for where you went wrong.
His gaze hardens just a fraction.
“In front of the bed,” he says, tone even but edged now. “Not on it.”
A pause.
“Need to teach you to listen better, I suppose.”
He moves closer, unhurried, stopping just short of the foot of the bed. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t correct you physically.
He doesn’t need to.
Because the moment the words settle, you’re already moving - scrambling off the bed in a rush, the sudden motion clumsy in your haste. Your feet barely find the floor before you drop again, knees hitting the ground as you reposition yourself where he meant you to be.
In front of the foot end.
You settle quickly, returning to stillness, hands folding back into your lap as if they had never moved. Your gaze fixes on his shoes now, unable to risk looking higher without permission.
There’s a beat of silence.
“You know I do all of this to save you, right?”
The question is calm. Like a truth that doesn’t need defending.
You nod immediately, the motion small and careful.
“Words, dove.”
Your throat tightens slightly. “Yes, Father,” you answer, swallowing before continuing, “and I am grateful for every lesson.”
A low chuckle leaves him.
“We’ll see after today.”
There’s a shift then. The faint rustle of fabric, the subtle sound of movement that immediately pulls your attention tighter, your body reacting before your mind fully catches up.
You know this part.
You’ve learned to anticipate it - the way he takes his time, the way he builds tension before giving you anything at all. He likes to start with you taking him with your mouth, making your head dizzy from oxygen deprivation before pushing you any further. Your breath slows instinctively, your body stilling further as expectation coils in your belly and you feel first wetness flooding between your legs.
When he steps closer, stopping directly in front of you, your focus sharpens.
His hands move to his belt.
The motion alone is enough to make something stir deep in your chest, a conditioned response you don’t bother questioning anymore. You’ve seen it so many times before - felt what follows, the way he guides you, the way he takes control.
Your lips part slightly, breath catching.
But then -
Something shifts.
The belt slides free from its loops with a firm pull. Not loosened. Not undone as before.
Removed entirely.
Your gaze flickers upward before you can stop it, catching the way he holds it - gripped at the buckle, the length of leather hanging loose at his side.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, love.”
The word lands softly, but it carries weight. It always does. It shouldn’t matter as much - but it does. It softens the edges, even now, even as something uncertain begins to build beneath your ribs.
“We’re gonna go through each of your missteps,” he continues, voice steady. “One by one.”
He lifts the belt then, folding it once in his hand.
“…and for every one,” he adds, “you get this.”
The sharp snap of leather cutting through the air makes you flinch before you can stop yourself. The sound echoes in the quiet room.
Your breath catches.
“You’ll take each one properly,” he goes on, his tone shifting - firmer now, leaving no space for misinterpretation. “And you’ll keep quiet unless I tell you otherwise.”
The end of the belt tilts upward, the leather brushing lightly beneath your chin, guiding your face higher.
Your gaze lifts fully this time, unable to help it. There’s something in your expression - hesitation, uncertainty - that he catches immediately.
“You listenin’ now, Darlin’?”
There’s no room to look away.
You nod, even as a small knot forms in your throat, tightening just enough to make swallowing difficult. Your thoughts flicker but they don’t settle.
He wouldn’t go too far.
He never has.
There’s always a line. Even if you don’t see it beforehand - he does.
“Yes, Father,” you manage, your voice even quieter now.
His gaze lingers for a moment longer, searching, measuring.
Then -
You move immediately, rising from your knees and turning as instructed. The edge of the bed meets your hands as you brace yourself, leaning forward into position.
“Good girl. Now lean over the bed,” he instructs, stepping back just enough to give you space. “Go on. Let me see you.”
There’s a pause behind you.
“Don’t fret.”
You still, just slightly, the words catching you mid-motion. You wait - because you’ve learned to.
“I know your limits better than you do by now,” he continues. “I know exactly how far I can take you.”
You nod, even if he can’t fully see it.
And despite the hesitation still lingering at the edges of your thoughts - you believe him.
Because he’s never let you fall before.
And somehow, you trust that he won’t start now.
You bend over the foot of the bed as instructed, chest lowering onto the mattress, arms stretched out in front of you until your fingers curl slightly into the fabric. The position pulls at your body in a way that isn’t immediately comfortable - your knees barely reach the floor, forcing you to balance with a subtle strain through your thighs and hips.
You shift, just slightly, trying to settle.
It doesn’t help much.
But you don’t complain. You’ve learned that much already - discomfort, on its own, earns you nothing. It’s not where his attention lies.
Still, the tension lingers in your body as you hold yourself in place, waiting.
Joel steps away, circling the bed with quiet purpose. You can’t fully see him from where you are, only catch the shift of his shadow along the edge of your vision - until he returns.
“Come here, Darlin’.”
His voice is softer now, almost coaxing as he crouches beside you.
You feel his hand before you see him - warm, steady, settling at the small of your back to keep you balanced. The contrast is immediate: the heat of his palm against your skin, grounded and firm, while the leather brushes faintly against you.
It sends a shiver through you before you can stop it.
You respond without needing further instruction, lifting your knees just enough for him to slide the pillow beneath you. It settles under your weight, and he gives you the time to adjust - no rush, no pressure, just the quiet expectation that you’ll find your place again.
It’s easier now. More stable.
“Thank you,” you murmur, turning your head slightly, offering him a small, genuine smile.
For a moment, something softer passes between you.
“Wouldn’t want you hurtin’ where I don’t intend it,” he replies, almost matter-of-fact.
His hand lifts from your back, but not entirely - his fingers brush upward instead, tracing a slow path until they reach your cheek. The touch is brief, his knuckles grazing your skin as the loop of the belt follows the same path, cool leather whispering over your face.
For a fleeting second, a thought crosses your mind. He would not strike you in the face, would he?
But you push it aside just as quickly.
This position implies another part of your body on where he would focus on tonight.
You know what it means.
Bent forward, chest and arms spread across the mattress, knees anchored close to the bed - you’re left open, exposed in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
His focus won’t be on your face.
Joel rises again, and though you can’t see him fully, you feel it - the shift in the room, the weight of his attention settling over you.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
The word lands low, almost absentminded, but it curls through you all the same.
Suddenly the leather finds your back.
Just a touch, placed between your shoulder blades before it begins to move. He drags it down along the line of your spine, the sensation drawn out until it becomes almost unbearable in its restraint.
You hear the faint shift of his breath behind you, controlled but heavier now.
The belt continues its path, slipping lower, tracing the curve where your back gives way to your hips before coming to rest there.
“We’ll go through all seven,” he says, voice steady again, slipping back into that calm authority. “Startin’ with the least severe.”
A pause.
“Remind me, Darlin’ - what is it?”
Your thoughts scatter for a moment, distracted by the sensation still lingering along your spine, the presence of him behind you, the awareness of how exposed you are like this.
You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus, to pull something - anything - coherent from memory.
“Pride,” you manage finally, your voice a little breathless.
“Mm.” There’s something approving in the sound. “Good to know some lessons stuck.”
You can hear it now - the faint smirk in his tone, even without seeing it.
“Remember that lecture we had on accountability?” he adds.
It takes a second.
Your mind lags behind, as the leather grazes between your cheeks, resting at the wetness that build between your legs - but then it clicks.
Yes.
You remember.
“I highly doubt that.”
Your voice cuts through the room more steadily than it ever does in private. There’s no breathlessness, no strain pulling at your composure - just clarity. Of course, that has everything to do with where you are now. Seated among other students, not alone behind closed doors with his cock buried until the hilt inside you.
Here, you are composed.
Here, you speak.
“I don’t remember giving you the word.”
Father Joel Miller’s gaze finds you immediately. It stills the room faster than your interruption ever could. The quiet that follows is heavy - every student aware of the shift, of the line you’ve just crossed.
“But,” he continues, tone even, “since you seem eager to finish my lesson… go ahead.”
For a moment, you hesitate.
He sees it - the flicker of uncertainty, the instinct to retreat, to fall back into the obedience he’s taught you so well. It washes briefly over your expression.
And then - it passes.
Something else replaces it.
“I…” You gather yourself, drawing in a breath before straightening your shoulders just slightly. “You frame Eve as the origin of sin,” you begin, choosing your words carefully, “but she only sought knowledge. She didn’t intend to sin - her lack of understanding made her reach for more.”
There’s a shift in him then.
A hint of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
“That so?”
He sets the chalk down with quiet precision, stepping away from the board. His movements are unhurried as he circles slightly, coming to lean back against the desk instead, arms relaxed but his presence anything but.
“So you’d argue,” he continues, watching you closely now, “that a lack of knowledge lessens accountability.”
“It doesn’t erase it,” you counter, your voice holding steady. “But it changes it.”
It’s rare - this. That you don’t immediately fold under his scrutiny. That you don’t soften the moment he pushes back.
“Why,” you continue to ask, tilting your head just slightly, “don’t we judge Adam the same way? He took the apple just as willingly.”
The room remains silent, but it feels smaller now. Tighter.
You hold his gaze.
A second too long, perhaps. Longer than what would be considered comfortable. Or appropriate.
And for just a fraction of that moment - he sees it.
Pride.
He could dismantle it right then. Strip it down with a single remark, pull you back into place without effort.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lets it sit. Lets you have that fleeting sense of standing your ground, of holding something over him - even if only in appearance.
He notes it.
Stores it away.
Then, just as smoothly, he breaks the moment himself. His gaze shifts from you, moving back to the rest of the class as if nothing had happened at all.
“Anyone else?” he asks, voice returning to its earlier rhythm. “Where do we draw the line between curiosity… and accountability?”
“So, sweetheart… where do you draw the line today?”
Joel’s voice lowers as he speaks, calm but threaded with something that settles heavy in the air behind you. The loop of the belt drifts over the skin of your ass. The leather is cool, almost cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand when it follows, settling against you with a firm, grounding touch.
“You choose accountability?” he continues. His hand lifts slightly before coming down in a light tap - not enough to hurt, but enough to remind. Enough to echo memory of times when his hands have slapped you on multiple occasions already.
Then the leather returns, brushing over you again.
“Or are you chasing curiosity?”
You know the question isn’t really a choice. Not in the way it’s framed. Not with him.
Still - you answer.
“I trust you… Father.” Your voice is quieter now. “With whatever you think is right.”
A soft chuckle follows, low and approving.
“Smart girl.”
There’s no further warning. No drawn-out pause.
One moment, the air is still - the next, the sharp sound cuts through it as the belt comes down. The impact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound slipping from you before you can catch it, half-lost against the fabric beneath your face.
It’s not as bad as you expected.
There’s a sting, yes - a sudden warmth blooming where it landed - but it doesn’t linger in any overwhelming way. Not yet anyway.
Joel exhales quietly behind you.
“That one was just a tester,” he says, as if reading the tension still held in your body. “Wouldn’t do to push you too far too fast.”
The implication settles deeper than the strike itself.
This is only the beginning.
“So, Darlin’…” His voice shifts again, expectant now. “What comes next?”
You swallow, adjusting slightly where you are, trying to steady both your breath and your thoughts. Your mind reaches back to the structure he set.
The sins.
“Envy…” you answer and with it already with an idea to which situation he might refer to.
“Very well.”
There’s approval in it - but no softness.
And you hear it before you feel it:
The belt lifting again.
At first, Joel thinks he imagines it.
Your attention has always lingered on him during class - he’s grown used to that, to the weight of your focus, the way it sharpens whenever he speaks. It’s expected now.
But this - this is different.
He notices it the second, third time it happens. Subtle, but not enough to escape him. Your gaze shifting. Pulling away from him, only to lock onto someone else.
Her.
He can’t even recall her name. Just another student, another face in the room. And yet, every time she raises her hand, every time she opens her mouth to ask something barely worth the interruption - your attention snaps to her instantly.
He watches the way your posture changes. The tension in your shoulders. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, tracking every movement she makes.
And she performs. He sees it clearly - the practiced tilt of her head, the deliberate flutter of her lashes, the way she shifts in her seat as if she’s aware of being watched. It’s all too polished. Too manufactured and intentional.
Nothing like you.
With you, there’s no pretense. No performance. What you give him - your submission, your obedience - it’s raw. Unfiltered. Devoted in a way that doesn’t need embellishment.
And yet -
He indulges her.
Just enough.
Because the effect it has on you is… telling.
Delicious, even.
So when the lecture ends, he makes his choice.
“As for you - stay a moment,” he tells her, almost absentmindedly, as if it’s nothing more than a passing request.
And you -
You hesitate.
He sees it immediately. The way you linger longer than necessary, books clutched tightly to your chest like something solid to hold onto. Your gaze flickers between them, uncertain, unwilling to leave just yet.
But you do eventually. Because you have to.
Joel lets the door close behind you before turning his attention back to the girl in front of him. He asks about her work, guides her through something unnecessarily detailed, stretching the conversation far beyond what it requires.
Through the milky glass of the door, he can make out the faint outline of your figure. Still there. Still watching.
Not because she needs it but because of what waits just outside.
Still waiting.
And that tightness in your posture - he knows exactly what it is.
Envy.
It settles something dark and satisfied in his chest.
Oh, he thinks, letting his voice carry on calmly as he continues the pointless discussion -
This one might be worth lingering on a little longer.
The second strike comes without warning.
No buildup - just the sharp crack of leather meeting skin, louder this time. It lands with more intent, enough to make your body jerk forward against the bedframe again, a small, helpless sound slipping from your lips before you can stop it.
The sting lingers now.
“Would you rather I don’t care for my other students?” Joel’s voice cuts through the haze. “You think what I give her is the same as what I give you?”
Your lips press together instinctively, heat rising to your face.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly.
“Scared?” he repeats, and this time his hand follows the path of the belt, settling over the place it struck. His touch is slow, his palm warm as it moves over sensitive skin. “Scared of what, sweet girl?”
You close your eyes.
You don’t want him to see it - not fully. Not the part of it that actually aches.
“That you…” You hesitate, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “That you might take more interest in her. That you might… cast me aside.”
For a second, there’s silence.
Then a low, genuine laugh escapes him, unexpected enough that it makes your eyes flutter open again. His hand stills where it rests against you.
“Oh, sweetheart…” There’s something almost amused in his tone, something warmer beneath it. “How could I abandon… this?”
From the corner of your vision, you catch the motion of his hand as he gestures toward you - your position, your body, all of it laid bare for him.
“You’re made for me,” he continues, quieter now. “Exactly as you are. I don’t need distractions.”
The words settle into you quickly, relief following close behind. It loosens something tight in your chest, softens the lingering edge of jealousy.
Until his hand withdraws.
For a moment, you almost forget why you’re here.
“That said,” he adds, tone shifting again - grounding you back into place, “that only holds true when you behave. So - what’s next?”
You turn your head slightly, already knowing. The memory rises before you can stop it, sharp and unwelcome.
“Wrath…” you whisper.
It’s the only time he can recall where you didn’t meet him with quiet obedience or that familiar submission - but with something that pushed back.
You have been with him for over a day by then. Your body has grown heavy with exhaustion - but none of it has taken away your willingness. If anything, it has made you more pliant, more eager to follow wherever he led.
And still - when he tells you to leave, it shifts.
He has work to do. Real work. Papers scattered across his desk, responsibilities that cannot be postponed any longer.
You don’t take it well.
At first, it’s subtle. A small pout, a lingering hesitation as you remain where you are, asking softly if you can stay a little longer. Just a bit.
But when he doesn’t give in - when his answer stays firm and unchanged - that’s when it breaks.
You slip from his bed, not with the quiet compliance he’s used to, but with abrupt, sharp movements. Fabric rustles louder than necessary as you gather yourself, tension evident in every motion.
“What is it, dove?” Joel asks, his attention remains on the papers he’s collecting from the nightstand. “Did I not make good use of our time?”
There’s a bite beneath the words.
“You just take me when it pleases you,” you shoot back, the words coming quicker now, edged with something he hasn’t heard from you before. “Not when I need you.”
That makes him look at you.
You’re pulling your blouse back on, fingers working faster than usual, your expression caught somewhere between restraint and something much closer to anger. There’s still that flicker of hesitation - of knowing who you’re speaking to - but it doesn’t stop you.
“As I intend to continue doing,” he replies calmly, though there’s the faintest hint of irritation threading through his voice now.
You let out a small, disbelieving scoff, pushing your hair back with a sharp motion.
“Well, what if I don’t come when you call?”
“Then you have every right to do so,” he answers simply.
It’s not what you wanted to hear.
He knows that.
“Does this -” You stop yourself briefly, swallowing, but it doesn’t hold. “Does any of this even matter to you?”
Your voice wavers at the edges now, emotion catching up too quickly.
But not like this.
For a second, he considers softening. Giving you something to hold onto.
Not when the lesson hasn’t settled yet.
“You should go,” he says instead, his tone firm, leaving little room for argument. “Come back when you’ve cooled off.”
He sees it - the way something in you tightens, the way you almost push back again. The impulse is there, clear as day.
But training holds.
So you turn, gathering what you need, and you leave.
The door closes behind you with more force than necessary.
And the silence that follows doesn’t sit well with him either.
Still -
He doesn’t have to wait long.
Twelve hours later, you’re back.
And this time, he makes sure you understand exactly what you’re allowed to ask for.
And what you are not.
“You feel bold now, baby girl?”
His voice carries a low edge as he lifts the belt again - you hear the shift of it in the air before anything else, your body tensing instinctively in anticipation.
“Wanna tell me to stop?”
You shake your head quickly, the answer immediate - reflex more than thought.
It lands with enough force to pull a broken breath from you, your body jolting forward as the sting spreads fast and hot. There’s something different in it - less measured, more weighted.
The strike follows without delay, even sharper this time.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, the words slipping out before you can even think to hold them back.
“I know, dove.”
The shift in him is immediate. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens as he lowers himself beside you again. His hand returns to you, moving over the warmed and reddened skin with a gentler touch, though it makes you flinch all the same - the contrast is too sharp against the lingering sting.
“I can see you’re tryin’ to make it right,” he murmurs.
His fingers move upward, brushing along your butt, grounding you for a brief moment before his hand drifts to your center and over your exposed pussy. The touch is brief, but enough to make your breath hitch, to pull a quiet reaction from you that you can’t quite contain.
A low sound of amusement follows.
“Already eager again,” he notes as he notices the wetness that has built up. “But you’ll have to wait. We are not done yet.”
You barely manage to steady yourself as he continues.
“Four left,” he reminds you. “What comes next?”
Your voice is strained as you answer, “S-sloth.”
There’s the faintest pause - then he dips his index finger at your entrance - before it’s gone just as quickly as it came.
He straightens behind you.
“Not one I see in you often,” he says, almost thoughtfully.
To your defense, the night before has taken more out of you than usual.
He hasn’t given you much rest. Not really. Kept you close, kept you with him, his hunger consuming in a way that left little room for recovery. So finding you like this - slumped over your books in the quiet of the library, fast asleep - comes as a surprise, yes.
But not without reason.
Joel pauses a few steps away, watching you for a moment longer than necessary. The room is empty at this hour, the silence thick, undisturbed. You haven’t noticed him.
And his mind wanders.
The setting lends itself too easily to it. The isolation, the vulnerability of the moment. The way you’re there, unguarded, unaware.
He imagines stepping closer. Standing just behind you. Waking you not with words, but with presence - pressing one hand over your mouth, the other gliding under your skirt, pushing the panties aside to dip into your pussy with two fingers, pulling you from sleep before you can fully understand what’s happening.
In his mind, you respond the way you always do - soft, yielding, instinctively attuned to him even in that blurred space between dreaming and waking as his digits pump in and out of you.
The image lingers longer than it should.
But that’s all it remains.
A passing thought.
You needed the rest.
Still -
As he turns to leave, adjusting his sleeve with a subtle exhale, he feels his cock hardening.
Tonight, he decides, you’ll be seeing him again.
No question about it.
The fourth strike lands - and you feel the difference immediately.
There’s still force behind it, still enough to make your breath catch and your body tense, but it’s tempered. Which is good, because the sharp edge from the hits before slowly dulls into a more lingering pain. The sting spreads, settling deep into your skin, no longer fleeting but persistent.
You exhale slowly, grateful for the shift even as the ache builds.
“Can’t rightly punish you for that one,” Joel admits behind you, his voice thoughtful and less severe. “You’re far from lazy.”
You hear him move, feel the shift of his presence as he steps closer again. His gaze travels over you - you don’t need to see it to know. It’s there in the way the air changes, in the quiet pause that follows as he takes you in fully.
“If anything…” he continues, slower now, his attention lingering, “you’re a little too eager.”
The words catch you off guard. More so his movement.
Your breath hitches, a soft sound nearly slipping free before you can stop it.
He lowers himself behind you, knees pressing into the floor, caging your own legs and hands settling firmly at your hips. The belt remains in his grasp.
You barely have time to process the change before th next sensation steals all your remaining breath. Joel presses his face between your legs, hungry mouth to your wet center and with a deliberately slow stroke he licks only once from your clit to your entrance, circling there only a moment.
Your moan echoes through the silent room as he reluctantly pulls away again.
“Seems like we’re both guilty of the next one,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through your body. Unconsciously you push your hips back only a little, chasing his touch once more.
“G-greed…” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
A quiet, approving sound follows.
“Yeah,” he mutters, his grip tightening slightly as he pulls you back into place and lifts himself up again. “Greed.”
It’s rare - almost unheard of - that you come to him uninvited.
There’s a rhythm to this, one you’ve both settled into without ever truly naming it. He calls, you come.
So when he opens the door and finds you already standing there, he can hardly hide his surprise.
And Joel’s initial instinct is to send you away.
He should.
But then he looks at you properly.
“Father, I… just wanted… needed…”
Your words falter before they even fully form, your voice soft, uncertain in a way that doesn’t match what he can already read in your expression. It’s almost amusing to him - how easily you come undone like this when it comes to asking. When it comes to admitting what you want.
He’s seen you with nothing left to hide, bare before him, spread open just for him, ready to be used to his liking - and yet this simple act of putting it into words, is where you struggle.
Joel leans casually against the doorframe, one shoulder resting against it as he watches you.
“Can’t help you if you don’t use your words, dove,” he says, his tone light on the surface - but there’s a darker amusement beneath it.
Your gaze locks onto his, more desperate now.
“Please…”
Your hands curl at your sides, fingers tightening just slightly, and he notices how your thighs flex in an ambition to press your legs together subtly.
“What is it, Darlin’?” he drawls, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Need got so bad you couldn’t even wait a day?”
You’d only left him that morning.
And yet - here you are.
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
“Can I… come in again?” you ask, quieter now, your hesitation clear even as the question leaves you.
There’s a beat.
“I don’t know…” he hums, tilting his head slightly, letting the moment stretch just enough. “Can you?”
Then, just as easily, he steps aside and the door closes behind you soon after.
The fifth strike lands with a sharp, resounding snap.
This time, he positions himself just enough in your line of sight that you can see him through the blur of tears gathering in your eyes. Your vision wavers, edges softened by the sting that now refuses to fade, layering over the earlier strikes until it becomes something constant - present in every breath, every shift of your body.
It’s overwhelming.
And yet -
Your gaze catches on him.
His free hand rests on his crotch, pressing lightly, almost absently, but the sight alone sends a strange, conflicting warmth through you - something that curls deep despite the ache.
Pride.
That this - your endurance, your obedience, the way you hold yourself steady through every strike - affects him.
That it matters.
The feeling barely has time to settle before the sting pulls you back under, sharper and more insistent.
Joel notices.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, edged with something almost approving. “Still holdin’ yourself together. Beautiful like this.”
His hand presses just slightly more, to remind you that this isn’t one-sided. That he’s just as caught in it.
“Think you can take the rest, babydoll?”
The new name lands with surprise, sending a small, steadying warmth through you.
You nod quickly, turning your head a little more so you can still see him.
“I will,” you manage, breath uneven. “I have to.”
A small sound escapes you, somewhere between strain and determination.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer again. “You do.”
The belt drifts over your spine as he watches the marks already left behind.
“Only two left,” he adds, voice steadying again. “But you know those are the ones that count.”
A pause.
“So tell me - what’s next?”
You blink through the tears, lifting a hand quickly to wipe one away before it can fall. You search for him again, for that look you’ve learned to crave.
“Gluttony… I think.”
A quiet click of his tongue follows.
“Oh, I know that one,” he says, almost amused. “Seen it on you more than once.”
It is a sight that resists comparison.
For a fleeting moment, Joel feels the pull to let himself fall into it completely - to tilt his head back, close his eyes, and simply surrender to the warm feeling around his cock. But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
Not when the view in front of him is this.
You are stretched out across his bed, entirely exposed, your body aligned with the mattress while your head dips just over the edge of the footboard. The angle is unforgiving, your throat working visibly, the movement strained, uneven - caught somewhere between the need to breathe and the instinct to swallow.
But he doesn’t allow you the ease of either.
He stands above you, composed, cock buried deep in your mouth and hands clasped behind his back as though observing something carefully curated rather than something unfolding under his control. His gaze moves over you, taking in every detail - the tension in your body, the way you hold yourself steady despite the clear strain.
He’s lost track of time.
Doesn’t know how long you’ve held like this.
Long enough that it should show more. Long enough that anyone else would have faltered.
But you don’t.
And that - that unwavering willingness, that quiet determination to please him, to do it right - that’s what gets him close more than anything else. It always does.
“You ready, sweetheart?”
His hand moves before you can react, a firm tap against your cheek - not harsh, but grounding, pulling your attention back to him fully.
“Don’t want you wastin’ a single bit, you hear me?”
You manage the smallest nod, the motion limited, your response trapped in the confines of the position he’s put you in.
It’s enough.
He shifts his hip forward slightly, the subtle tension in him finally breaking as he exhales, the sound slipping free without resistance.
You do what you can as he spills into your throat, white ropes coating the back of it. You try to follow through exactly as instructed despite the disadvantage you’re in. Your breathing stutters when he finally withdraws his cock from you, slowly gliding over your swollen lips.
A faint droplet escapes the corner of your mouth - barely there, but noticeable.
The moment you’re free, you pull in air sharply, your chest rising as you try to recover, the relief immediate and overwhelming.
“Well done, dove.”
Joel moves without hesitation this time, stepping in close, one hand coming up to steady you as he helps lift you upright. His touch is firm but careful, guiding you back from the edge of strain.
His thumb brushes lightly at the corner of your mouth, collecting what you missed, his gaze fixed on you as he brings it back to you. His digit pushes against your lips and you let him in, tongue circling the last bit of his seed.
“Can’t have you slackin’ now.” A quiet hum follows. “Almost perfect,” he murmurs. “But we will get there.”
“Cannot say I completely condone that little sin of yours,” you hear him murmur behind you, an indulgent grin in his tone. “But for the completion of today’s lesson…”
Before you can brace yourself, you hear the leather whistle through the air, a sharp promise of the impact to come. It lands hard against your already tender skin, and a cry escapes you, fingers digging into the sheets, desperate to anchor yourself. The sting shoots through you, more insistent than anything so far. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you can endure another strike - this one has tipped the scale.
“You’re nearly done, Darlin’. I promise,” he murmurs, as if reading your mind once more.
You nod quickly, sniffing and pressing your face into the linen to wipe away the hot tears, trying to convince yourself his words are truth.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Joel crouches beside you, steadying presence at your side. “The last one… it will be the harshest. You understand why, don’t you?”
Your lips press together, swallowing hard, brow furrowed.
“Because… because it weighs the heaviest.”
Joel’s lips curve into that unmistakable, approving smile. “Exactly right. But then… you’re done. Every single one atoned.” His fingers tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing gently over your cheek, still glistening with tears. “And then I can take care of you, okay?”
Your brow furrows in doubt. “But… isn’t that lust all over again?”
His fingers trail lightly across your shoulder blade as you speak, lingering as though to reassure you. “Oh, you think this,” he gestures between you and him, “is the last sin’s misstep?”
You hesitate, unsure. “Is it… not?”
Joel chuckles, hand drifting along your side until it lands lightly on your reddened buttocks, tracing over the marks. “Oh angel, no. What we do here? That’s salvation. No sin in that.”
“Then what do you…?” you murmur, voice barely audible. He was the only one you explored lust with. What else could he mean then?
He lifts himself, folding the belt in front of your eyes once more, letting it snap taut between his hands.
“It’s about what you do,” he says softly, eyes locking with yours, “when you think no one’s looking, Darlin’.”
He isn’t entirely sure when it started.
At first, it has always been you - finding reasons to linger, to cross his path, to remain just within reach of his attention. You have been the one orbiting him.
But lately… the shift was his.
Joel finds himself watching you even when you don’t know he is there.
There is a strange satisfaction in it - observing you without that immediate awareness in your posture, without the subtle tension that always accompanies his presence.
Unobserved, you are… different.
Lighter.
He has noticed it first on campus. From his office window, catching glimpses of you crossing the grounds. In the great hall, your laughter carrying just a little too far, your gestures more animated, your words more freely given.
You are open.
Engaged. Confident, even.
And for a moment, it strikes him as a contradiction - until he realizes it isn’t.
You aren’t pretending here, just as you aren’t pretending with him. They are simply two sides of the same person. One turned outward, easy and bright. The other reserved for him - quieter, more focused, more… yielding.
Both equally compelling.
At first, he kept his distance. Observed from afar, unseen.
But Joel is not a man used to restraint when he believes himself justified.
And here - there are no consequences to fear. Not truly in his position. And not with you, who has never once shown any sign of resistance to him.
So the line shifted.
Gradually at first.
Then all at once.
He enters your quarters.
The first time, you aren’t there. He moves through the space with a careful quiet, his gaze taking in the details - your belongings, the subtle traces of your presence in every corner. He touches nothing at first.
Then, eventually… he does.
Soon, he finds himself returning even when you are inside - when the door is unlocked, when the room is still. Most often, when you are asleep.
He knows how to move without sound. The door opens just enough for him to slip inside unnoticed. And he just stands there, at your bedside, watching.
There is something different in the way you sleep alone.
Not curled in toward him, not softened by exhaustion and the quiet aftermath of his attention.
Just… still.
He finds himself thinking - more than once - that you rest better beside him.
That you belong there.
But the moment that lingered most came later.
One night, when you aren’t asleep.
You have just returned late from a late night jog. He follows not long after.
The sound of running water greets him as he steps inside.
Joel pauses just beyond the slightly open bathroom door, the space filling with steam, the mirror already beginning to fog. He can picture your body perfectly under the hot water.
Still, he shifts slightly, just enough to catch the faintest reflection, all while imagining to join you unannounced, pin you against the cold tiles and fuck you raw until you screamed his name.
Then - he hears it.
Soft. Barely there.
But unmistakable.
A quiet moan that didn’t belong to thoughtless routine.
His jaw tightens slightly as he leans just a fraction closer, gaze fixed on the blurred outline in the mirror. There is enough there to confirm it - you touch yourself, hand between your legs and fingers working intensely.
Something he recognized all too well.
His hand moves without thought, resting on his slowly growing erection, his breath slower now as he watches.
He just knows you imagine his touch instead of your own more fragile one.
There is a moment where he considers stepping in. Finishing what you started.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he stays where he is until your climax takes you.
There is something in that, too. In letting it play out. In seeing you like this without his direct influence - yet knowing, with quiet certainty, where your thoughts likely wander.
By the time he steps back out into the hallway, the air feels colder.
And as he makes his way back to his office, the emptiness of the late hour is something he finds himself unexpectedly grateful for, the outlines of his hardened cock clearly visible.
You don’t know how to process it.
The knowledge that Joel has been in your room sits heavy in your chest. More than that. That he has seen you without your awareness, has watched you in moments that were never meant to be shared.
You’ve touched yourself with him, yes. Open, guided, shaped under his direction. He has shown you how to navigate your own body, has taken your uncertainty and turned it into knowledge for yourself.
But this -
This feels more intrusive.
A line crossed that you haven’t even realized was there until now.
“You can scold me for it later if you like,” Joel says behind you, almost casually, his wrist rolling as he adjusts his grip for what’s to come. “Doesn’t change what you did.”
You swallow, unsure what to make of the strange mix of emotions rising in you. There’s hesitation, yes - but something else too. Something softer, more confusing.
Because part of you doesn’t recoil.
Part of you feels… seen.
“I’ll stop,” you say anyway, your voice unsteady but determined. “I won’t… I won’t do it unless you allow me to.”
The words hang in the air.
And for a moment he pauses.
The belt lowers slightly, and something close to surprise flickers across his face.
“You really do think the way I like,” he murmurs, a small nod following. “We’ll come back to that.”
Then his tone shifts again.
“But for now…” His arm lifts once more. “Brace yourself, Darlin’. This one’s gonna stay with you.”
You grip the sheets tighter, pressing your face into the mattress, breath held as you prepare.
The final strike comes down hard.
Hard enough to tear a cry from you before you can contain it, the sound muffled into the fabric beneath you. The pain is immediate and overwhelming - blooming across already sensitive skin until it becomes almost too much to separate from everything else.
Your body trembles, strength slipping from you as the sensation lingers, refusing to fade.
“P-please…” The word breaks from you, though you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.
You turn your head slightly, vision blurred, just in time to see him toss the belt aside.
“Well done, baby girl,” Joel says, his voice steadier again. He steps closer, his gaze trailing over you, assessing. “Look at you… took every bit of it.”
He kneels behind you once more, positioning himself close, his presence surrounding you.
This time, he does not bury his face between your legs though.
His fingers trace lightly over the marks he’s left behind, following each line with a careful touch that makes you flinch despite the gentleness - your body too sensitive now, every sensation heightened.
You barely register how he dips between your folds first, still caught in the pain, your breathing uneven. Your body reacts before your mind catches up as Joel’s fingers dive into you and your wet walls clench around him.
“Too good to waste,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
He pulls the fingers from you again, then there’s movement behind you - fabric shifting, a zipper, the sound of him adjusting - but your focus is fractured, your body heavy, responsive in ways you can’t quite control.
When he pulls you closer, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, there’s no resistance left in you. He thrusts into you in one swift, unceremonious motion, setting into rhythm at once. You give only a soft, unsteady reaction as you try to steady yourself against the bed, your body moving with the tempo he sets.
Your strength is gone, reduced to following, to feeling.
At some point, you sense him reaching for something again - the faint sound of leather shifting - but it doesn’t come down this time. Instead, he loops the belt around your throat, pulling tight and shortly after making you lightheaded. You feel your walls clench around his hard cock as he fucks you relentlessly. He is far beyond the point to adjust to your pace, only chasing his own high. But it works for you nonetheless.
Whatever tension still lingered unravels all at once, your body giving in completely, your breath catching as the orgasm overtakes you.
Behind you, he doesn’t falter. His grip holds, his pace steady, controlled, carrying you through it.
Just to follow you seconds later as your muscles still clench around his twitching cock.
And for the first time he spills into you, not pulling out, not shooting ropes of cum over your back.
You nearly whimper at the sensation, your body still caught in the aftershocks of everything that has just passed through you.
Joel buries himself even deeper with the last spill, his presence firm and grounding as the intensity ebbs. The belt that had held you so tightly eases, his grip loosening. Your head drops forward, a shaky gasp finally breaking free from your chest as air fills your lungs again.
The leather slips away, his hands gentler now as he frees you from it entirely, discarding it somewhere out of sight. One arm moves around you, steady and supportive as he lifts you just enough to keep you from collapsing completely.
To your surprise his lips brush against your shoulder, then along the line of your spine, grounding you in a different way than before.
“My beautiful, beautiful girl,” he murmurs, his voice stripped of its earlier edge. “You went beyond what I asked of you.”
The words settle deep, and something in you gives way.
Tears slip free, quiet and unrestrained.
Not from the lingering ache in your body, nor from the intensity of what he put you through but from something lighter, and overwhelming in its release.
A strange sense of freedom.
Of having endured, of having been seen through it all.
“Th-thank you… Joel,” you manage, barely holding together.
He pulls out, guiding your chest carefully back down onto the bed, but he doesn’t leave you there alone.
Instead, he crouches beside you, one arm slipping beneath you as he lifts you effortlessly, drawing you against his chest. You curl into Joel without thinking, your body folding naturally into the warmth he offers, your cheek resting against him, still damp with tears.
“I should be the one thanking you, doll,” he says softly. You feel the brush of his lips against your forehead. “Ain’t never felt closer to somethin’ holy than I do with you.”
The words blur at the edges of your awareness, exhaustion pulling at you now. You barely register the shift as he lowers you fully onto the bed, easing you down with care.
“There’s no way I’m ever gonna tire of you,” Joel continues as he sits beside you. You can feel his gaze on you even through the fatigue.
“And we’re just gettin’ started,” he adds, almost to himself.
You don’t have the strength to answer. You don’t have to. He already knows that you will not take issue with it.
Confess your thoughts to me or indulge in further stuff:
sorry for being so late to this!! what an amazing quiz @kokoluwie!! thank you for the tags my lovelies!! 💕 @milla-frenchy @madpanda75 @aurorawritestoescape @sawymredfox
npt (sorry if you’ve done this already, I must’ve missed it!): @bergamote-catsandbooks @peepawmiller @queenofslowburn @cozymochaa @mcthsman @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @din-cognito
Thank you for the tags, you cuties, knowing I lovelovelove doing these 🩵🤍🩵🤍 @tateypots @simpingforjoel @missadangel @joelmillerpascal
last song: Teardrop - Massive Attack. If I could only ever listen to one album for the rest of my life it would be Mezzanine by Massive Attack. 🎧
currently watching: the third season of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader and rewatching Blue Eye Samurai 🩵
current obsession: my walking pad. I try to do my 7.5k every day and it really helps me to wind down and finally work through my tbw list 👣
currently reading: The Rainfall Market by You Yeong-Gwang, just started it but it's cozy so far.
currently working on: a new multi-chapter fic, yay! After ending Take a Sip and Day Dreams it feels just right to dive into the next one! More infos will follow shortly but this much can be said: our favorite DEA Agent in an assassin AU thriller romance...
currently wearing: Black baggy pants, a black top and Doc Marten sandals with my new Coca Cola socks from Family Mart while my sweater waits in my carry-on until it gets too cold on the plane. 🖤
last search: if I am allowed to have a cute porcelain sake set in my handbag for the flight (I am, yay!) 🍶
favorite flower: lavender, stealing it whenever it grows on the side, but never maintain to keep it alive on our balcony 🪻
I'd like to get to know all of you!! But for the sake of the game I am going to tag: @dotyoureyez @missladym1981 @harriedandharassed @pedrofan @johnssherlock221 @pedges-world @drunkennunicornn @misstokyo7love @speaktothehandpeasants @honestlywork @perpetualharpyresonance @pedges-world @sunnytuliptime @zoobabystation (😭always feels like forgetting so many... pllllssss feel tagged. I want to learn about you too!)
Chapter Summary: We come to a close with Harry and Emily. You found your rhythm, your life, your future. And that is all that matters.
Chapter warnings: so much fluff and finality, our two corpo lovers found their happy ending...
wc: 2.7k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
It was strange, looking back on that evening in May, three months after moving to London. At the time it had felt reckless, almost like you’d stepped off a ledge without checking what waited below.
Now, even months later, with everything settled around you, you could still feel the way your chest had tightened, how your throat had burned as you had forced the words out.
You’d spent the week of his second business trip to London circling each other in the Dalton & Price headquarters like two magnets in danger of being spotted. Meetings filled with sharp-eyed executives, stolen glances across glass-walled rooms, the low simmer of tension every time his hand brushed yours over a stack of briefing papers. He’d been maddeningly professional in public - until the parking garage.
You still blushed remembering it. One second you were walking side by side through the dim parking garage, the air heavy with all the words you couldn’t say, and then Harry's hand was on your waist, tugging you into the shadow between concrete pillars. The kiss had been quick, desperate, as though he couldn’t bear to leave London without it. But then his hand had slid daringly scandalous under the hem of your skirt before you’d swatted him back with a breathless laugh.
“Harry,” you’d hissed, torn between outrage and giddy thrill.
“Couldn’t resist,” he’d murmured against your lips, grin wicked and boyish. "I don't want to leave, Emily. I miss you already." He had always been stronger in expressing his feelings. Even though you both still hadn't named what it was between you.
But the night it changed - really changed - was later.
He’d been at your/his flat before his return flight to New York, both of you stealing what little hours you could before his taxi came too quickly. Dinner had blurred into a bottle of wine, into him stretched out on your couch, shirt sleeves rolled, shoes kicked off, the kind of domestic sight that made your chest ache with how natural it felt.
Then you’d walked him down to the street when his car finally arrived, the ache in your stomach now sharp and hollow.
You’d meant to keep it light. Smile, wave, maybe send him off with a kiss you could tuck away for the lonely weeks to come. Instead, as the driver closed the taxi door and you lifted your hand, the words had broken loose.
“I want us to be more.”
You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought it through. The words were out in the air, trembling between you, and your stomach dropped like you’d just stepped into freefall. His head had snapped around, brows drawing tight, and for one horrifying moment you thought you’d made the worst mistake of your life.
More than what? He’d say it, wouldn’t he? More than stolen nights and frantic kisses in stairwells? More than a “fuck colleague” situation? The you he knew - capable, logical you - should have known better than to believe in anything beyond that.
You could see him lean in, to the driver, before the taxi door opened again. He stepped back onto the curb. You couldn’t breathe.
He came closer, stopping just in front of you, rain misting against his hair and the dark lapels of his jacket. “More?” His voice was quiet, but not sharp. Curious. “More than what?”
You couldn’t answer. Your mouth opened but nothing came, only the thud of your heart in your ears.
Then he shook his head, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “What could become more real than this?” His hand came up, cupping your cheek like he was anchoring you in place. The warmth of his palm grounded you in an instant. He leaned down, brushing his mouth against yours with a kiss that carried none of the rush from before. This one was deliberate. Solid.
“Want me to sign some merger papers with you too?” he teased lightly against your lips.
Your laugh was broken, half-drowned in nerves, and he must have felt it because his brow furrowed again. You couldn’t quite smile, not fully, and he saw right through you. Of course he did. He always did.
Before you could retreat, his arms wrapped tight around you, pressing you against him. He kissed you again, longer this time, until you felt the sting in your eyes ease, until the tight knot in your chest finally loosened. When he pulled back, his breath was steady.
His voice too.
“I cannot wait,” he said simply, “to see my girlfriend next time I’m in London, Emily.”
Your heart nearly gave out right there.
You tried for a joke, because that was easier. “Who is she? Can I meet her?”
He kissed you again, soft and silencing. “Oh, she’s a catch. I’m telling you.” Another kiss followed, gentle as the first rain drops fell heavier around you. “And she has nothing to worry about.”
You blinked up at him, your throat too tight to answer.
“You know me,” he said, almost with a shrug, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “As soon as I hold on to something, I don’t intend to let go so easily.”
Your eyes stung again but for different reasons this time. Relief, gratitude, disbelief that this was real.
So you said the only thing you could, the only words you could find that wouldn’t crack your voice wide open. You pulled the corner of your mouth into your familiar inside joke and whispered, “That’s… good to hear.”
His laugh warmed against your lips. He kissed you again, one hand steady at your jaw as though he had no intention of letting go, not now, not ever. The taxi driver honked lightly, impatient. Harry cursed under his breath, nearly turning back as though he’d forget the flight altogether.
You had to shove at his chest, laughing through the mist of tears. “Go, or you’ll miss it!”
“I almost want to,” he admitted, stealing one last kiss before slipping back into the taxi. His eyes caught yours through the window as the car pulled away, a silent promise etched there, sharp enough to carry you through every lonely night that followed.
Now, in December, you could still feel it like it had been yesterday. That was the night everything shifted. The night “more” had stopped being a risk and started being the truth.
And now you were back.
The flight had been long, your body humming with that odd combination of fatigue and adrenaline. Seven hours, a dull blur of recycled air, a neck pillow that did nothing, and a restless eagerness that had you glancing at the little airplane screen every five minutes, as though staring would make the tiny white plane move faster across the map.
But when the wheels hit JFK and the captain’s voice crackled overhead, you felt your chest swell. Home. You were home. Not just for a visit this time, not just a frantic week with a carry-on and a stack of briefing papers.
After 10 months in London, you were finally back. For good.
Dalton & Price had signed off on the New York branch. Junior head. Your name attached. You almost couldn’t believe it. Ten months in London had sharpened you, tested you - but this, this was a chance to stake your place where you belonged.
You would have your own team, your own office overlooking a skyline you’d once only dreamed of working in, the authority to shape things instead of just follow. No more temporary assignments, no more waiting to be sent back. London would still call you for business trips, sure - but you’d always be returning here. To this city. To your city.
And Harry.
He was waiting for you at his place. The thought alone had carried you through customs, through baggage claim, through the sluggish crawl toward Arrivals. You wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, into your promised quiet night together.
Except -
“EMILY!”
The shriek pierced the hum of the terminal. You barely had time to turn before you were tackled by a blur of dark curls and perfume. Amy.
You let out a startled laugh, stumbling under the force of the hug. “Oh my god - Amy!”
“You’re here! You’re actually here!” Amy clutched your face in both hands, eyes bright and watery. “Do you even know how much I’ve missed you? Ten months! That’s like - I don’t know - an entire friendship decade!”
You laughed, hugging her tighter, your chest aching with the sweetness of it. And then you saw them - over Amy’s shoulder - Kazeem, grinning wide, and beside him… Harry.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t rush you, didn’t make a scene. Just stepped forward when Amy finally let you go, and pulled you into the kind of hug that erased airports, months, time zones. His arms wrapped around you so tight you almost squeaked from lack of air, but god, you didn’t care. You buried your face in his neck and inhaled. His scent, his warmth. Home in a different way.
“Careful,” Amy teased, stepping back and nudging Kazeem with her elbow. “Public indecency, right at JFK. Didn’t know the junior head of Dalton & Price’s New York branch was so… scandalous.”
You rolled your eyes, still pressed against Harry. “I literally just landed, can you give me a minute before you roast me?”
“Nope,” Amy said cheerfully, kissing your cheek. “You left me for London, I’ve earned a full year of material. And don’t think you get a free pass just because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Corporate over here looks like he wants to swallow you whole.”
Kazeem barked out a laugh, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Man’s been looking like that for weeks.”
Harry only hummed, lips brushing your hair. “Ignore them,” he muttered, voice low enough for only you to hear. “I’ve got you now.”
So much for your quiet night.
Dinner at Kazeem’s turned into exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d needed: laughter spilling over glasses of wine, the smell of spices and garlic filling the apartment, Amy and Kazeem bickering like a married couple while Harry kept his hand on your knee under the table.
“Don’t even try,” Amy warned, wagging her fork at Harry as he reached for your glass.
“She needs the wine more than you. Emotional jet lag.”
You groaned. “That’s not even a thing.”
“It is now,” Amy shot back. “Drink.”
You drank, cheeks flushed with wine and warmth and belonging. For the first time in months, maybe longer, you didn’t feel stretched thin, didn’t feel like you had to juggle ten lives at once. You were here. With them. With him.
And Harry barely let go of you all night. Arm slung across the back of your chair, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your shoulder. Later, as the laughter softened and the bottle emptied, you leaned into him, your cheek against his shirt, and felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
By the time you made it to his penthouse, it was late. Too much wine for more frenzy, too much fatigue for games. Instead, it was quiet. Soft.
You dropped your suitcase by the door and let him slide your coat from your shoulders.
“Would you mind me taking a quick shower?” you asked, leaning in to brush your lips against his.
He shook his head, a tired smile playing at his mouth. “Go on. I’ll make you tea. Wait for you in bed.”
You lingered at that. “You look exhausted too.”
“I am,” he admitted, eyes warm. “But happy.”
Your chest tightened. You kissed him again, softer this time, then turned and slipped toward the bathroom.
His flat smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, the kind of understated luxury that still managed to make you feel small sometimes. But the bathroom - oh, he’d thought of you. Your favorite shampoo. A body wash you’d once offhandedly said you loved. Even a new body lotion and a toothbrush.
Steam fogged the mirror almost instantly as the hot water rushed over you. You tilted your head back, letting it sluice away hours of travel, letting your muscles unwind. The fog cocooned you, warmth seeping into every pore.
And then -
The shower door clicked open. A rush of cooler air.
You turned, startled - then smirked when you saw him step into the mist. “Missing me already?”
Harry's arms caged you in an instant, braced against the tile on either side of your head, his body crowding yours. His mouth found yours before you could tease again.
“Always,” he breathed against your lips.
Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, tugging him closer, your smile curving even as your voice softened. “Good thing I won’t leave so soon now.”
His forehead rested against yours, eyes searching. “I wouldn’t let you even if you had to.” He gave himself a pause, as if to craft carefully what to say next. “Stay with me, Emily. Here.”
It wasn’t a joke, wasn’t casual. It was plea and promise all at once. Even with the heat pressing between you, his cock hard against your hip, you could feel the sincerity in his words.
Your chest squeezed. You searched his gaze, finding nothing but truth there. “I’ll stay with you wherever,” you whispered finally. And you meant it.
His smile broke through, tender and relieved. He kissed you like gratitude, like happiness itself.
And then - because you couldn’t help yourself - you murmured against his mouth,
“Would you consider moving into my Williamsburg flat though? Your penthouse intimidates me.”
That made his lips twitch, his smile curving darker. “You and your jokes, Emily. They’ll get you in trouble someday.”
Before you could laugh, he spun you, pressing your chest to the tile, pinning your wrists above your head in one swift, sure motion.
“Lucky me,” you whispered back, breathless, grinning even as anticipation shivered through you.
The city was in that gray, tired stretch of winter where the holidays felt like a distant memory, and the grind had reclaimed everyone. Christmas had passed in a blur of laughter, wine, and stolen mornings in bed.
A few weeks later
New Year’s too - loud and bright, and then suddenly gone. Now, the calendar had rolled well into January, and business carried on as if to make up for all the lazy days before.
Harry leaned back against the cool leather of the Uber, the city blurring by the snow-rain-mix on the glass, while the car stood still, engine ready to set off. Suit immaculate, coat folded neatly beside him, no glasses today. Just him - the same Harry Castillo who, not so many months ago, had stepped out of arrivals in New York for his new job here. Except everything was different now.
He scrolled absently through emails, flicking between reports and rolling docs, his jaw tight with the day’s weight. Dalton & Price had partnered him into another round of high-stakes talks, and tomorrow promised more of the same. Today had been endless - the prep, the calls, the alignment - but at least he wasn’t going through it alone.
The back door swung open in a rush of cold air, jolting him from his screen. You slid inside, cheeks flushed from the wind, bag dropping between your feet with a thud.
“Sorry, fucking key card. Will never get used to it,” you muttered breathlessly, offering a sheepish smile toward the driver before turning back to him.
Harry slipped his phone into his pocket, the weariness on his face easing the moment he saw you. “Ready for a day full of conference talk and pitch decks?” he asked, voice warm with a hint of amusement.
“As ready as can be,” you shot back, your grin sharp. Today’s agenda was brutal: a full-day merger conference uptown, hours of panels and strategy sessions, the two of you in and out of rooms stacked with lawyers, analysts, and executives who thought their time was worth more than anyone else’s. It would be exhausting.
But you’d be in it together.
He let his gaze wander, just for a second. Your blouse sat crisp, pencil skirt hugging you just right, pumps clicking when you’d rushed to the car. Your winter coat framed you like an afterthought, still holding the chill of the street. You looked utterly professional, perfectly polished. And completely his.
You noticed his eyes on you and tilted your head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a smirk. “Like what you see?”
“Love it even,” he said, the words slipping out easily.
He leaned in before you could quip back, brushing a kiss against your cheek, close enough that his lips hovered just at the edge of your smile. His voice dropped, meant only for you. “Cannot wait to ruin that tonight.”
Your chuckle warmed the space between you. “Is that a promise?”
“Count on it,” he murmured, pulling back only enough to see your grin. He held out his hand, you slipped yours in, fingers interlacing.
Outside, the skyline lit up against the winter dusk, towers glowing like embers. Inside the car, the world shrank to the quiet charge between you - two professionals about to face another long day in conference rooms and board halls, two lovers already planning how they’d unravel each other when it was done.
Masterlist
My lovely corpo-queens. With that we come to a close with Harry and Emily.
And it is such an emotional end for me, also because I am posting this literally from my hotel room in Tokyo while it is my last night on this trip.
Day Dreams was such a joy ride to draft and write. Don't even know where to go next from here... okay, that's a lie, I already have two new projects in mind :D but again: i want to thank you for your support, kind words and love. This means the world to me. Finally my career in the corpo world was put to good use, i would say :D ✨️🤍✨️🤍✨️🤍✨️
Chapter Summary: You have arrived in London and with that a time of waiting and wanting began. Good thing, Harry has to take a business trip.
Chapter warnings: fluffy and bantery sexting/flirting, a lot of yearning, a little angst too, and another portion of fluff
wc: 2.8k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
The flat wasn’t yours. Not technically. But every night, when you unlocked the heavy iron door and stepped inside, it felt like it could be.
You’d told yourself - and Harry - that this was just for the transition. A few weeks. A month, maybe two, until you found your own place. Something modest, something you could afford.
But walking up the metal staircase of his maisonette loft in the heart of Mayfair, you already knew you were lying to yourself. Because how could you ever give this up?
The space was textbook London industrial chic - exposed red brick walls, black steel beams, big old warehouse windows with panes that rattled in the wind but kept out the city noise surprisingly well. Copper pipes and vintage Edison bulbs gave off a warm glow against dark leather furniture that looked antique, though probably cost more than your yearly rent back in Williamsburg.
The kitchen was sleek but masculine - matte black cabinets, brass fittings, a hulking espresso machine that looked complicated enough to launch a satellite.
And the shower. God, the shower. A walk-in, rainfall beast with black slate tiles that turned every rinse into a spa moment. You hadn’t even explored every smart-home gadget yet, but the dimmers and automatic blinds alone already made you feel like you were living in a Bond villain’s lair.
It was so Harry. Manly, understated, expensive in a way that didn’t scream but purred. He hadn’t furnished it to impress - this was simply what he thought of as comfortable.
And you… were getting too comfortable.
Which almost surprised you, given how chaotic leaving New York had been. The night before your flight had been a storm of tissues and tangled hugs with Amy, both of you crying in fits, promising calls and visits that you both knew would ache in the waiting.
You’d cried yourself hollow with your best friend, but not with Harry.
With him, it had been different. He’d insisted on driving you to the airport, even at four in the morning, his eyes sharp and awake while the world was still heavy with sleep. You’d thought he might give you one of his quiet, knowing goodbyes, a brush of lips against your cheek.
But no - Harry had pulled you into his arm, hand firm on your chin, and kissed you full and unapologetic. A kiss that told everyone in that departure hall exactly who you belonged to.
Not gonna lie, that had made it a lot harder to fly over the Atlantic after.
Your first few workdays at Dalton & Price blurred by, long hours in glass-walled meeting rooms, piles of briefing papers, juggling calls and schedules while trying not to drown in acronyms and egos. You’d been handed into the merger planning team directly and you took it with the same grit you always had. Smile, nod, write faster, be indispensable.
Tonight, though, you were drained. Your body ached from your heels, your brain hummed with legalese and corporate jargon.
But slipping into Harry’s bed definitely made your evening better.
The sheets smelled faintly of detergent, too clean to carry any trace of him. He hadn’t been here in weeks, and the flat bore no sign of daily life - no jacket slung over a chair, no half-empty coffee mug, no scent of his cologne lingering in the air. And still, you pulled the blanket to your chin, closed your eyes, and pretended.
Pretended that the warmth was him, not just the radiator humming. Pretended that he’d come up behind you, hand on your hip, mouth on your neck, growling into your ear that you were his.
Your phone chimed on the nightstand. The screen lit up, pulling you out of your fantasy. You blinked, reaching blindly for it.
Harry: No touching in my bed. You wait until I am over there.
A laugh burst out of you, sharp in the silence. Typical. The man could work eighteen-hour days across the ocean and still find the time to police what you did in his bed.
Your thumbs flew over the keyboard.
Emily: Christ, you got cameras here? Was not even thinking about that, too tired. But now that you mention it…
You grinned at your own wickedness, then sat up, tossing the blanket aside. The wardrobe across the room stood half-empty, but you’d already raided it for sleepwear. Tonight you wore one of his old shirts - The Cure, faded black cotton with a cracked print. He hadn’t even bothered to pack up his whole closet when moving to New York.
Lifting the hem, you snapped a photo: bare stomach, a teasing flash of underboob, your hand sliding suggestively beneath the waistband of your slip. Mischief curled in your smile. You captioned it simply: oopsie.
Send.
The rush of adrenaline was ridiculous. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, waiting. A minute. Two. Five.
The reply buzzed in.
Harry: Look at who’s begging for a spanking.
You bit your lip, giggling into the empty flat. God, you missed him. Missed his voice, his weight, the way he could turn your bratty little quips into pleading without lifting a finger.
Emily: Look at who’s having a hard-on in the office.
It was nearly ten in London. Which meant he was five hours behind. Definitely still working. Which made it even better.
The screen lit again - this time with a picture.
Not a dick pic. No, this was Harry smirking at his own desk, tie loosened, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. His expression was the picture of innocence, though the caption betrayed him: Never had a hard-on in my LIFE at the office.
You barked a laugh, then zoomed in, studying him like you could inhale him through pixels. God, he was pretty. Annoyingly so.
Emily: Liar. Bet there was some movement when I fixed your IT problems under your desk the first week.
You sent it before you could hesitate, then stared at the image again, warmth flooding your chest.
The typing dots appeared. Paused. Then appeared again.
Harry: If I knew back then what I know now…
He didn’t finish it. Didn’t have to. You felt the words, heavy and sharp, tugging low in your stomach.
Another ping.
Harry: Sleep tight, Emily. And no touching. Four days to go.
Your lips pulled into a grin you couldn’t suppress.
You curled back under the duvet, clutching the phone to your chest, still giggling softly. Your mind mocked you even as you drifted: Enjoy your evening thinking about me, Harry.
You nearly added a heart emoji. Nearly. Your thumb hovered over it before you caught yourself and locked the screen instead.
No. Not yet. Not that.
But as you buried your face into the pillow, inhaling the detergent-clean linen, you knew damn well your heart was already in it - whether you texted it or not.
London rain had a way of cutting straight through him. Not like the New York sleet that slapped sideways, or the thunderous summer storms that broke the heat like a curse. No, London rain was a mist, a constant curtain, clinging to his coat, dampening his collar, slipping under his glasses in droplets that blurred his vision and forced him to swipe them uselessly with his sleeve as he strode across Bishopsgate.
This was not the morning he’d planned.
Last night had been a blaze. You and Harry had pushed your words until the screen between you felt like it was glowing hot - half-teasing, half-promises, your bodies already syncing in imagination. A shower together, slick skin, your laugh in the steam, the weight of your breasts against his chest as he pressed you into the glass wall. You’d both gone to bed wound tight as bowstrings, clinging to the fantasy that when dawn came, you’d unravel together.
But dawn had come with a delay. A grounded flight. Hours in the fluorescent purgatory of JFK Airport instead of your bed. He hadn’t even had the chance to drop his bag at the flat; the driver had gone straight to the City.
And now here he was: damp, late, and walking into a room where the last thing he could be was yours.
He pushed the heavy glass door open. Catherine Dalton’s clipped voice filled the air, Richard Price’s deep laugh punctuating whatever joke had been made before his arrival. The legal team was already flipping through papers, their pens ticking against notepads. And there -
There was you.
Sitting upright, hair shining under the recessed lights, a navy dress that hugged your body in all the places he knew by heart. You were already speaking when he entered, your voice low and firm, your hands cutting neat gestures above the folder in front of you. And you looked up. Just a second, just a flash, but it hit him with the force of a fist to the gut.
Your eyes widened, softened. Longing there, plain as day. Longing that no one else at that table would recognize, but he saw it instantly. His cock twitched. He tightened his jaw and shifted his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly, voice the practiced baritone of boardrooms, not bedrooms. “Weather wasn’t on my side this morning.”
He let the room laugh politely, let them nod, let the rhythm continue without him being the disruption. He shrugged off his coat, hung it deliberately, sat down. Corpo-Harry was in control. Corpo-Harry could glide into a late meeting like he’d meant to be fashionably late all along.
But under the table, his knee bounced once, a sharp tick of energy he couldn’t bleed anywhere else.
He forced his focus onto Dalton and Price, forced his notes into order, forced his voice into the steady cadence of a strategist discussing timelines and integration processes. He ignored the rain still cooling in his hair, the way his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders. He ignored you.
Except he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Every time you spoke, he caught the timber of your tone - the strength, the clarity. He watched Dalton nod at you, impressed, watched Price lean in, amused. And Harry’s jaw set tighter. Because all he could think of was how that same voice cracked, broke, whispered his name in the dark. How you begged and cursed in the same breath when he had you against the wall.
He adjusted his glasses, clenched his pen. Corpo-Harry, he reminded himself. Corpo-Harry didn’t imagine pushing you onto the gleaming boardroom table.
You hadn’t meant to flee. Not exactly. But the break had come and if you’d sat in that chair another minute with his aftershave curling through the air toward you - God, you knew it was his, the kind of clean, woodsy scent that once clung to your sheets for days - you would’ve sighed. Actually sighed. In front of Catherine Dalton.
So you ducked into the women’s restroom instead, shutting the stall door and leaning your head back against the cool metal. Three weeks. Three weeks since New York, since the airport kiss that had burned into your lips all the way across the Atlantic. Three weeks of late-night calls, teasing texts, photographs, promises layered like bricks. And now he was here.
And you were supposed to talk EBITDA and timelines like you hadn’t spent half the night picturing him inside you.
“Get a grip,” you muttered at your reflection as you washed your hands, splashing your wrists with cool water like that could wash him off you. You dabbed at the corners of your eyes, pressed color back into your cheeks, smoothed your hair. Professional. You had to look professional.
You pulled the door open -
And collided almost exactly into him.
Harry, stepping out of the men’s room, straightening his suit jacket. A beat. A breath. Your eyes met and broke into something too quick to stop - a laugh, a smile tugging both your mouths wide before you could fight it down.
“Great to… see you again,” you said, voice higher than you wanted, clipped into something polite.
“Likewise,” he replied, throat clearing, glasses glinting under the hallway light. His expression slipped into corporate formality again, but his eyes - his eyes were fire. “You’re holding up great in there. Good work.”
It was stupid, how much that sentence meant. Professional praise, the kind that could’ve been delivered to anyone on the team. But you swallowed it like champagne, let it fizz in your chest.
Well, we take what we can get feeding our praise kink, right?
You opened your mouth, trying to conjure something equally safe in reply, but he was faster. His gaze darted down the hall, left and right. Empty.
Then he stepped in, just a fraction, close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek. His voice was low, meant only for you:
“Hope we can continue the good work… later.”
Your breath caught, the flush racing down your throat so fast you thought it would betray you instantly. You shot him a look, biting back the smile that wanted to burst.
And there it was - the sly grin, already tugging at his lips, like he knew exactly the effect it had on you.
He stepped back, smooth as ever, tilting his head slightly toward the hallway, giving you the space to walk out first.
You did. Your heels clicking down the hall, your spine ramrod straight, your pulse hammering in your ears.
And you didn’t have to look behind you to know - absolutely, without a doubt - that he was watching your ass as you walked away.
You let yourself fall from his lap onto the couch cushions, limbs boneless, chest rising and falling too fast.
Your thighs still tingled from how tightly they’d wrapped around him. God, you hadn’t even made it upstairs into the bedroom. The minute you’d stepped through the door, coats barely off, you’d pounced like lust-drunk teenagers.
“Quite… convincing arguments you got there, Mr. Castillo,” you managed, voice frayed by panting. Your lips curved into a smirk, though you couldn’t quite look at him without remembering how thoroughly he’d just kissed you senseless. “I’ll weigh them out with my legal team and get back to you in due course.”
His laugh broke warm and low across the space between you. “Shut up,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against yours before kissing you again, stealing away the rest of your teasing. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to something startlingly plain, startlingly real. “I’ve missed you.”
Simple words. So simple, they nearly undid you.
You swallowed hard. Through all the nearly-sent heart emojis, the playful sexting, the fevered texts about missing his hands, you’d been careful. Guarded. You weren’t sure what you were yet, what you could become. The safety of professional distance always kept your tongue in check. And now here he was, throwing it out so casually.
“That’s… good to hear,” you said softly, driven by pure honesty.
But Harry’s scoff cracked out instantly. His mouth tugged into that infuriating grin. “Oh wow. That’s what I get? ‘Good to hear’? Christ, Emily, you sound like a customer service auto-reply. Should I wait three to five business days for your actual feelings?”
You couldn’t help it - your laugh spilled out, high and bright, and you slapped a hand weakly against his chest. “Shut up, that is not what I sound like.”
“Mm,” he hummed, mock-serious, “I can practically see the email subject line now: ‘Re: Missed You - Thank you for your feedback.’”
Your stomach ached with laughter even as your cheeks burned.
He leaned in again, stealing your laughter with another kiss that pressed deep, silencing every retort you might’ve thrown back at him. When he pulled away, there was still amusement in his eyes but something sharper beneath it. “Play hard to get all you like. I’ve got the whole night to wring some words of affirmation out of that pretty mouth.”
Your heart skipped, traitorous and eager.
Harry pushed up from the couch, his body unfolding into the dimness of the flat, dress shirt unbuttoned down his chest and clinging slightly with sweat. You glanced down at yourself - your navy dress pooled on the floor, bra still clasped in place like some flimsy shield.
You thought he was heading to the kitchen, but instinct - or maybe pure want - caught you before he could go far. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him back down, back into the gravity you couldn’t seem to shake.
Harry froze, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something unreadable before softening. You folded yourself into his chest before you could second-guess it, pressing your cheek against the steady rise and fall of him, your arms circling his middle.
“Dito,” you whispered. Not loud, not brave, but real.
His chest rumbled with a low hum, deep enough to vibrate through your cheek. One large hand smoothed over the back of your head, fingers carding lazily through your hair before settling to hold you in place. Then a kiss, slow and grounding, pressed to the crown of your head.
Pairing: AUvampire!Max Phillips (just the name for convenience sake. But actually: whatever Pedro you prefer) x you (NYPD detective with a name and hardly a look)
Summary: Being a cop in New York should mean justice. Instead it’s just paperwork, frustration, and watching monsters slip through the cracks. Then he moves in across the hall - too smug, too charming, and definitely not human. You should stay away. You won’t. And hey, maybe an alliance can form, that helps the both of you...
Warnings: blood (well, it is a vampire story), murder, mention but no description of sexual assault (you work SVU), tension for ages, smut later on, but before that: banter, teasing, a smug bastard modern vampire
Honestly? This story is a blast to write! I am looking forward to dive into this slow burn with with you all and get the hots for this bloodsucker!
You are a sweetheart, @misstokyo7love 💖💕✨️ I feel a little empty on fridays now without posting any new chapters. But even more so it makes me happy you enjoy it that much!
I gained quite a few over the last couple of weeks so I think it's time for a proper "Hi" and a little "who is she anyway?" next to a "so very happy you are here, you lovelies 🥹💕"
So hi. Welcome to the slowburn headquarters where I self indulge in the fantasies I see nowhere so I write them myself. First it was multichapter slowburns (also some with OCs in them 😱) then I felt comfortable enough to also take a leap and create more smut and dark smut. But you will always find both here: fluff, smut, dark settings, cheesy romance... it's all about balance 🙂↕️
I want everyone to feel safe and included here so always feel free to reach out! I cannot stress enough ✨️how much✨️ I want to hear and read from you! So send in thoughts, requests or simply say hello 💖
To get to know me a little, I created a tag game myself. So please, let me overshare with you and feel free to do the same 🤭
🏷️ name / nickname: Mina
🎂 age: in my 30s
🌍 country / time zone: Germany
✨ pronouns: she/her
📅 on tumblr since: forever (i think 2014) but writing and actively creating: july 2025
📝 currently writing for: all the Pedroboys, especially Joel and Din. But honestly, how can one truly choose?
📚 consuming fics about: all the Pedroboys :D but also digging some Ryland Grace fluff atm. Project Hail Mary still has me in a chokehold (actually it had since reading the book 3 years back 🤭)
💕 favorite tropes and tags: enemies to lovers 😭 there is something about hating a man until he pins you down, also sunshine & grumpy, forced proximity, tending to wounds, drunk confessions, everything that promises yearning and angst (but turns out good)
🚫 tropes and tags that give me the ick: infidelity, too heavy ddlg, stupid female reader, misogyny poorly hidden behind "masculine" tropes, pregnancy tropes (😬 sorry not sorry, I don't get the romance behind it), enemies to lovers that fuck in chapter 3 (this needs build up!), instant love
🎭 most fun to write: tension and banter, love it when you can feel the chemistry through the lines and want to scream "KISS NOW" at them.
😩 always struggling to write: smut 🙈 just because I want to get it just right, not cringe but not too shallow either.
🏆 fic i'm most proud of: Take a Sip 🥹 just finished it and I love everything about it, the tension, the tropes, the storyline. It was a blast to write. Finishing it just this week leaves an empty spot (that needs replacement faaaast)
☕ writing fuel: Royal Milk Tea or a simple Earl Grey with oatmilk
🌙 typical writing time: I am a night owl 🦉 but when inspiration hits daytime is not a dealbreaker.
📂 number of wips i'm pretending are under control: four or five...ish 😬? Got so many ideas and not enough time :D
🔎 most ridiculous thing i've researched for a fic: for an upcoming assassin fic how far sniper rifles work 🙈 for "Not so tough now, Darlin'" self defense tactics, time travel paradox for a fic I never finished (cowboy Joel finds his way in the now time in deepest winter, reader has to take care of him... like the idea still, but the spark is missing...)
🫠 character type i fall for every time: hard/witty exterior and soft core, sunshine and grumpy without one of them being naive or stupid
💫 latest fandom obsession: dark!joel 😬 can you tell by the latest fics I created? (Raider Joel and Father Joel)
🎉 fun fact: I dance pole since 5 years, learning Japanese since one year and my closest friends and my partner actually know about my tumblr 😂
to all my new followers: i dont know if you like to be tagged, but please feel free to use this template to share something about you (every answer is optional of course!). I would love to see what you consume and/or create and who all these beautiful people behind the usernames are.
To all my fellows and mutuals, feel tagged as well, even if i did forget to tag you myself 💕
