summary: joel has been working a lot lately and not properly been paying attention to you, at least, that's how you feel during ovulating. so, you come up with a plan, which leads to him scolding you for wearing a short dress like that. and more.
trigger warnings: age gap (joel in his 50s, f!reader in her 20s), jackson!joel, possessive, oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, breeding kink, spanking, dirty talking, light praise kink
words: 2,2k
a/n: hii guys, im currently laying in bed sick with a fever, but I thought, there's no better time to write some smut again. credits to povsmommy28 on tiktok, because i saw this pov and i thought this is an amazing idea hihi
he was just at work. on patrols. doing construction work here and there.
you know he is very important to the town. and you knew from the beginning he is an workaholic. even before you got together a year ago. but still, the last few weeks, you got no real attention from him.
because of all his work, you barely even fucked. yes, there was some lazy making out, but mostly, you were already asleep when he got home. also, you were on your period a week and a half ago, so you were in not a good mood, there was nothing going on, but now, you were fucking ovulating.
and you felt it. just instantly at the thought of him, you were fucking soaked.
you tried to initiate intimacy with him two days ago, and it wasn't even that he didn't get hard.
oh, he did.
but then suddenly tommy knocked at our damn door, because there was some kind of emergency with that one construction side at the end of town.
whatever.
now, you came up with a plan. you 'planned' a girls night out with your friends from the clinic you were working at. but what joel didn't know, there was no girls night out. you already had a lovely brunch with them the day before.
but you knew joel. and besides that he's pretty possessive, he has a soft spot for short dresses.
plan was, get his attention, tease and argue with him, which then leads to him fucking you till you can't think right.
so, you got all dolled up. hair down, some soft blush on your cheeks, and wearing your short white whimsical dress, which was just right over your butt a little, leaving a bit to the imagination.
joel was downstairs, just came home like fifteen minutes ago, and was on the couch, cleaning his shotgun.
he looked up as he hears your soft steps running down the stairs. you didn't look at him, but hell, you could already feel his eyes burning right through you.
"where are you going all dolled up like that?", he asks. deep, thick.. oh, and warningly.
"going out with the girls'— believe i told ya about that yesterday?", you play dumb. innocent. as you start to put on your cowboy boots.
"m'not recalling that'", he remarks.
silence.
then you hear his weight shift as he got up from the couch. you turn around to look at him. your heart was pounding. your legs weak. his shleeves were rolled up and he had his hair back. he was looking at you like a predator watching his prey.
fuck, he's so hot.
"well, i do need to leave so—"
he cuts you off.
"you're not wearing that.", he grunts.
the fish caught the bait.
"excuse me?", you raise an eyebrow.
"you heard me." , he growls.
god, you could already give in. your body was definitely.
"i told you that i will be going out with them. maybe, if you would've been around more, you would remember.", you sass.
"well, and i am not changing—", you shrug as you turn back around to the front door.
he puts his hands on his hips.
"you want everybody starin' at you? eyeing you like you're a fuckin' piece of meat? i know the men around here—", he says with his deep, thick southern accent.
"oh, like how you're eyeing me right now?", you say as you turn back around, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
yes, you had a death wish.
his gaze darkens. he clenches his jaw.
"careful, love", he warns.
you sigh. "look, it's not that big of a deal— i like that dress, and i think it looks good on me, so, I'm gonna wear it"
you were about to turn back to the front door again, but he grabs you at your wrist, spinning you towards him.
"you do look good. fuck, you look fuckin' amazing in that dress. but it's only for me to see. you want everybody to see your cute lace panties huh—?", he takes a deep breath.
"so, now, you're gonna do as you were fuckin' told and you're gonna change like a sweet and nice girl you are.", he growls.
you were literally melting for him.
"well, maybe i am not a sweet girl today.", you whisper teasingly, biting your lip.
he looks at you. like really looks.
then, you feel his hand wrap around your neck and pull you into a hard kiss.
mission successful.
"well, im gonna damn make ya one'", he growls into the kiss, crowding you against the front door, one hand around your neck and the other besides your head. you pull him down to your height at his shirt, obviously kissing him back until your lips are slightly swollen.
"you're a damn tease, ya know that?", he whispers as his kisses travel down to your neck, leaving marks.
"and got a hell of an attitude either", his hand runs down to your breast, squeezing it hard, while he runs his thumb over your clothed nipple.
a small giggle slips out of your throat. he looks up at you, his breath and yours out of sync.
"oh, now she's giggling huh? you think this is funny?", he growls.
"i guess i haven't fucked you properly the last few weeks huh? and that's why you're dancin' out of line, are you?"
you just shrug with an innocent smile. you try to lean in back for a kiss, but he pushes you back with one finger at your chest.
"get your ass upstairs.", he commands.
"what about my-", you try to argue, still keeping up your plan, obviously.
"i said, get your fuckin' ass upstairs. when im done putting you back in line, you may go afterwards.", he tells you. then, you gulp but slip out of his grip and tiptoe upstairs. with him slowly following.
gosh, you were so fucking desperate. he's gonna ruin you. you already know.
you were already standing in front of the bed as he walks through the door into your shared bedroom.
he chuckles slightly at the sight. he steps towards you. closely.
"first, im gonna make you properly apologize to me for mouthing off—"
"i wasn't—"
"get on your knees."
and you do.
he sits down at the edge of the bed, tilting up your chin, his thumb running over your swollen lips from the kiss before. you were practically drooling.
as you sit on your knees, your thighs were completely bare, your short dress pooling right over your hip. revealing your soft pink lacy panties a little. joel opens his belt, opening his zipper and pulling down his pants.
through his boxers, you can already see the outline of his dick.
"gonna put your mouth to better use than arguing with me", he growls as he watches you pull down his boxers and getting out his thick hard cock.
you lick your lips, before you take his length into one hand and take a long lick from bottom to the top. precum was already leaking slightly, tasting slightly salty on your hot tounge.
"there you go..", he breaths. he grabs your hair and guides your head down. his thick length goes down your throat. he groans softly. then, you speed up. he kept his hard grip in your hair as you bump your head up and down, taking his whole length. you were pushing back on your gag reflex.
his breaths fill up the room. "fuckin' taking me like that— shutting you up real good huh", he groans as he pushes your head down. your vision gets slightly blurry by you tearing up, not able to really gasp after air.
he's truly shutting you up.
you could feel his dick start to twitch in your mouth. you wanted to make him come.
"hey— easy, girl- easy-", he says with a shaky breath. he pulls your hair back and lets his cock out with a pop. you gasp after air, with a soft whine and a disappointment look.
he grabs you by your arm, hauling you up onto his lap, bending you over it. his dick pressing against your stomach.
"look at that, your dress is so fucking short, I don't even have to lift it up to see your ass huh", he chuckles as his hand runs over your butt, tracing over your lace panties.
you gasp as he delivers a hard spank onto your ass. "gonna give you a damn good spanking so you remember how to listen—"
in the following, the room echos with the sound of his hand coming against your bare ass, turning your cheeks pink. "god, i can practically feel you dripping on my lap, darlin'", he says.
"im sor— ah-", you yelp as you feel another hard spank against your butt. right after, you feel his fingers pushing away your panties and pushing two of them right into you spoaked folds.
you arch your back, moaning loudly. "now you're sorry huh? you're fucking soaked— have I been neglecting you for that long huh?", he observes.
he pumps fingers in and out of you, but as you were just starting to clench around them, he pulls them out. but before you can protest, he hauls you up onto the bed, leaning over you.
he rips off your panties, grabs your legs and puts them over his shoulders. "gonna remind you who you belong to— and who you are to fucking listen to-", he growls and then thrusts right into you.
you moan loudly, your dress now pushed up around your stomach. he doesn't let you adjust. he starts right thrusting into you, while he kept you legs over his shoulders.
"so fucking tight..", he groans as the room feels with the sound of skin slapping together.
"joel..", you moan his name as you roll your eyes back. you already started clenching around him, not far away from already coming.
"already—?", he chuckles. he noticed at the change of your breath, the change of sound in your moans, how they got louder and louder. you blush immediately.
yes, it's been a while. and fuck, you could just already cum by him touching you briefly.
"joel.. im gonna cum— please", you moan louder. he speeds up. the wet sounds filling the air, as he talks you through it.
you finally feel the long awaited wave of pleasure coming over your body, as you tense up, your legs shaking.
he rides you through the orgasm, but he does not let you catch your breath. he pulls out of you, turns you onto your belly, grabs your hair, so your head was buried in a pillow, before he thrusts into you again from behind.
you whine. you were so overstimulated.
"joel— it's too mu—", you whine as you gasp after air, already feeling another orgasm building up between your legs.
"you're gonna fucking take what i give you— and then the next time you can decide if you're gonna argue with me or not—", he growls into your ear, while he places some soft kisses onto your shoulder blade.
you could feel his dick twitch either in you. he was close. as you started to clench around him again, one hand of his slips around you, and finds your clit, starting to circle it.
"joel—", you try to squirm away from the overstimulating feeling, but he fully caged you in. him leaned over you, his other hand in your hair, keeping you in place, while you were laying flat onto the bed.
"gonna fill you up, baby—", he groans, as he keeps up his thrusts while circling your clit, you squeezing around him more and more.
some tears of overwhelming pleasure run down your cheeks, as you let out a scream at this point, as you cum a second time.
as you clench around him, as you cum, you feel his warm cum filling you up. you gasp.
you were totally spend.
mission successful.
you both remain in that position for a little bit longer as you both catch your breath. as he pulls out of you, the warm liquid mixed with your wetness slightly runs out of you. he turns you onto your back, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, kissing away your tears.
"im gonna tell you again now..", he whispers as he catches his breath, his hand brushing over your cheek. "you're gonna change, yea?", he raises his eyebrows, looking at you.
your smile turns into a smirk.
you were never going anywhere.
and he realizes.
you can see it.
"there was no girls night, was there?", he mumbles as he raises his one eyebrow.
you shake your head. "nope."
you smirk.
"you were gone so often and i figured that was the easiest way to get your attention..", you reveal your intention.
he sighs. rolling his eyes.
"neglected you that badly, huh?", he asks with a small grin.
you nod dramatically.
he chuckles softly.
"well, guess im gonna make it up to you then", he whispers as he disappears under the blanket, between your legs.
you arch your back and moan as you feel his tounge on your pussy.
Summary: When a mission goes a bit sideways, you suddenly find yourself stuck with Din in a hideout that allows little to no movement, leaving you in a precarious situation - between his legs.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, took the locked room trope to its farthest edge, oral (m receiving), praising, the helmet stays on, forced orgasm if you squint?
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Din Djarin & locked room came in second. If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 4.8k
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
This was… a predicament, to put it mildly.
You crouched inside a storage cavity that clearly had not been designed with a human occupant in mind - certainly not two of them. The narrow compartment smelled faintly of machine oil and old dust, the metal walls pressing close on every side as if the space itself resented your presence.
One person would have been uncomfortable.
Two was a logistical nightmare.
Especially when one of those people insisted on wearing an entire arsenal of beskar plates that stole what little room existed.
Every minor adjustment from Din Djarin produced the faint scrape of metal against durasteel.
You clenched your jaw.
“Would you hold still?” you hissed under your breath, trying to shift your position for the tenth time and failing just as miserably as before.
The helmet tilted slightly toward you.
“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.
Very much down.
Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.
He followed a heartbeat later.
The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.
Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.
The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.
Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.
At least he was standing.
You, on the other hand…
You lifted your gaze slowly.
From the floor.
From where you were kneeling.
Directly between his legs.
“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”
Technically speaking, you were right.
Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.
An easy contract, he had said.
Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.
Simple.
Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.
The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.
What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.
Air vents.
Abandoned wastewater tunnels.
Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.
The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.
Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.
Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.
Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.
You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.
Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.
Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.
Not just a few.
Dozens.
The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.
That was when the plan changed.
Getting out immediately had become impossible.
But hiding?
Hiding might buy time.
Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.
At least, that had been the theory.
Which was how you ended up here.
Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.
Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.
Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.
You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.
“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.
You snorted quietly.
“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”
You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.
Your muscles protested.
“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”
Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.
You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.
“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”
The response came immediately.
“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.
Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.
You had seen that smirk before though.
More than once.
Because you have seen his face many times now.
The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.
The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.
The third…
Well.
That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.
Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.
Lately, things had become a little more complicated.
“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”
A faint pause followed.
Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”
Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.
You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.
Something affectionate, you suspected.
Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.
Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”
Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.
“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.
“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”
Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.
Still, both of you kept your voices low.
Better safe than discovered.
“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”
You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.
“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”
Your gaze lifted.
The visor angled down toward you.
“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.
Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”
“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”
His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.
“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”
You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.
As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly -
- and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.
The reaction was immediate.
Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.
You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.
“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.
And there it was.
A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.
Your mouth curved slightly.
Well. That answered that.
“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.
Except the tone betrayed him.
Half caution. Half something else entirely.
“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”
His breath caught.
“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”
A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.
“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.
Your hand didn’t slow.
If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.
Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.
Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.
“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.
But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.
It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.
Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.
You slipped beneath it.
The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.
A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.
“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”
Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.
The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.
You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.
But this?
This was different.
With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.
Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.
Every small shift of muscle.
Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.
The signals were clearer than he probably realized.
And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.
His length twitched faintly in your grasp.
Yes.
Definitely the right track.
“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”
Your hand moved again.
With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.
Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.
Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.
Now the discomfort barely registered.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.
Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.
Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.
“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.
You smiled faintly.
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.
The thing was, you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.
The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.
Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.
You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.
Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.
For a moment the two of you went completely still.
The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.
Din’s breath hitched again.
“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.
“You look… perfect like this.”
The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.
Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.
You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.
Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.
It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.
But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.
For now though, the focus was entirely on him.
Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.
“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.
Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.
You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.
Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.
“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”
You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment -
- but suddenly he froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.
The situation became instantly absurd.
You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.
Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.
You felt it.
You understood it.
You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.
The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.
Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.
You didn’t.
Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.
That was all it took.
Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.
The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.
Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.
True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.
His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.
The footsteps faded down the corridor.
Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.
The breath came out slow and shaky.
After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.
“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”
You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.
“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.
With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.
“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.
The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.
“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”
“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”
He glanced down toward you.
“Can you get it open again?”
Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.
You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.
“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.
Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.
“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”
Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.
“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.
The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.
He leaned closer.
“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”
You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.
Pins and needles shot through your calves.
“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”
Din didn’t slow.
“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”
Waiting had been the right call.
The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.
Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.
Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.
Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.
Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.
You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.
Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.
You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.
But the grin on your face refused to fade.
From your pocket you produced the prize.
The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.
“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”
You flipped the shard once more.
Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.
The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.
You glanced sideways at him.
“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.
Still nothing.
A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?
You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.
You tossed the shard again -
- but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.
The motion was so quick it left you blinking.
Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.
Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.
“Bunk,” he said.
Just one word.
No humor left in it.
The tone wasn’t angry.
But it was unmistakably an order.
And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.
You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.
Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.
You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin -
The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.
Your grin widened.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.
You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.
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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader
ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k
ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…
You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.
You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.
Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.
But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.
You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.
Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.
Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.
And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.
Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.
He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.
Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.
Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.
You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.
You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.
You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.
You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.
It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.
He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.
It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.
Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.
As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.
You should feel like an accessory.
Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.
You can’t tell which is worse.
Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.
You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.
There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.
You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.
You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.
The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.
It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.
You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.
Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”
“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”
“I work here.”
“Funny, so do I.”
“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”
He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.
He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”
Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.
You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”
You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”
“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”
“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”
Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”
You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”
That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”
You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”
You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.
The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?
“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”
“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”
He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”
You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.
You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”
His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”
You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”
Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.
You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”
Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”
He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.
Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”
You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.
This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.
Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:
Remind Harry to eat something before 3.
Book flights for Hong Kong.
Don’t fall in love with your boss.
That last one’s underlined. Twice.
The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.
You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.
The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.
You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.
You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.
Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.
You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.
“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.
You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”
He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”
You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”
Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”
You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”
Who possibly could?
You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”
“I’m not even fifty.”
“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”
Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”
You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.
Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.
You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.
“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.
He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”
“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”
“Watch it.”
“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”
Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.
But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”
It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.
Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.
He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.
You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.
When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”
You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”
Harry doesn't answer right away.
He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.
“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.
The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.
“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”
“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.
Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”
He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.”
It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.
Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”
He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”
You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”
Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.
Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.
It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.
Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.
You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.
Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”
He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”
“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”
“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”
“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”
Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”
You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”
He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”
“Harry.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”
You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”
Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.
You glance over your shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.
“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.
Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.
You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”
And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.
You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.
You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.
Just a little.
The package arrived that same night.
A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.
There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.
Well, that and a note taped to the front.
Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.
“Make them think I built you myself - H.”
You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.
The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.
And there it was.
Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.
You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.
Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.
You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.
A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.
And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.
You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.
You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.
You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.
Hairy
Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.
You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.
You know this is deranged behavior, right?
You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.
They vanished, then reappeared.
Hairy
I’m aware.
But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.
See you at 8.
You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.
You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.
God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.
Friday comes both too fast and too slow.
You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.
You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.
Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.
You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.
Hairy
Found the tie, crisis averted.
Just need you now. Be there in 15.
You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.
The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.
It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.
You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.
Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.
The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.
You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.
You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.
But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.
The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.
With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.
The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.
Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.
He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.
You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.
The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.
For a moment, he just stares.
You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.
The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.
You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”
Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.
He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.
“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”
Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.
“We might as well.”
The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.
You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with the nights most respected attendant.
Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.
You also play your role perfectly.
You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.
The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.
“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.
“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Isn’t that bad for business?”
Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”
You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.
There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.
Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.
But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.
“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.
You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”
He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”
At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.
It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.
Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.
It’s just for you.
The awards are handed out shortly after.
Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.
You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.
You clap until your palms sting.
When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.
You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.
The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.
It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.
You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.
“You never smoke,” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a moment ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.
You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream of grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”
Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”
He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”
His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.
You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”
“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”
You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”
He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”
That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.
There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”
It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.
The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.
Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”
You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”
You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”
He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”
You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.
You give him your hand.
You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”
“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”
You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.
But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.
He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.
The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.
Harry draws you in close.
Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.
You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.
The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.
He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.
“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.
“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”
Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”
You nod. “It is.”
The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.
You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.
“Harry…”
He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”
It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.
You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”
It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.
He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.
Can he feel yours?
“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”
Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.
“I…”
And then he kisses you.
And then you can’t speak at all.
It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.
His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.
Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.
It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.
Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”
You kiss him again before he can finish.
His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.
Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke
The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.
You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.
When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.
Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.
He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.
He swallows hard. “We should leave.”
Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”
The ride back to the office is a blur.
You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.
The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.
His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.
He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.
“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.
Two words. That’s all he says.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him
Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”
You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.
“Are you wet for me?”
You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”
He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”
“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”
Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”
His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”
You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.
His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”
“You,” you whisper. “You did.”
“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.
Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.
“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.
“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”
Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.
Still…
You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.
“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.
He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.
Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.
It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.
But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.
You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.
Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.
Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.
You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.
The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.
You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.
“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”
Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.
He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.
His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”
His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.
He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.
“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”
“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”
He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.
He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.
“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”
His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.
Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”
You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.
You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”
You do.
You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.
“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”
And you do.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.
Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.
“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”
You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.
“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”
Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”
The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.
“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”
He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.
You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.
Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.
It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.
It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.
“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”
“Harry—fuck—Harry!”
“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”
“Yes—yes—oh my god—”
“Say it.”
“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”
He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.
“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”
That’s all he needs.
He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.
New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.
The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.
Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.
The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.
“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”
It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.
“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”
Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”
You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”
Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”
Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”
Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”
You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.
Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.
You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.
MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.
anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!
Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot
Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language
A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP!
Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
⁀➴ Joel is just an achy old man that wants to make you feel good, and he certainly appreciates your creativity.
⁀➴ pairing jackson!joel x silly!f!reader
⁀➴ brace yourself smut mdni!!! porn what plot (...kinda, don't shoot me), age gap (25 & 60), established relationship, soft!joel, face-sitting, porn magazines, some fluff & aftercare, birthday sex, food play, thumb+tongue in the bum, dubcon?, joel calls reader a slut once, not proofread! lmk if i missed any
⁀➴ wc 5.8k
♡ credit to @eightestmonth and her brain, i hope it lives up to your standards :D also for some reason i could not stop envisioning reader as patty from dinner in america. joel would like her... i think. (cus you also wanted a tag :D @pleurspetal)
masterlist | AO3
Joel’s boots were beginning to drag against the ground, a sign of how tired his body was after a long day at work. He wanted nothing more than to pull you on top of his body and fall asleep under the weight of you.
You’d been seeing each other for some months now, and it wasn’t exactly easy in the beginning. You were full of energy and love to give, and the poor man was just not as young as you made him feel. It didn’t stop him from trying to keep up with you, and it most certainly didn’t stop him from delivering.
You knew he’d be tired, being one of the harder shifts of the week he had to work. But your fingers weren't enough. In fact, the drawn out orgasm you’d given yourself that morning only seemed to make you ache even more for the smell, touch, and sight of Joel.
So when you heard the latch click open on the front door you ran out of the kitchen, greeting his leathered face with a cheerful expression.
“Mm— what’s got you so excited?” He mumbled against your lips that wouldn’t stop kissing him. “Miss me that much, huh?”
“Always,” you said, “come sit. I wanna ask you something.”
And his knees were more than happy to oblige.
He saw the way your eyes were more down than up, but he didn’t urge it out of you.
“I am just—really so fucking horny today, and I know!”
He closed his mouth after opening it to protest, then his lips drew thin like he was almost scolding you.
“I know you’re tired, Tuesday’s are lazy days… But fuck, Joel, just like… Let me ride your face or something.”
Not many more words were exchanged after that request. In a matter of a minute you were naked and straddling his scratchy face, pussy leaking down onto his neck.
His rough hands ran up your spine, elbows keeping you firmly placed on his mouth. It was then he realized the one muscle in his body that wasn’t tired after a long day of work was his tongue.
And you loved it, how it slipped between your folds and curled into the hood of your needy clit while his moans carried you through limbo to your first orgasm.
Your nipples peaked between his fingers that toyed with them. His tongue didn’t stop either, slipping up into you and obnoxiously slurping up whatever juice poured out before tracing your clit again once it had stopped throbbing as much.
It was orgasm after orgasm that evening, and Joel didn’t have to move a muscle. Well, the sore ones anyway.
That’s how it started — your little requests weren’t frequent enough to make him feel like he wasn’t pleasing you, but not seldom enough to where you two grew bored of each other.
It was a month since that first ask, and on a supply run you’d spotted a Playboy magazine. You thought Playboy was an old game or something at first so you grabbed it out of curiosity, and after flipping through a few high quality pages you saw one that piqued your interest: a woman bent over a sink looking at the camera through the reflection of a mirror.
You rolled the magazine up and snuck it in your pack without anyone noticing, mind on one thing and one thing only for the rest of the day.
By the time you’d returned to Jackson and finished up your duties the sun was beginning to set, marking the end of the day for most of the community, including Joel, so it wasn’t a surprise seeing him with his reading glasses on tinkering with something that seemed important but wasn’t as important as the soaked panties you had on.
“Hey, figured you’d be back later,” Joel greeted.
He pulled his glasses down to see the scowl on your face, recognizing it as your thoughtful face rather than your Joel's-in-big-trouble face.
“Wh-”
“I want you to bend me over the bathroom sink and fuck me in front of the mirror,” you stated. He was silent for a second too long and it made you hesitate. “...If that’s okay with you.”
Joel was up and flinging you over his shoulder in an instant, his boots began trudging up the stairs and your excited laughter planted a smile on his face. You heard him flick the light switch and kick the door shut, then he sat you on the sink counter to give you a wet kiss and undress you out of most of your clothing.
You turned around, balancing yourself in the same position you’d remembered the girl in the magazine was: left toes on the ground, right knee propping you spread and open at the perfect angle for Joel’s hardening cock to slide into.
You watched him intensely in the reflection, seeing how his eyebrows pinched together as your tight hole squeezed around him. He grasped at your waist, pulling your body back to meet his rough thrusts halfway.
“Fuck, look at that pretty little thing,” he moaned. “Suckin’ me up all good an’ sweet.”
Your moans bounced off of the walls of the small room and your pussy grew wetter when he firmly wrapped a hand around your mouth and his dark eyes locked with yours.
“That what you wanted, sweetie? Wanted to watch me take you from behind?”
You tried to nod against the tight grip he had on you; your nails dug into the countertop when he bottomed-out inside of you, and his hand muffled what would have been a screech. He watched the tears well up in your eyes and felt the way your thigh trembled against his.
He did this a few more times, pushing his fat cock deep inside of you until you were oozing thick, white cum.
You started rolling your hips back into him, loving the way the tip of his dick would nudge your sweet spot over and over again. He let go of your face, watching your eyes squeeze shut before he decided to watch the way your ass bounced off of his soft belly. He leaned back, letting you do whatever you needed to in order to feel good.
The air was thick and hot, almost suffocating as you drew each breath in. You were so close, Joel could feel it in the way your pussy tried to suck him in harder and it made both of your stomachs swell with that unusually familiar gratification.
His thick fingers fumbled around for your clit and when he found it he rubbed sloppy but slow circles around it creating the perfect rhythm for your body to give in.
Your walls pulled in almost too tight, stinging around his thickness as the rest of you went numb. You whined, calves shaking from the odd position as your orgasm rippled through you making the moment feel like an eternity.
Joel held you through it, whispering things like, “That’s it,” and “Good girl,” while finishing inside of you.
He waited until you looked like you came back to reality, a satisfied grin spread pretty on your face and shined bright in the mirror where he was looking.
“Was that good, baby?” He asked, lips brushing against the warm shell of your ear.
“It was perfect,” you answered.
Carefully he removed your leg from the counter and kissed along your neck, fixing his lips on the way to your shoulder to tell you he’d run you a bath and listen to you tell him all about your last couple of days.
Over the next few days you were compulsively flipping through the booklet of Playboy Bunnies; you knew what porn consisted of, but not what it could be. It got you thinking about how porn is made, and what an actual pornographic movie consisted of. You were starting to ask Joel too many questions that were vague and lewd at the same time, and he was growing frustrated.
“Joel? …You ever watch porn?”
That was your fifth question in the last ten minutes, and he had a sink above him that needed fixing. But the clank of his tools and tired sigh didn’t register to you as you being somewhat of a distraction.
“What?”
You shrugged, tiptoeing over to him and kicking his leg softly. “Movies where they have sex.”
He almost laughed. “I—I know what porn is, I just don’t know why you’re asking if I’ve seen one.”
Your cheeks were turning red, nose scrunching as you thought deeply. “What about porn magazines?”
“You mean like a Playboy?”
“Yes!” You dropped to your knees next to him, tugging his arm and asking him again, “Have you read those before?”
“Well, there’s not much reading to be done,” he joked, “but yeah. When I was a teenager mostly. Why? D’you find one?”
You hummed, pulling yourself back up to run upstairs; he listened to your feet patter on the ceiling above him before you made your way back to sitting next to him on the cold floor. “Look!”
“You brought it home?” He asked incredulously, chuckling at the way your eyes lit up at the naked girl on a prop bed.
You rambled about how the girls looked so pretty with their makeup and hair done, and Joel just listened to you, watching your eyes frantically move around the pictures and point to the least sexual things. “I wish I could get pretty like them for you,” you giggled, “I’d do anything to have my hair and makeup done like a pop star or something. Like these girls.”
Hearing those words made his gut twist with guilt. He never forgot about the age difference between you two but he did often forget how young you were when the world went to shit. Makeup and designer clothes weren’t a priority in this world to anyone, but he didn’t like hearing you say you wished for things. He knew then and there he’d just have to find a way to make you happy.
Not before a few words of encouragement though.
“Sweetheart, you are– here gimmie that.” He took the magazine and tossed it across the floor and then held your face in his grimy hands. “You are prettier than any of those girls. You get more beautiful every damn day.”
“You mean that?” You asked, nothing but playfulness lingered in your voice.
“I do… But, if you want some makeup that bad—”
“YES YES YES! Please, Joel!”
He grunted after you threw yourself onto him. Your constant pleads turned into grateful kisses, and he couldn’t help but to finally laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And a few weeks later he did just that. You’d pretty much forgotten about that conversation, so when he came back from a two day-long run to find you still sleeping in his bed with one of his old t-shirts on, he just set the few things he managed to find on the nightstand and climbed into bed with you.
When you woke up a while later you buried yourself into Joel’s bicep for a little longer before the need to stretch your limbs became too much.
You rolled over, groaning before you spotted something unusual next to you. Quietly, you sat up and reached for the small items reading each of the labels, though they were mostly worn off.
A tube you recognized as mascara, a blush, and something you could only assume to be an eyeliner but you weren’t sure.
You fought your instinct to be loud and disturb the snoring man behind you and tiptoed into the bathroom where you spent the next hour trying to make your eyes look bigger and cheeks redder.
Joel didn’t wake up until you were gone for the day which wasn’t unusual — what was unusual was that it was clear you’d gotten your gift but didn’t disturb his slumber with it.
He briefly pondered whether you liked it or not, but assumed you decided to do him a favor and let him sleep in for once. So, he just smiled at the red-colored fingerprints on the countertop and went on about his day.
“Yeah, we’ll have that house up and ready, end of this week,” he told Maria, who thanked him and told him not to work too late before leaving his office.
You had just finished up with the kids at school and wanted to make it to Joel before he left; he looked up when you leaned on his doorframe where he saw you wearing a shapeless dress and the makeup he’d left for you.
“Well, looky here,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “You like it?”
Closing and locking the door, you bit your lip and padded over to him, then mindlessly sat on his blueprint sheet. “Best gift ever,” you chirped.
“I get you the right stuff?”
Nodding, you leaned down to give him a kiss. “I think so. Is it too much?”
He ran a thumb over your tinted cheek, a gooey look in his eyes. Your eyes looked extra big with the small eyeliner wing and the longer, blacker lashes. You certainly didn’t need these things to look beautiful, but he was starting to see why you wanted it so bad a few weeks ago.
“No, s’perfect,” he whispered.
“How much longer you gonna be here, old man?”
He pretended to be annoyed with the nickname, sliding you off of his papers and into his lap. “Couple hours.”
Your face scrunched up in disappointment. “That’s too long, Joel,” you complained.
“Well, what am I supposed to do, baby? I can’t just tell Maria to wait—“
“Let’s fuck real quick,” you said. “Oh come onnn, just real quick.”
His eyes peeked at you over the thin frame of his glasses, and his hands attempted to nudge you out of his lap. “No no no,” he scolded, “I gotta finish this up—”
You reaffirmed your position by hinging your knees against his hips. “Oh, come on, just real quick,” you repeated, sounding more whiny than before. “I’ve always wanted you to bend me over the desk, ‘cause who’s gonna come in here and tell you to stop?”
His lips pursed, but still he looked around at all the open blinds and then the annoying papers flooding his desk. You batted your thickened eyelashes at him, stretching to invite him in.
“Fuck,” Joel said underneath his breath. You grinned and started moving your dress up your legs. “You better be wet under here.” He pawed at your thin panties and hummed when he felt how wet they already were. “Feels like you already came in these pretty little panties,” he said as he moved them to the side.
“Been thinking about you all day,” you moaned.
He slipped his cock out of jeans and slapped it against your swollen clit a few times, watching how your slick made strings every time he pulled it away. You leaned your elbows on the edge of his desk then propped your feet on top of his burly thighs.
“Yeah? Thinkin’ ‘bout this fat cock, baby? Good. Don’t take too long now.” He said, pressing the tip in between your folds and watching your face twist at the delicious stretch. He let you sink down onto him, head lulling back and mindless exhales leaving your mouth.
Joel never got tired of seeing you like this, going stupid on his cock as soon as he slid it in while your face turned red and hot, legs trembling every time he slightly rubbed against that bumpy little sensitive spot inside you. Though he maintained his modesty as much as possible he couldn’t ignore the rush he was feeling from doing it so openly in his office. He loved knowing you needed him so badly you couldn’t wait until he got home.
You were already soaked around him, grinding out the sting in your walls and getting used to the size of him all over again. You were itching for your dose of Joel all day, no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t ignore the instinct in your body that told you it was a perfect time to have sex.
Your pussy was sensitive, walls gummy and warm as they clamped tight with every slow grind. You were almost embarrassed by how close you already were. He listened to you whine above him, focusing intensely on your rosy cheeks.
“Such a pretty color I found, isn’t it?” He asked, smirking when you shot him a confused look. “On your cheeks,” he explained. “Come on, babygirl. Ain’t got much time, now.”
The sound of your ass clapping against his thighs when you started bouncing on him echoed loudly in the partially furnished room along with your moans and his grunts. He kept saying something, like c’mon girl, that didn’t quite register to you.
“F-fuck, Jo-oh. We should do this, mnh… We should have sex here m-more.”
The laugh he let out was deep, hoarse, like he found it ridiculous and cute. “You dirty girl,” he teased, “ain’t even come yet and you’re already thinking about our next fuck.”
The muscles in your thighs twitched at his humiliation. He only leaned his chair back and watched as your pussy creamed and squeezed around him. He spit on his thumb after he saw the way your clit pulsed.
“Such a needy little thing, ain’t ya?” He whispered. His dick throbbed when he saw the relief spread across your face once he finally thumbed your clit, rubbing the sweetest circles around making it jolt with sensitivity.
You watched through glassy eyes the way he worked your pussy as you rode him; your hardened nipples stroking against the layers of fabric, giving you that pinch of pleasure you needed to get closer to your climax.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” he said, “keep goin’, let me feel that pretty pussy come all over me.”
“Feels s-so good, Joel,” you moaned.
Your legs wanted to give out and your toes curled inside of your shoes that rubbed his skin raw; you were fighting it, he could tell. You wanted it to last longer so that you wouldn’t have to leave him so soon, but he’d already told you not to take too long. The last thing he wanted to do was procrastinate and add onto the already overwhelming work load he had waiting for him tomorrow.
So he broke you, snapping his hips up into you rough enough to feel a difference but easy enough to not make you too sore to walk home. You felt his cock kiss your cervix, every line along his shaft rutting into your g-spot making it more sensitive while his thumb got lazy. It didn’t take much more to break you and have you trembling in his lap.
After your feet fell to the ground Joel steadied you, keeping you upright as you finished out your orgasm yourself. Your moans were pitchy, loud as his name left your throat, then you murmured, “That was amazing,” before laying your head on his shoulder.
He stroked your hair after letting out a chuckle, letting you soak him for a little longer before you came to. You pulled back, flashing him that famous smile he loved seeing so much when you were satisfied.
You raised an eyebrow and gave him a blank stare, and he just knew a question was coming.
“Did you finish?” You asked.
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, he figured you could always tell, but maybe he got it wrong. “Uhh, no…?”
You patted his chest and stood up to fix your clothes before saying, “Welp, guess you’ll have to wait a couple hours.” You gave his crinkled cheek a kiss before walking to his door, waving at him. “Bye!”
He ended up finishing the blueprint in the morning.
Half a month later was his birthday, and you had been pestering Joel about what he wanted, which he constantly replied with your new least favorite word: “Nothing.”
He swore he could see steam coming out of your ears every time he said that seven letter word, and it only became more and more funny to him. Even when you phrased the question differently he still managed to find a way to slip a nothing in.
“Do you want something practical for your birthday?” You’d ask.
“I told you I don’t want nothing.”
And he’d laugh his ass off right after, and you quickly learned to not correct the double negative as it’d just result in more teasing.
Still, you insisted on getting him something for his birthday, and at some point you settled on cake.
Not just the traditional kind.
You were wearing one of his t-shirts by the time he came home from some meeting with his brother; he found you in the kitchen where you were beating something in a bowl, and just admired you in your comfort. Messy ponytail and evidence of a cake being made due to the considerable amount of flour on the floor while you hummed along to some country song going on the record player in the other room.
He watched you turn around, dropping the whisk on the floor and yelping when you saw him leaning against the doorframe.
“Jesus fuck, Joel!”
He walked over and took the whisk out of your hand when you picked it up; he apologized but didn’t hide the fact that he found it funny before discarding the whisk in the sink.
“Now you don’t get your gifts,” you lied.
“Aw, baby come on,” he griped, “don’t be like that.”
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry, doll, come here.”
He brought you into a firm hug, lips casting kisses all over your twisted face. His beard tickled and poked you all around, the lines around his eyes crinkling deeper at the sound of you giggling.
“Say sorry again,” you whispered when he found your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pressing his mouth against yours for a slow, steady kiss. “You made me a cake?”
Your eyes lit up at the reminder of his present. “Oh! No.”
His face fell and he looked around at the very obvious ingredients along the counter. “Wh- then s’all this?”
“I couldn’t figure out what to get you, so I figured I’d just give you me!”
Joel pondered, feeling an excited twinge in his stomach at your offering. “Mmkay. That don’t explain all this.”
Scoffing, you reached for the mixing bowl and held it up to his face. “I want you to lick alllll this off of me.”
His head jerked back and he shot a frown at you, earning a simper from you. He removed the bowl from your hands, sliding it on the counter. “You are certainly creative,” he sighed.
Pouting, you took his shirt off of your body to reveal you had nothing on underneath; Joel stared, hand instinctively rising to cup a tit but you smacked it away.
“You didn’t even try it, Joel,” you said.
He motioned for you to go ahead, clearly unamused by your antics. He still sucked the vanilla icing off of your finger when you held it up for him, and moaned at the way you dragged it across his tongue.
“Would you like some cake?” You softly asked him.
Despite being unsure what exactly that meant he nodded, ogling the way you turned around and dug into the icing some more; you used a finger to spread a small line of it up your right butt cheek.
His mouth fell agape and pupils dilated when he understood your request, but without you needing to say another word he dropped onto his sore knees. He cupped your ass in both of his hands, cursing under his breath at the way it spilled out over his hands.
“Don’t be shy,” you said, “it’s your birthday.”
You jumped when he bit the meat of your ass, tittering after his tongue licked up the sweet cream then kissed the spot he gnawed on.
Precum dribbled from between your pussy lips and stuck to your inner thighs during the repetition of dragging some icing up somewhere and having him lick and suck it off of you.
Joel didn’t hold back his desperation either, growling and suffocating himself in your flesh. His face was sticky and warm as he grew more bothered by the second with a cock below his tight denim that throbbed for freedom and your touch.
“Fuckin’ love this ass,” he moaned, giving a hard smack to watch it jiggle for him. His thick hands squeezed and massaged, spreading your cheeks open and giving him a view he didn’t know he was so excited to see. “Look at that pretty fuckin’ pussy, all slippery and wet for me. And that pretty asshole… Is that for me too?”
Your breath was steady, more still that he expected. “Let’s see,” you edged, taking a tiny amount of the sugary spread and covering your asshole with it and bending over.
A greedy hum rumbled in his chest at the filthy sight. He glanced up and caught the smirk on your face, wiping it off as soon as he pressed his slick tongue against the tight ring. You moaned at the strange feeling that took you a second to get used to, it wasn’t like you thought it’d be. In a way it was both underwhelming and riveting.
But then he started flicking his tongue around the brim and the tiny opening making you cry out and arch your ass deeper into his face. He moaned as you puckered against his tongue, tasting the flesh and the last bit of icing that was left behind.
Your hand found a way back into his hair, shoving his face impossibly deep as you grinded against his stubble before his tongue managed to briefly slip into your pussy.
“Does she need some attention too, baby?” His words vibrated soft and low against your skin.
“Can’t wait,” you gasped, “Joel—please…”
He stood back up. A look of contentment crossed his face as you turned around, sly grin pushing your blushing cheeks up. “Tell me what you need, baby,” his voice was quiet but easy.
You gazed into his shadowy orbs, a tickled type of noise emitting from you. “It’s your birthday, Joel.”
“I want you to tell me what you want.” His voice, though still quiet, wasn’t filled with any more hints of merriment. “Like those lil requests you always got for me,” he continued, words steady, certain. “Always wantin’ me to do something new, so go on… What does my babygirl want today?”
“Hmm,” you looked around trying to come up with an idea until you thought of something simple but exciting nonetheless, “I want you to like, have your way with me? Is that what that’s called?”
“Mhm,” he hid his amusement well, treading lightly as he steered the conversation further. “Like what?”
“I want it hard,” you creased, “and rough.”
That made him laugh, loud, the kind that was genuine and raw, but you cocked an eyebrow up which made him shrug.
You tugged on his hand pulling him behind you as you left the kitchen. “What? You too old for it or something?” You bullied. “Gonna complain about them knees again?”
Joel popped your ass as a warning but it didn’t stop you from talking your shit as he chased you up the stairs and into the bedroom.
He wasn’t worried at all about hurting himself, not even with the agitation on his bones. In fact he knew having to push through on a night like this wouldn’t be too grave of a task.
You, though? You were easy to break, he knew that. It didn’t matter how much or little he prepped you, he’d have you dumb on his dick in a matter of minutes every time. He also knew you were trying to push his buttons, get him angry so he’d fuck you harder, but it was all fun and games to him.
He’d give you what you thought you wanted and what he knew would be enough, afraid of loosening the reins too much and too soon.
“Cat got your tongue?” The teeter in your voice was noticeable, but in the way that egged him on.
His tongue clicked, a sign he was getting fed up with your antics. He didn’t bother responding either, eyes keening over your bare features with his boots knocking against the hardwood floor.
You bashed away, turning around and sinking onto your hands and knees.
Joel smirked as inched closer to the bed from the way your body beckoned him; your ass wiggled back trying to find warmth, trying to find him.
A hand of his roughing against your back made you jolt, then you told him again only sounding more destitute than before. “I want you to fuck me hard and rough… Please, Joel? Ohh, pretty please…”
His shoulders slacked alongside the dry wheeze he let out. You were soft, too soft for him to just treat like that. Yet delicious water kept flowing from inside you, and his dick was too dry for how hard it’d gotten. He had to give you something.
“Okay,” he simply said, removing his own clothes in the process.
Joel’s fuzzy tip smack against your asshole to make it ache; your back arched deeper, belly pressing against the sheets and knees burning against the edge of the mattress.
That yummy stretch made you melt inside as he slid his cock in, weighing thick and heavy against your fleshy walls.
He tapped your inner thigh with a couple fingers, watching the corner of your face contort from the feeling of him inside of you.
“Open.”
And you did, panting against your forearm like a puppy getting a treat so that he could fix himself and drive into you. His plush tummy molded against your hips where he kept his dick deep, thrusts faster than the pumps of your heart.
Stupid babbles left your throat sounding hoarse and excited. He wasn’t as vocal as you’d known him to be, but you could sense his focus — only you were already shattering in front of him.
Your cervix swelled every time he brushed against it, pain plunging deep in your stomach. It was only bearable from the feeling of being so full and the strokes against your sweet spot bringing you higher.
You were clawing at the bed, struggling to keep your volume down and he was above you beaming.
“You feel s’good,” you breathed, taking the three seconds he stopped thrusting to ask, “is this rough? I love it.”
It’s hardly rough, he thought, but who was he to rain on your parade?
His hand gripped your hair carefully lifting your face up so he could hear the obscenities that mindlessly came from you.
His cock twitched with every Joel and like that, baby you let out, revelling in how chatty you could get.
But your ability to articulate was dying down and your walls were getting tighter, soaking him in that viscous cream he loved seeing so much.
“Talkin’ all that shit, now look at’cha,” he grunted. “Goin’ dumb on my fucking cock, huh?”
Tears welled in your eyes, a hot swirl spreading across your belly. You cried out as his fingers tightened in your hair before you reached for his wrist.
“Gimmie, gimmiegimmiegimmie,” you huffed, popping his thumb into your mouth and drooling all over it. “My ass, Joel. Put it in there.”
Joel cursed, mind going hazy from your coarse words. He added some more spit of his own, allowing it to drip from his trembling lips.
“Want it in that tight ass,” he spanked you with his other hand, poking at the tiny hole while his other movements slowed.
He didn’t wait for a yes, instead he listened to the wet squelch from between his digit and your tough flesh. He played with it, watched it squeeze somehow tighter than it was before finally dipping into it.
The ache was a wet smolder that had you gripping onto both extremities like your fucking life depended on it.
A few threads of the sheets were torn where you have scratched at, the rest sticking to your sweaty tits and you tried not to run from the overwhelming delight.
His hips seemed to have a mind of their own, barely pulling back before shooting back into you but his thumb was deliberate and gentle.
Just the sight of you bent over and feeling so good from it was more than enough to make him eager to bust his load inside of you.
“You like that—oh, yeah, you fucking love it,” he cooed. “Feels good getting fucked in both holes, dun’it.”
You tried to say yes but it was mushy and guttural instead. Your head bobbed in line with his hasty fucks, eyes piercing the back of your skull with no intention of coming back.
His balls angrily smacked your clit, and you were unsure which part of you was going to come first.
Joel’s rambling didn’t silence your mind either, you were dangerously close and you were failing to distinguish where any of it was coming from.
“Love how you suck it up in there, dirty thing,” he teased. “Squeeze it, baby, come on and show me what a good little slut you are—thaaat’s it. There you go.”
You pussy choked his cock and you waned into his broad waist, stifled moans and hums etching into the duvet as you came.
“Fuck, gonna make me come,” he strained, placing both hands on your waist to ground himself.
Your toes arched along his hairy thighs, mind in a pure daze while he spilled his seed into you.
“Fuck, babe,” he said as his last bit of come spurted out.
You felt his fingers tickle up your spine followed by some kisses. Your skin was musky in his mouth, soaking up that layer of sweat Joel managed to give you.
There were stains from tear droplets beneath your cheeks, but he shushed your lingering whimpers.
“You okay?” He asked.
A lazy nod was all you could muster for a moment or two, waiting until the weight of him was off of you to take a full breath in.
From there you did your usual clean up routine, which was mainly just Joel cleaning up and finding some way to lay with you after.
You watched his eyes and mouth and jaw as he quietly told you he loved you, his tone soothing enough to make your eyelids heavy.
“Happy Birthday, Joel,” you whispered; you felt his cheek push into your head and you imagined a smile. “Also I lied. There is cake in the fridge. Your favorite.”
Summary: You’re too bubbly, too chatty, too cheerful for Joel’s liking. Always rambling about dreams or tossing out random facts no one asked for. And sometimes… Joel just wants a little silence.
WC: 11.4k
Warning/Tags: Angst, eventual smut (not in this part), kind of slowburn, undisclosed age gap, f!reader, Joel is a grumpy and mean old man, and ofc he sucks at feelings.
“Hey partner, you’re late.” Joel heard you call out, your voice far too bright for this early in the morning, too damn cheerful for seven a.m. “Looks like it’s you and me from now on, huh?”
Joel didn’t answer right away. He just gave a grunt, adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, and kept walking toward the stables.
He liked patrol, always had. It kept him sharp, reminded him of what still lingered beyond the gates of Jackson, reminded him of the shit people were too comfortable forgetting. The warm beds and hot meals were nice, but it was comfort that made people soft, and being soft gets you killed. He also liked patrolling with Tommy, it had always made the hours go easier. They understood each other without needing to say much, they knew when to speak, when to let the silence stretch between them, and when to crack a joke. But last week Tommy had come to Joel, said he needed to cut patrol for a while. "Just a few weeks," he promised. Said he needed his mornings free to supervice some work being done on the hydric plant. "Don´t worry, I'll reassign someone with you."
And now here you were, bright-eyed, full of questions, talking like you were hosting a radio show. You always had something to say, too much to say. You never knew when to shut up, it was like you didn’t realize how loud your voice could get, how damn annoying it was for the people who had to listen to you, as if the words “shut the hell up” had never been directed your way in your entire life. And maybe it’d be easier for Joel if you were just useless. If you couldn’t shoot for shit or kept forgetting to check your blind spots, then he’d have a reason to complain, a reason to go to Tommy and say, “Take this girl off patrol. She can’t do a damn thing right.” But that wasn’t the case, you were sharp and you knew how to handle yourself. You were a survivor just like him.
And that pissed him off even more, he didn’t like you not because you were loud, or bright, or talked too much, sure, those things annoyed the shit out of him, but it was because somehow, despite everything this broken world had thrown at you, you still looked around and saw something good, you still looked at him and saw something good. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
Joel didn’t say out loud how annoying he found you, but he thought it constantly, every time he got saddled with you on patrol. You, with your sunshine voice and those eyes full of stupid, stubborn hope, like you hadn’t noticed the world ended twenty years ago, like you still thought it could be fixed somehow, or that beautiful things still existed. He’d sit through entire shifts in stiff, seething silence, grunting when you spoke, or straight-up ignoring you altogether, hoping you’d eventually catch the drift. That maybe, just maybe, you’d realize he didn’t give a damn about whatever weird dream you had last night, or your favorite color growing up, or some useless fact about bees, or whales, or whatever the hell it was today.
It was a cold morning. Joel pulled his coat tighter as he trudged through the morning snow, boots crunching over the frozen ground. You were just behind him, your constant stream of chatter following him.
“…and did you know lizards can drop their tails when they’re in danger? Like, it just… boom, falls off, to distract predators. Imagine if we could do that, being chased by a runner and suddenly your ass just drops off behind you like ‘see ya!’ Of course, we wouldn’t be able to grow it back like lizards, but still. I think that’d be kinda cool, right?”
Joel didn’t answer, he never did, but that never stopped you. “I read that in a book, I mean, it was a children’s book, but it was still really interesting. Did you know that female goats don’t live with the male goats—”
“Bucks and does,” Joel cut in. You blinked, surprised, because that was the first thing he’d said to you all morning.
“Huh?”
“Female goats are called does. Males are bucks.”
“Oh. Right.” You nodded thoughtfully. “Well, when the female goats—does—have babies, if the babies turn out to be male, once they grow up, the moms kick them out. Make them go live with the other mal— bucks. I think goats are smart. We should raise some here at Jackson, and we could even make some goat cheese with their milk. Oh, I’ve never tried goat cheese, but I’m guessing it’s probably really good. Have you ever tried it, Joel?”
Joel only grunted, a gruff sound that you couldn’t even tell if it was a yes or a no.
You told him next about the deer you’d seen near the river, about the weird dream you had three nights ago where the moon exploded but it turned out the moon was made of cheese, so everyone at Jackson was happy and celebrated by eating moon-cheese pizzas.
“Hey, Joel,” you called again, as if you were clueless about how much you were annoying him, your voice muffled behind your scarf. “Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
You snorted. “Okay, well, I’m gonna ask anyway.” He rolled his eyes where you couldn’t see. “If you could be an animal, what would you choose?”
He didn’t turn around. “You’re gonna get yourself killed someday, talkin’ ‘stead of payin’ attention.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He sighed heavily, like your words were physically weighing him down. Still, he said nothing, the crunch of snow under your boots filled the silence.
“I think I’d be a butterfly,” you said, your voice light as the snow crunched beneath your boots. “It’d be nice to fly, go wherever I wanted. Plus, they’re cute. People like butterflies, they get the pretty treatment, you know? Everyone’s like, ‘aww, look at that butterfly, it’s so pretty!’ But if you’re, like, a moth or something? People just wanna kill you. Instantly. Life’s so unfair, don’t you think?”
Joel blinked. What the hell were you even on about? He didn’t get how your brain worked, how you even got to these thoughts. Butterflies and moths? Did you just think things and say them out loud with no filter, no sense of direction? He didn’t say a word, just kept walking, praying internally that you’d finally run out of things to say, that the endless stream of chatter would dry up, that you’d burn through every thought in that strange little head of yours and, God willing, just shut the fuck up already.
“Or maybe I’d wanna be a chicken,” you mused, your voice louder than necessary, resonating through the woods. “They always look so clueless, right? Like, what’s going on in their heads? Are they secretly scheming some evil plan, or is it just… static in there?”
Joel didn’t respond, not that you expected him to, so you just kept going. “Did you know roosters don’t just crow in the morning? They cackle, too. It’s a totally different sound. Like, they cackle when they wanna mate, or when they find food and wanna tell the others. Imagine being a chicken and hearing your husband cackle, you’d have to figure out if he wants to do it or if he just found a worm.” You laughed at your own joke, your head tipping back like it was the funniest thing you’d ever come up with. “Like, ’Is he trying to make a baby or is dinner ready?’ That’s gotta be so confusing.”
Joel grunted, just a short, low sound, but from him, it might as well have been a full monologue. You grinned, proud of yourself, that was something, at least you’d managed to pull a reaction out of him.
Shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets, you added, “Y’know, I think if you were an animal, you’d be a bear. You totally give ‘hibernate for six months just to avoid people’ vibes. Or maybe… a lone wolf. Yeah. All moody and broody and with a tragic past. Definitely a lone wolf.”
Joel didn’t say a word. The woods go quiet again, and Joel dares to hope, for a moment, that maybe that was it, maybe you’d finally run out of things to say, that you were done, and he could have what he wanted most: silence. The trees stand tall and bare, branches black against the pale morning sky, Joel walks ahead, the rifle slung over his shoulder doesn’t sway.
You glance up. “I had a dream last night about—”
Joel stops short. You nearly crash into him, your boots skidding a little on the snow-packed path. He doesn’t turn fully, he just speaks.
“Y’know,” he mutters, eyes still forward, “you ain’t gotta fill every second with talk.”
“Oh.”
He turns just enough to glance at you, not all the way, just enough that you catch a piece of his face in profile, of his mouth pressed into a hard line. He doesn’t look angry, not exactly, be just looks… worn, maybe a little annoyed.
“Jus’ sayin’,” he adds after a beat. “You could let the woods do some of the talkin’.”
You nod. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”
He starts walking again, crunching through the snow like nothing happened, and you stay quiet… for almost twenty whole seconds, until you suddenly saw a rabbit hopping through the woods, and Joel knew another goddamn animal fact was coming.
“Did you know rabbits have like three or four pregnancies every single year? How insane is that? I mean, I guess that’s where the whole ‘doing it like rabbits’ thing came from. It’s crazy how biology works, don’t they get tired of popping out babies? Poor things.”
Joel exhales sharply through his nose, and you smile like you’ve just won something. “You ever shut up?”
You grin, he was just kidding, right? He actually loved hearing your rumbles, didn’t he? “Nope.”
He mutters something under his breath that might be Jesus Christ, might be kill me now. It’s hard to tell.
“God, this weather’s perfect,” you chirped, dragging your boot through the fresh blanket of snow. “Crisp, but not too cold, you know what I mean? And the trees look so beautiful like this, like they got powdered sugar on them.” You glanced over, squinting at Joel’s profile. “You like snow, Joel? You seem like a winter guy. Definitely winter-coded.”
No answer, not even a grunt. You didn’t take it personal, you were used to that with Joel. The silence didn’t bother you anymore. You just… filled it, that’s what you did. You filled space, filled time, filled quiet, because the world was already heavy enough, and talking made it lighter, at least for you. But Joel wasn’t having it today, maybe because he’d had a shitty night, because he hadn’t slept. He was even moodier and grumpier than usual, which was saying something.
“So I was thinking,” you went on, undeterred, “what if we organized a karaoke night at Jackson?”
Still nothing from him.
“I bet you’d kill some old country song. You’ve got that deep, grumbly voice, you could totally pull off a Johnny Cash. Or, like… wait, do you like country music? I kind of assume everyone from Texas does cause I don’t remember much from before and that’s what comes to my mind when I think about Texas... did you use to go places on a horse? Did you have a cowboy hat? I feel like you must’ve had a cowboy hat. Sorry if the whole stereotyping is offensive, by the way.”
Nothing, not a sound came out of his mouth, but you didn’t let that stop you. “Anyway, do you even like Johnny Cash? You could totally sing something from him, I bet you’d crush it.”
He didn’t answer, not even a little grunt this time. You grinned and nudged his arm lightly with your elbow. “Come on, Joel. Give me something. A sigh? A groan? One of those little annoyed huffs you’re so good at?”
His steps halted, you blinked and looked up at him. “What’s wro—”
“I swear to God,” he snapped, turning on you fast, “if you don’t shut the hell up for five goddamn minutes, ’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”
You froze, the breath caught in your throat, you were used to Joel being grumpy, you were used to his silence, the annoyed grunts, the glares, but you’d never heard him like this, never heard him snap.
You let out a weak, awkward laugh, trying to lighten the sudden weight in the air. “Talking’s kind of my thing, Joel. You know that.”
He shook his head hard, like he was trying to shake you right out of it. “You think every moment of silence is a goddamn invitation. Like you have to talk, like people need to hear every damn thought that crosses your mind. Well, we don’t. I don’t.”
Your voice came quieter now, a little stung. “I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Well, I couldn’t give two shits bout what the snow reminds you of. I don’t give a fuck about what you think I’d sing. And I don’t care if you think ’m a fuckin’ winter guy.” He took a step closer, looming now. “You treat every patrol like it’s some goddamn field trip. And some days... some days, I can’t take it, you’re too much. So do me a favor, ’nd top talkin’. Just… stop.”
He didn’t even blink when he said it: “’Cause I can’t stand the sound of your voice. And believe me, I don’t give a damn about anythin’ that comes out of your mouth.”
You didn’t speak, which was rare, Joel had finally done what he’d wanted for weeks now… he’d shut you up, you didn’t even know what to say, it felt like someone had reached into your throat and ripped the words out, like even if you wanted to speak, your mouth wouldn’t know how to shape the sound.
Joel’s chest rose and fell, hard, like he’d just spat out something he’d been choking on, like it was a relief to finally say it, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful or restful. It was cold, unpleasantly cold. And maybe that was the point, maybe he’d meant it to be, maybe this was what it took to finally make you shut up, right? He’d tried subtle hints, hadn’t he? Polite nudges, short replies, walking faster to get ahead of you, that one time he said maybe you should “save your breath for the hike.” But you never got it, you never listened, so maybe this was necessary, maybe cruelty was the only language you understood. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.
You took a single step back, your boots crunching in the snow. “Okay,” you said lowly. “Got it.” You didn’t look at him, you just turned, and started walking ahead, in silence now, just like he wanted.
The next hour dragged and you didn’t say a word. Your mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts, stories, questions, stray facts desperate to spill out, but none of them made it past your lips. You fought the urge to tell him about the time you’d built a snow fort as a kid and nearly froze your fingers off. You stopped yourself from asking him about his favorite food, or who he liked the least in Jackson, or whether he knew horses can’t physically vomit.
You were quiet, gave him exactly what he wanted, but somehow, it didn’t feel like a win. Joel had spent so long wishing for this, some goddamn peace and quiet. And now that he had it, now that you’d finally shut up… it didn’t feel right, didn’t feel good. It felt wrong. The silence settled between you two and guilt slowly crawled up his spine, making him feel like a dick for saying that to you, gnawing at the edges of his pride until all that was left was the sharp echo of what he’d said and the miserable quiet that followed.
You stopped by a frozen stream, crouching to sip from your canteen. Joel stepped up beside you, but he kept a careful distance, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed closer anymore. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t look back.
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be mean,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the snow.
You glanced sideways, but didn’t dare to meet his gaze. “Didn’t sound like it.”
Joel exhaled, a frustrated sigh more at himself than at you. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in quickly, with a smile that didn’t even pretend to reach your eyes. “Really. I get it. Some people like quiet. Some people like noise. You like quiet. I’ll be quiet.”
He shifted his weight. “It’s not like that, I—”
“Sure it is,” you said, your voice light in that careful way that hurt more than yelling ever could. “Lesson learned, Joel. Don’t poke the bear.”
You were waiting at the stables when Joel arrived. You had your coat on and your hair tucked into your hat. You looked like you always did, a little too pretty for patrol, the soft curve of your cheeks pink from the cold, but something was missing… your usual charm, your cheerful voice greeting him, your bright smile. You just nodded when you saw him appear at the stables. No “good morning,” no snow commentary, no teasing about how slow he always was, just a nod. He looked at you for a second longer than usual, then walked past to saddle up his horse.
“Ready?” he asked.
You didn’t say anything, just climbed up in silence and rode. The first hour passed without a single word, and it felt so unnatural, so uncomfortable. You used to fill the air do naturally, but now it was just the wind and hooves and the sound of your breathing. Your silence was sharp and uncharacteristic, the girl who used to talk about snow and song lyrics and dream dinners with celebrities was now just… trying not to breathe too loud, scared that would annoy him too.
By the time you reached the crossing path at the river, Joel had tried to say something three different times. The first time, he opened his mouth and closed it, his jaw working like he had to chew the words before they came out. The second, he cleared his throat and muttered, “Watch your step,” as you crossed a patch of ice. You nodded and that was it, no smile, no playful “Yes, Dad.” Just a nod. The third, he almost said your name, just to test it, to see if you’d say anything back, but he didn’t, too scared you wouldn’t reply.
At one point, you saw a deer sprint across the path, his cute little white tail flashing through the trees. Normally, you’d make a joke, say something like, “Think he had somewhere to be? Maybe a hot date?” but today, you just watched it go by, didn’t even crack a smile, just breathed in slowly and let the moment pass. Joel followed your line of sight, then glanced at you again, you didn’t look back, didn’t even seem to notice him. He couldn’t stand it, the silence didn’t suit you, it looked wrong on you, like watching a bird forget how to sing.
And the worst part was that you weren’t pouting, you weren’t dramatic about it, weren’t even trying to punish him. You were just… quiet, just deeply hurt by what he’d said, and it was all his fault alone. It echoed in his head, louder now than it had sounded in the moment, he still saw it, too clearly: the way you’d stepped back that day, the way your smile had dropped, the way you’d said, “Lesson learned. Don’t poke the bear.”
By the time the sun dipped low, you kept ahead of him on the path back, not out of spite, but because you didn’t feel like walking beside someone who didn’t want to hear you. Except… he did. He realized that now, too late, maybe—but still, he missed your dumb jokes, your questions, your weird little facts. He missed the way you made the world feel softer, he hadn’t deserved any of that, but you’d given it freely, and he’d crushed it with one goddamn outburst. Crushed something warm and rare and good.
Snow fell over your wool hat. It was another patrol morning with Joel, but you were still quiet, you weren’t speaking, and Joel hated it. He wouldn’t admit that, of course, not out loud, but he did. You rode a few feet ahead of him, not too far, not enough to be rude, but far enough that he didn’t have to pretend not to look at you. And he did look. Often, in short, guilty glances when you weren’t watching.
The silence was driving him crazy, by the time you passed the old bridge, Joel was clenching his jaw so tight it ached. “So… Ellie’s got this book,” he says. “Full of jokes. Real bad ones. Think you’d like it.”
Your posture didn’t change, you didn’t turn your head, didn’t soften your shoulders, didn’t give him anything, didn’t offer him the comfort of your voice.
“She told me one the other day. Uh… lemme think…” He frowns under his breath, tugging on the reins slightly. “Why did the scarecrow get a promotion?”
No response.
“Because he was outstandin’ in his field.”
Fine, it was a good joke, you probably would’ve laughed until you fell off your horse, if your chest didn’t still ache from all the things he’d said. You still said nothing, not even a breath of amusement. The silence that followed felt louder than the punchline.
“Get it?”
You nod, but it’s cold and mechanical, a hollow gesture. He exhales and scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tell. Joel Miller doesn’t fidget, doesn’t tell jokes, doesn’t try to ramble, but for some reason, you’d gotten him trying now. And somehow, that made it worse, because he’d only started trying after he broke something.
Another hour passes like that, the only sound was a hawk criying in the distance.Joel kicks at a rock as he walks next to his horse, it skitters off the path and disappears into the trees. “You’d have a fact about hawks, I bet,” he says. “Prob’ly somethin’ real weird, like how they mate midair or scream to scare prey. Somethin’ strange like that.”
He says it like a joke, but his voice is low, almost uncertain. Still no answer from you, you don’t even look at him, not once. His attempts at small talk were pathetic, really. Painfully awkward, it was obvious how much he sucked at trying to make light conversation, the words didn’t flow, it didn’t come naturally to him like it did to you. Joel wasn’t built for that, he was built for silence, for scowls and short commands.
He’s grasping now, and he knows it, but he keeps going anyway. “Or frogs. You always liked frogs, right? Ain’t heard a goddamn frog fact in days. ’M startin’ to worry.”
Still nothing, just the steady rhythm of the horse’s hoofs in the snow, your silence tucked tight around you like your coat.
You eat lunch in silence by a half-frozen stream. Joel sits across from you, he tries not to stare, but fails. Your head is down, shoulders hunched a little from the cold, or maybe from something else. You chew on a protein bar and look out at the trees, Joel doesn’t even bother unpacking his own food.
And suddenly, he was starting to get pissed at your silence. Why were you acting like this? Like a little girl throwing a tantrum. That’s what it felt like, that’s what he wanted to call it, but it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t. Still, the frustration built. Yes, maybe he’d said something a little cruel, maybe he hadn’t meant it to sound like that, maybe he didn’t know how to say things right, but goddamn, did you have to stay so quiet? Did you have to make him feel like this? Like every second you didn’t speak was a punishment he couldn’t bear.
“Alright, enough.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You proved your point,” he said gruffly. His tone was sharp, like he was the one who’d been wronged. “You’re mad. I get it.”
“I’m not mad,” you said, and God, your voice was quiet and so empty.
“So you’re just gonna stay quiet this whole damn time?” he muttered, the words sounding more bitter than he intended.
You glanced over at him. Not angry, just… tired. “Figured you’d like that.”
He scowled. “Didn’t say that.”
He was so stubborn he couldn’t even own the words that came out of his mouth just a few days ago. Couldn’t admit them.
“You did, actually. You told me to shut the hell up, remember?” you said, glancing ahead again. Your voice didn’t shake, you weren’t accusing him, just repeating the facts, it was the truth, he’d said that. “Said you couldn’t stand the sound of my voice. So I’m doing you a favor.”
Joel muttered something under his breath, it sounded like a curse, or maybe it was your name. You didn’t know, didn’t catch it, and sure as hell didn’t ask him to repeat it. You weren’t being dramatic. You weren’t sulking or giving him the cold shoulder on purpose. You were just… sad, quiet in the way people get when they’ve decided they’re not allowed to take up space anymore, like you’d tucked yourself into some small corner of the world, somewhere less inconvenient. And Joel had done that to you, he still remembered exactly how you’d looked when he snapped, the flicker behind your eyes, that small, tight smile, how fast you’d folded yourself in.
“Y’know I didn’t mean it,” he muttered eventually, like he didn’t really want to hear himself say it.
You didn’t look at him. “Yeah, you did.”
“I was just—”
“Tired. I know. Had a bad day or whatever other excuse, didn’t want to hear me rambling.” You didn’t say it bitterly, just plainly, like a fact you’d finally accepted. You didn’t care about any excuse he might have for treating you like that. Honestly, it’d be easier if he just owned it, if he admitted outright that he hated you. That was the part that hurt the most, how honest he’d sounded. Because you liked hanging around Joel, even if he never said much, you still enjoyed taking up the same space as he did, telling him about your dreams, about your past, and knowing he couldn’t even stand being around you completely broke you.
Joel exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re twistin’ it.”
“No,” you said calmly. “You were clear. And I listened.” You didn’t want an apology, you didn’t want to fight, you just wanted to believe your voice mattered again. You stood again, shouldering your bag. “Let’s keep moving. I wanna get home soon.”
“Just lemme know if you ever get tired of bein’ mad at me.”
You stopped in your tracks and looked him full in the face “I’m not mad, Joel.” He blinked. “I’m just… not interested anymore.”
And that hurt him more than any yelling ever could.
You waited until just after noon, when the patrol rosters were still being finalized and Tommy was alone. He looked up when you knocked on the door frame.
“Hey,” he greeted. “Can I help you with anythin’?”
You nodded, stepping inside. Your boots felt heavier than usual, like every step toward that desk was one you didn’t really want to take. “Can I talk to you?”
“‘Course.” He sat up straighter. “What’s goin’ on?”
You hesitated, just for a second, but you knew it was the right choice to make, even if it stung, even if it felt like giving up. Then: “I want to switch partners. On patrol.”
You’d thought about it, a lot, and even though it hurt, deep inside you knew it was the right call. Being out with Joel hurt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the things he’d said to you, the look in his eyes that day, as if you were just… an inconvenience to him, something loud and annoying and in the way, something he had to tolerate, not someone he wanted to have around.
Tommy blinked. “You were with Joel, right?” His voice was careful and measured, but he wasn’t dumb, he already knew the answer. And he also knew his brother was a complicated man, especially around people. He didn’t find it difficult to imagine Joel acting like an asshole around someone like you, not when your personalities were complete opposites.
“Mhm.”
“Sure you wanna change?”
You nodded, quick, and it felt like ripping off a bandage. If you hesitated, even a second, you knew you’d unravel.
He studied your face, the way it looked down for someone who was always chatty and cheerful. Someone who used to talk so much she barely paused to breathe.
“Did Joel… said… or do somethin’?”
“No,” you said quickly, and suddenly you were trying to fight the tears back from your face. Your throat tightened, and it took everything not to blink too fast, not to wipe your face, not to let it show. “He didn’t. He just…” You shrugged. “I just think it’s not working between us.”
Tommy frowned. “Not workin’ how?”
You exhaled. “I don’t know. We’re just… really different and… I think we’d both benefit if we get assigned to different people.”
You didn’t say anything else, you didn’t trash Joel. Didn’t tell him how it felt to offer up every little spark of joy you had, only to watch it die in silence. You didn’t explain what it felt like to give joy to someone who never once gave any back. Didn’t say how it hollowed you out, how it started to feel pathetic. You didn’t explain how he had made you feel like you were too much, like you were unlovable. Like your kindness was annoying. Like your voice didn’t deserve to fill the air. You just stood there and waited for Tommy to speak.
Tommy rubbed his jaw. That soft, thoughtful gesture of his when he was trying to work through something, trying to find the right thing to say. He didn’t usually do favors for people wanting different patrol partners or better routes, he was a fair man, through and through. But there was something in the way you looked that made him relent. He felt responsible for the big asshole his brother was. And so, against his usual rules, he agreed.
“Well,” he said, standing. “I’ve got Javi lookin’ for a partner for the east routes. Bit longer than the ones you’re used to, but if you don’t mind… I’ll talk to him. You okay with that?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that works for me. Thanks, Tommy.” Your voice was polite, practiced, the kind of tone you used when you didn’t want anyone to ask follow-up questions.
Tommy gave you a quiet smile. “Joel can be... complicated. Don’t take anythin’ too personal.”
“I know.” You looked down, then away, but you didn’t believe it, not really. Joel wasn’t just complicated, and you were tired of people excusing a grown-ass man for acting like a dick.
Joel found out about the change the next morning. He walked into the stables expecting to see you there, same as always, but the space where you usually stood was empty. He slowed to a stop, frowning. “…Where is she?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Hector, a man in his forties Joel didn’t know well, just a face from around town, appeared from behind one of the stalls. “She’s with Javi today. East patrol.”
Joel turned, shocked by this new information. “What?”
“Got reassigned yesterday,” Hector said, tightening a saddle strap without looking up. “Tommy said she asked for it. I’m with you now.”
Joel stared, feeling how his stomach dropped. Had you really gone to Tommy asking for a new partner? What had you even said? “Joel is mean and he hurt my delicate feelings, I want a new partner.” He could almost hear it in your voice, except not really, because you wouldn’t say it like that, you wouldn’t be petty. Had you really been that immature? Or was it that he’d hurt you so much you couldn’t even stand to be around him anymore? That possibility stung the worst. He’d seen the pain in your eyes, but he never thought you’d come this far, never thought you’d actually pull away for good, thought maybe you’d get past it soon enough, start talking like before, start babbling about the clouds or chickens, and Joel would once again beg for you to shut up.
“She asked for it?”
Hector finally looked up and shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”
Joel said nothing, did nothing, just stood there, in the cold morning air, until Hector called his name and forced him to move.
“What the hell, Tommy?” Joel said as soon as he came back from patrol with Hector, stepping inside his brother’s house like it was his own.
Tommy looked up from where he was peeling an apple at the counter. “What you on bout, big brother?”
“You just rearranged patrol ‘cause she asked you to? Like she’s a spoiled girl? You can’t pull that shit.” Joel’s voice was rough, irritated, and maybe a little defensive too.
“Look, Joel—” Tommy tried to explain, this reaction from Joel surprised him, why did he care so much about you changing partners? He’d assumed Joel couldn’t stand being around you.
“No. Who does she even think she is? She comes here and asks for a different partner and everyone just does what she wants like she’s—”
“Like she’s what?” Tommy asked, quieter now, with a warning in his voice.
Joel paused, he didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t want to say something he couldn’t take back.
“Look,” Tommy said again, slower this time. “I dunno what the hell went down between you two. I don’t know what you said or did to that poor girl. That’s your business.” He dropped the knife down on the cutting board with a soft clack. “But she came to me tryin’ to hide the tears in her eyes. Asked for a new partner real quiet. Wouldn’t say much, just kept lookin’ down.” He shrugged. “Javi needed one after Mikey split his ankle, so I offered her.”
Joel just shook his head and scoffed, a bitter sound, one that tried too hard to cover up the sinking guilt that had started curling in his gut.
Weeks stretched by. You liked having patrol with Javi, he was a funny guy, easy going, warm. He didn’t seem to mind how much you spoke, in fact, he always followed your conversation, he cracked jokes back at you, he’d answer all your questions with real enthusiasm, and he’d tell you about his dreams too. Made you feel like your voice wasn’t a burden, like it mattered, and it was exaclt what you needed after Joel’s words broke your spirit.
Joel saw you once, across the market, laughing softly at something Ellie said. It caught him off guard, that sound… your laugh. It was the first time he’d heard your voice in days. Another time, in the dining hall, he almost didn’t see you there, but you were sitting at a table near the back, listening to Javi talk while your eyes stayed fixed on the window. And once, the hardest of all, at the gates, you were loading your patrol pack, and Joel couldn’t help but remember, and also miss, his mornings patrolling with you.
You’d reached out again and again and again, with light and warmth and endless words, trying to pull something out of him, and all he’d ever done was push you away.
One night, he sat on his porch with a half-drained glass of whiskey and no coat on, the cold didn’t bother him, it couldn’t reach somewhere already frozen through. He stared at the street, at the place where your silhouette used to pass by some evenings, humming, talking to yourself, but now you were gone. He missed it, he missed you… And it was too late to take it all back.
The gates were already open when the horses came in. It was late, and the watch lights had already been turned on, casting long yellow shadows over the ground. Joel was just walking by, just passing through, he’d just… wandered this way. Thought maybe he’d say hi to Tommy, that was the lie he told himself, he was definitely trying to run into you after your patrol shift, to look at you even if it was from afar. But when he heard the hooves, saw the horses trot in through the gate… and saw you, slouched in your saddle, with blood down your sleeve, he went still.
You weren’t crying, you weren’t panicking, but your shirt sleeve was ripped off, and there was red streaked from your bicep to your knuckles. Javi was beside you, talking, too animated, too casual, his hands moved while he spoke, like this was just another story, like you weren’t bleeding, like Joel wasn’t standing there ready to rip someone’s throat out.
Joel’s blood ran hot, his fists curled and his chest burned, something primal slammed into his ribs, roaring to life. He started moving before he knew why, his eyes locked on you like you were the only goddamn person that existed. You dismounted with a slow wince, your wound wasn’t anything life-threatening, not visibly at least, but there was a long, jagged cut along your arm.
Joel pushed past two people who were in his way, his shoulders slamming without apology, and stormed straight for Javi like he was seconds away from ripping his head off his body.
“The fuck happened out there?” he snapped, looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive.
Javi turned, surprised by Joel’s outburst. “I don’t know man, we were cool and suddenly there’s like a dozen runners coming out of nowhere. It was siiiick.”
Joel’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run a marathon. “She’s bleedin’.” He pointed at you like it physically hurt, like the blood on your arm was on his hands. “What the fuck happened?” He said again, as if Javi’s explanation hadn’t been good enough.
“I told you, some runners attacked us,” Javi said, frowning at Joel’s insistence. “She tripped and cut her arm with some glass from a broken window. She’s fine.”
“She ain’t fine!” Joel’s voice cracked through the air and people turned. The guards, the stablehands, two kids passing by with a bucket of feed. Even you stopped, still holding your reins. Joel wasn’t a man known for yelling, not like this, not unless someone was already dead or dying. And yet here he was, vibrating with fury, his eyes locked on Javi like he was seconds from breaking something… or someone.
Joel stepped closer to him. “You’re s’posed to watch her,” he said darkly. Pissed at Javi but also pissed at himself for not being there to protect you. “That’s your goddamn job. Makin’ sure she’s okay.”
Javi scowled, Joel was really getting on his nerves with all this complaining, trying to put the blame on him for an accident that was not out of the ordinary during patrol rounds. “Hey. Don’t come at me like that, man. She’s not a damn child. She can protect herself too.”
Joel’s face twisted in anger. He hates Javi for not doing something more to help you, but he also hated him more for being the one taking the place Joel used to have next to you. “Maybe, but she ain’t you. She’s not built like a fuckin’ tank. She’s small. You should’ve had her back.”
Javi took a step forward. “You weren’t there, man. You don’t know what the hell went down. She handled herself just fine.”
“Then why the hell is she the one comin’ home bleedin’ ‘stead of you?”
“Joel,” you said, sharp now, feeling like you needed to intervene before this got out of hand. Your voice cut the air like a knife. “Stop.”
Joel fully ignored you, just kept looking at Javi. “Maybe if this asshole—“
“Hey!” Javi barked, who the fuck Joel Miller thought he was to talk to him like that? “Back the fuck off. You don’t talk to me like that.”
“No, you listen to me, you little—”
“What the fuck is your problem, dude? There was nothing I could do.” Javi tried to explain himself again, trying to get that old stubborn man to understand it.
“THERE’S ALWAYS SOMETHIN’ YOU CAN DO.” Joel straight-up yelled, it wasn’t just anger now, it was fear. Fury and guilt and panic, all knotted together.
The shouting echoed, everyone was staring now, a dozen half-frozen faces looking between them like something might snap, like they were about to watch some street fight. And they almost did, Joel’s shoulders were tight, his fists trembling at his sides, Javi was standing his ground, his chest puffed, ready to throw the first punch if he needed to.
And you? You stepped forward, planting yourself between them like a barrier between the two big man. “Come on, Javi,” you said firmly, not leaving any room for argument. “Let’s go.”
Joel’s jaw clenched like it might crack any second now. Where you really siding with Javi on this? With the guy that was supposed to protect you but failed? “You don’t have to leave with him.”
You turned to him. “Yes. I do.” Your voice didn’t rise, it was just flat and final.
Joel stared at you, at your pale cheeks, at the cut at your temple and the blood on your arm. Blood he hadn’t cleaned, wound he hadn’t checked, wound that was there because he hadn’t been around to protect you. There was so much anger in your eyes, like you couldn’t believe he had the nerve to care now. You were already walking away with your head high, Javi gave Joel a final glare and followed you, his presence behind you was loud and loyal, like a dog who knew where home was.
And Joel stood there, fists still curled, chest heaving, surrounded by silence, staring at the empty space you’d just walked out of. No one spoke, no one dared, not with the way Joel’s hands were shaking. Not until Tommy came walking up from the far side of the barn and muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ. What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”
"It's goddamn Javi. He's an idiot, he—"
“Don’t bullshit me, Joel. What was that? That wasn’t about Javi.”
“Yes. It sure was. Stupid kid can’t watch his flank. He’s gonna end up gettin’ someone killed.”
“Joel, you can’t lie to me. I know it’s about her.”
“It ain’t about her. She’s got nothin’ to do with—” He tried to lie, but Tommy knew him too well, he could tell when his brother was lying.
Tommy stepped closer, it felt familiar in the way only someone who’s known Joel his whole life can be. “Listen, man. I get it. She’s bright. She talks a lot. Got that energy that makes people wanna stay near her.” Joel’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching from holding back too much, too many feelings, too many emotions he’d tried hard for years to suppress, but now they were coming out all at once. “But whatever’s goin’ on,” Tommy continued calmly, annoyingly gentle even, “you gotta figure it out. ‘Cause this whole hot-cold act? It’s not workin’. Not for you. Not for her.”
“Ain’t an act.” Joel tried to excuse himself, almost defensively. The words tasted strange in his mouth, hell, he didn’t even know what this was all about. He thought he hated you, he’d told himself that, over and over. Repeated it like a prayer every single morning he had to spend patrolling with you, he’d convinced himself that he’d rather have a clicker come and bite him in the neck than listen to another second of your voice… your voice that never shut up, your voice that filled the silence with sunshine and facts and nonsense and life. But now? Now he was dying to hear your voice again, now he was starting to think that maybe… maybe he liked you. Maybe he liked the way your nose scrunched up when you talked about animals, maybe he liked the way you laughed at your own bad jokes, maybe he liked the way you made everything feel less cold. Maybe he’d just been a goddamn coward.
Tommy didn’t flinch. “Then that’s worse.” The silence that followed was thick. “What is it? Between her and you. Be real.”
Joel looked away again, like it physically hurt him to say it. He couldn’t even admit it to his own brother, hell, he couldn’t even admit it to himself, couldn’t even say the words: ‘I like her’ out loud. “It’s nothin’.”
Tommy stared, Joel was too much of a stubborn, emotionally-constipated man than he even remembered him being. “You gonna stand here and lie to my face?”
“There ain’t no goddamn deal,” Joel snapped, angry at the world for trying so hard to get him to admit his feeling for you. “I patrolled with her a few times. Thassit.”
Tommy was not buying a single word. “You don’t scream at someone’s partner like that after they get hurt unless there’s a reason behind it, Joel.”
“I didn’t scream—”
“You lost your goddamn mind.”
Joel looked down at his hands. They were clenched, he realized, like he’d been bracing for a punch that never came. “I am…” he exhaled roughly, and almost inaudible said, “upset.” That was as close as he could get to talk about his feelings out loud.
“Right. And ’m the Pope.” Tommy moved closer now, like approaching a wounded animal. “Y’like her. Don’tcha?” Joel didn’t respond, he let the silence be the confirmation of his feelings toward you. “You care bout her. You ever told her that?”
Joel gave a bitter little laugh. “You think she’d wanna hear that from me?”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You ever ask?”
“Believe me, she don’t want anythin’ to do with me.”
“Maybe cause you act like an asshole every time she gets close.” Tommy said, Joel didn’t flinch, he’d been expecting that one, he deserved worse after how goddamn cruel he’d been with you. “You pushed her away, Joel. And then you got pissed when she let go.”
Joel ran a hand through his hair, the gesture was restless, almost violent, like he was trying to rip the thought of you out of his skull. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”
“Well, it did,” Tommy said. “She asked to stop patrollin’ with you. That’s a big step. That girl didn’t seem the type to give up on people.” Joel swallowed hard and Tommy sighed. “So ’m gonna ask one more time. Not as your brother, as someone who watched you lose your goddamn mind when you saw her come back bleedin’.”
Joel looked up at that, Tommy met his eyes. “What’s the deal with her?”
Joel exhaled slowly, like it cost him something. “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t know what it is. I just…” His voice tightened. “She was always talkin’. Always smilin’. Like it didn’t matter how cold it was, like she didn’t know the world we live in.” Tommy waited, Joel rubbed at the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to do with that,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I deserved to have it pointed at me.”
“You mean her attention?”
“I mean her.” It was the most honest thing Joel had said in months.
Tommy’s gaze softened. “Joel…”
“She was better off. With someone who could…” Joel shook his head. “Smile back.” He couldn’t even picture it, himself smiling at you like you did at him, like he meant it, like he deserved it.
They stood in silence, and Tommy let out a long breath. “Well, she ain’t smilin’ much these days.” Joel didn’t move or speak, just stared at the dirt like he could dig a hole and bury this whole damn mess. Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t gotta fix it all at once. But maybe stop pretendin’ it don’t exist.”
That night, you sat on your bed. The room was quiet, too quiet, Javi had offered to walk you home, but you told him you were fine, and you weren’t lying, not really. It wasn’t the pain that hurt, not the cut, not the dull throbbing in your arm or the tender spot blooming purple on your ribs. It was the sound of Joel’s voice cracking through the cold like it suddenly mattered, like your well-being was important now that the damage wasn’t his fault. Where was that fire when you’d gone mute for days? When your eyes welled up mid-patrol and you turned away so he wouldn’t see? Where was that protectiveness when you’d been swallowed by quiet and too afraid to speak again? Where was he? Not when you needed him. He couldn’t protect you from a wound he’d already made, and no amount of yelling at Javi would change that. He could shout all he wanted now, full of heat and anger, but it was too late. The damage was done in the stillness, in the look he didn’t give you, in the joke he tried to tell when you were already fading. You didn’t need him to defend you now, you needed him then.
Joel didn’t sleep. He sat at the window with a half-empty bottle, watching the streets go dar, watching the world turn quiet while something inside his brain stayed loud. Not because you were hurt, not even because of Javi, but because for one brief second, when he saw the blood on your skin, his heart stopped, and then it shattered. It wasn’t the cut, it was you, with blood on your face and standing on your own two feet, not needing him, not even looking at him. And the aching realization that he didn’t know you anymore, that he’d pushed you away, bit by bit, and word by cold word. And now? Someone else got to stand beside you, someone else got your trust, your time. Someone else got to see you bruised and brave and trying, and Joel just watched from the damn gate like a stranger, like someone who used to matter.
The Tipsy Bison was loud on the night of your birthday. One of your friends had brought a guitar, someone else was dancing badly after too many shots, and there was a small cake waiting on the table. You were in the center of the room, halfway through a funny story, your hands flying as you animated something absurd, probably patrol-related, probably exaggerated, probably funny as hell because everyone around you was howling. At least that was what Joel thought. He’d come for one drink, maybe two, say hi to a few people, show his face so Tommy would stop nagging him about not leaving his house. That was what the night was supposed to be like, but then he walked in, and he saw you, and everything stopped.
Javi was doubled over, your friend Annie had her hand on your shoulder, laughing so hard she spilled beer down her sleeve, someone at the next table leaned in just to hear more of your story. And you? You were shining. Your mouth was open wide with laughter, your cheeks were flushed from whiskey and heat, your voice bouncing through the bar like music. That fire Joel thought he’d snuffed out was back.
He watched from the far corner of the room, you wore a deep green sweater that made your eyes too bright, and your hair was half-tucked behind your ear, messy from dancing. There was a thin scar just beneath your cheekbone now, probably from the bad patrol a few weeks back, but it only made you look prettier. And Joel hated how long it had been since he saw you like this, he hated that you could glow again and he wasn’t part of it.
Someone toasted you. You rolled your eyes but raised your glass anyway.
“To her loud mouth,” one of your friend said.
“To her bad jokes,” someone else added.
You laughed and clinked your glass against theirs. “To being a pain in the ass for one more year.”
The whole table cheered and Joel’s chest hurt, because there was nothing in this world he desired more than to be there celebrating next to you.
You stood to stretch at one point, hands over your head, grinning as the music shifted. Javi grabbed your hand and spun you clumsily in place, it wasn’t a real dance, just a drunken sway. You laughed and shoved him off, swatting his shoulder. And Joel gripped the edge of the bar like it might keep him grounded, that used to be his spot beside you. His partner, his patrol, his quiet moments in the woods, listening to you ramble. He threw it away, and now you were spinning, tipsy and bright and surrounded by people who wanted you. People who didn’t flinch when you reached out, who didn’t push you away.
“Y’alright?” the bartender asked him. Joel blinked, realized his glass was still full, he nodded stiffly. “Birthday crowd,” the guy said. “She bring the whole damn town in with her.”
Joel didn’t respond. Didn’t say: She used to talk to just me for hours, she used to walk beside me and hum under her breath, she used to ask me questions just to fill the silence... and now she laughs like I was never there at all. He just gave a tight nod and turned away from the bar. You didn’t see him, not at all. You were too busy dancing, talking, drinking… too busy living.
Joel was walking home, hands in his coat pockets. He’d tried to finish his drink but couldn’t, and seeing you there having fun with your friends had become unbearable, so he decided to call it a night. But then he saw you, alone, laughing softly at nothing. You were half a block ahead of him, your coat was open, you had a half-empty bottle in one hand while your arms stretched out like you were trying to balance on an invisible beam. You were talking to yourself, to the moon up in the sky, maybe to some cricket you’d encounter along the way. To him, when you turned and saw him in the middle of the street.
“Ohhh my god,” you said, grinning. “Look everyone! It’s Joel Miller.”
He blinked. “You drunk?” What an stupid question. He already knew the answer.
“Extremely.” You walked toward him with uneven steps. “What are you doing out? You stalking me? Bit forward for you, cowboy.”
Joel sighed. “Jesus.”
You stopped in front of him and squinted. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Miller. You look awfully serious tonight.”
“I always look serious.”
You nodded solemnly. “True. That’s your whole vibe. You should try smiling more often, you got nice lips. Not that I noticed, of course.”
Joel looked at you, really looked, for the first time in what felt like months. You were flushed from the cold night breeze and the whiskey, and your eyes looked brighter than usual, your lips pink and chapped from the wind. “It’s your birthday,” he said softly.
“OH MY GOD, you’re right. It’s my birthday!” You grinned, as if you’d forgotten it after too many drinks. “Wait, how did you know?”
“Saw you and your friends at the bar.”
You took another swig from the bottle. “I’m a year older now. Can you believe that? I made it this far. How crazy is that?” He didn’t respond. “I used to think I’d die young,” you said casually. “Something poetic. Falling off a roof trying to rescue a cat or some shit.”
Joel frowned. “That ain’t poetic. That’s stupid.”
You burst out laughing. “Okay, fair. But you get the idea.” He sighed, and you rocked back on your heels. “Anyway. Happy birthday to me.”
“Happy birthday,” he murmured.
You smiled, wide and tired. “Well, thank you very much, Joel Miller.” Your started walking again, slow and wobbly, and Joel moved to follow. “You don’t gotta walk me home,” you said.
“I know.”
“Let me guess… you’re gonna anyway.”
He didn’t respond, but you talked the whole walk, like the old times, probably because you were too drunk to remember, or to care, that you were still angry and hurt. You talked about the music at the Tipsy Bison, about how your friend Annie cheated at darts, about how someone made you a cake with candles, actual candles, and you cried for like six seconds over it. Joel just listened, he didn’t speak unless you asked him something, he didn’t interrupt you, just walked beside you in the dark, feeling blessed to hear your voice once again. You tripped on a rock at one point and he reached for your elbow, you let him touch you just for a second, then kept walking.
“I missed you,” you said suddenly. Joel looked at you but you didn’t look back. “I mean,” you continued, “not that we were ever, like, friends. Or whatever. I know you’re not exactly a fan of… people. Pretty sure you hate me.” Joel stayed quiet. “But still, I missed you. It was weird not talking to you.”
Joel swallowed. “You stopped talkin’ to me.”
“You told me my voice annoyed you. And that you didn’t care about anything I said,” you said without any anger behind your voice. “What was I supposed to do, Joel?”
He didn’t answer, you stopped walking and he stopped too. You looked up at him, suddenly a little less drunk, like the chill had sobered you. “Why did you say that?” you asked quietly.
Joel blinked. “Say what?”
“That I talk too much. That I was annoying. That I wasn’t… enough… Was I really that insufferable?”
He frowned, fuck, you were kicking him while he was on the ground. “I didn’t say you weren’t enough.”
“You said worse.”
He inhaled sharply. “You were pushin’. Always askin’ things I didn’t want to answer. Talkin’ when I needed quiet. I tried givin’ you signals but you didn’t know how to stop.”
“I didn’t want to stop,” you said. “That’s the difference. I didn’t want to stop cause I enjoyed talking to you” Joel stared, but you looked away, ashamed, and for the first time, your voice dropped. “I spent my whole life being told I was too much. Too loud. Too happy. Too intense. I always thought… maybe the right person wouldn’t mind it.”
Joel’s throat went dry. Did you really think he was the right person? Him? An old, grumpy, broken-down man? That was what you saw for yourself? That was what you aspired to? You, with your bright eyes and all that goddamn sunshine in your voice, thought he was it? You couldn’t be serious.
“I liked you,” you added softly. “I didn’t think you’d like me back or anything,” you continued. “But I thought you didn’t hate me. I thought you… tolerated me. Cared a little, maybe.”
He took a step toward you. “I did—”
You held up your hand to stop him there. “And then you snapped. Like I was a burden. Like I was some stupid, useless little thing you had to drag around on your boot like mud.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But that’s how it felt. I wasn’t pissed,” you said. “I was hurt. Maybe you thought it was the same thing cause you have the emotional range of a teaspoon. But it’s not the same thing.”
There was a big silence, just the wind in the trees was heard. And Joel, stuck between wanting to apologize and not knowing how. “’M sorry,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have said those things,” he continued. “Not like that. Not to you.”
This time it was you who didn’t answer.
“I was… mean. For no reason. You didn’t deserve that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You were the first person in a long time who—” He paused. “Who made me forget. How bad things were. Just for a minute.” Joel exhaled. “I didn’t know what to do with that. And for the record, I don’t hate you, I never did.”
“I don’t need you to explain,” you said. “You already did the damage. And I already survived it. It’s all good, Joel. No hard feelings."
Joel looked like he’d been hit. You turned, started walking again and he followed. You didn’t say another word the rest of the way until you stopped in front of your porch, one foot on the bottom step, swaying a little, maybe from the alcohol in your body.
“I should go to bed,” you said, and Joel nodded. “Thanks for walking me.”
He gave a tight nod again. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”
You turned, made it up two steps, then paused. Without looking back, you said: “You know I never wanted you to like me back, right?”
Joel blinked. “What?”
“I didn’t expect that. I wasn’t asking for anything. I just… liked the way it felt, being around you, making you smile sometimes... even if it was just a grunt. And when that stopped… that hurt worse than a bullet. And I got shot once, so I know what I’m talking about. I’d tell you the story but I doubt you’d be interested.”
You should’ve gone inside, the door was already open, you could feel the heat of your living room escaping into the cold night. Your limbs were buzzing with too much whiskey and too many words said, but Joel was still standing there, and your body was still turned toward him.
He shifted on his feet and glanced up at you with a slight squint. “How,” he said with caution, asking the question that had been killing him inside. “How’s patrol goin’ with Javi?”
You blinked and then snorted. Oh, he had some nerve asking that. You leaned against the railing, smiling just enough to hurt him. “It’s great. Javi doesn’t complain when I talk too much, and he doesn’t tell me to shut the hell up. So that makes him a better partner than you already.”
Joel winced, and you let him suffer for a bit. He nodded once, and then, after a long moment, his voice came out carefully neutral. “You and Javi…?”
“Me and Javi what?” you asked him, arching your brows.
“Are you two a thing or…?” he said, trying to appear unfazed, like he didn’t care about the answer, even if internally, he was praying you’d say no. His voice was tight, casual in the way someone pretends not to be holding their breath.
“A thing? What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely confused.
“Y’know what ’m talkin’ about,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the side like he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.
Then sudden realization hit you. Your eyes went wide. “OH MY GOD, NO!” He blinked startled, and you smiled wider. “Javi’s gay. Like, suuuper gay.”
You watched it happen in real time, the way his jaw relaxed just slightly, the way his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, like a thread pulled too tight had finally been cut.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah, like reeeaally into guys. I mean, like, if we were both naked he’d probably be checking you out and ignoring me,” you chuckled, amused now, watching color bloom subtly in his cheeks. Joel didn’t say anything, he just felt relieved, so stupidly relieved it made his chest ache. “Your gay-dar is super off, Joel. You should get it checked,” you teased with a grin.
He didn’t respond, just grunted, shifting his weight, clearly trying not to smile. You tilted your head. “Why did you ask?”
Joel didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. You could see it all in his face… the question he didn’t ask, the way his eyes flicked over you like he couldn’t help it, like he was trying to memorize you before he lost his nerve.
You took a step closer and Joel didn’t move, or look away. Your voice was soft now. “Did you think he was my type?”
Joel’s voice came slow. “I didn’t know if you had a type.”
You smiled. “I didn’t either.” Another pause. “But now I think I might have a thing for older guys. The grumpy type. The ones who break your heart without even meaning to.”
You leaned against the porch railing again, closer now, and Joel stepped up. His hand came to rest on the railing beside you, not touching you yet, but near. You looked up at him, and found his eyes already on you. You stared at each other, and then he moved, not fast or clumsy, he just leaned in, slowly, like a man who’d been thinking about it for weeks, like a man who didn’t believe he’d ever get a second chance if he didn’t act now.
And when his mouth met yours? It was quiet and warm, like he was apologizing for all the things he said with that same mouth before... that mouth who’d hurt you in the past was now trying to put the pieces of you back together. You didn’t pull back or freeze, you just let it happen, let your eyes slip closed, let your hands curl against his flannel shirt… let yourself feel him.
It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t needy or desperate, it was gentle like he was terrified he might break you, and maybe that was the part that undid you most, that this man, this gruff, stubborn, often infuriating man, was finally treating you like something precious. His hand came up slow, fingers brushing along your jaw before sliding to the back of your neck, you felt his thumb at your pulse point, like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were real, that this was happening.
When he finally pulled back, just inches in between you two, his voice was the softest it had ever been.
“Goodnight, birthday girl.”
You looked up at him, dazed. He stepped back and walked off your porch without another word, and you stood there like you’d been struck, watching him walk away, still swaying slightly from the whiskey, still buzzing from the feel of his mouth on yours, still trying to catch your breath. Joel Miller was already halfway down the walk. You watched him go, one step, two, three.
“HEY!” you shouted.
He didn’t stop walking, just turned back over his shoulder, eyes catching yours for a second, that big-ass smile stretched across his face.
“Joel Miller, you can’t do that!”
He slowed, but kept walking away anyway. “Already did it.”
“No! You can’t— You can’t do that and walk away!” Your voice cracked, but there was no real anger behind it, just amusement, and maybe a little frustration, because he’d left you hungry for more. “You can’t kiss me and run away like a coward!”
“Sweet dreams, birthday girl.” He replied teasingly with that same grin still painted on his face. The street was empty, the windows all dark, it was just you and him and the sound of your own heart thudding against your ribs.
“You better come back here and finish what you started, Joel Miller.” You tried to sound dangerous and commanding, but the look of a schoolgirl in love on your face wasn’t helping you.
He offered you one last smile before turning around and walking away. It was faint, like he didn’t have the right to give you more than that. Maybe this was all that was meant to happen tonight, but it sure as hell meant something for both of you. He felt it in his chest as he walked away, you felt it in your throat as you watched him go. And you wondered what would happen the next time you saw him, if he’d pretend nothing happened, or if he’d look at you the way he did when he had his lips on yours.
READ PART 2 HERE
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A/N: Wraaaah, I’ve had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while, and I finally sat down and wrote the first chapter! Please, please, please let me know what you think🥹 I’m writing a second part soon (with some smut in it😮💨).
This is one of the fics I’ve poured the most love into, I swear I’ve edited it a thousand times to make sure it’s the best it can be. I have so many more ideas for these two in the future, so please, I’d really love to know what you think!
his voice is the first thing you feel—low, rumbling, warm against your shoulder before you’re even fully awake.
“come back here…” he murmurs, eyes still closed, arms searching blindly until he finds your waist and drags you closer with a small, sleepy groan. he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to climb into your skin, breath fanning over your collarbone.
“you left,” he complains, voice so deep it vibrates through you.
“pedro, I moved like… two centimeters.”
“too far,” he mumbles, nuzzling even closer.
his curls are a soft mess, falling over his forehead, warm from sleep. you slide your fingers into them without thinking, brushing gently, and he melts instantly—literally melts. his whole body softens, a shiver running down his spine.
“mmh… don’t stop,” he breathes, words heavy with sleep, like honey dripping from his tongue.
you keep playing with his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and he lets out this tiny sound—half sigh, half whine—that makes your heart flip.
he tips his head back just enough to look at you, lids heavy, lashes messy, mouth soft. “you’re gonna kill me,” he says, barely audible.
“how?” you whisper, smiling.
“being this… this warm,” he slurs. “this soft with me. I can’t handle it.”
he pulls you fully on top of him, guiding your thigh over his hip, keeping one hand on your lower back, the other sliding up your arm like he needs to feel every inch of you. he presses little, lazy kisses on your jaw, each one slower than the last, like he can barely keep himself awake.
you brush your fingers through his hair again and he moans—quiet, breathy, absolutely helpless.
“that good?” you tease.
his eyes fall shut again, head tipping into your hand. “you have no idea,” he whispers, voice thick and gravelly. “touch me like this forever.”
he’s so needy it’s almost ridiculous—nuzzling your chest, curling his fingers into your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, holding you tighter every time you shift.
“stay,” he begs softly, barely conscious. “just… stay with me a little longer.”
“i’m not going anywhere,” you promise.
he hums—content, small, safe—and pulls the blanket higher around you both before tugging you into his chest like you're the only place he can fall asleep.
“good,” he whispers, almost dreaming. “i sleep better when you’re touching me.”
you kiss his hair. he smiles against your skin.
and then, still half-asleep, he adds, “i love it when you play with my hair… makes me feel yours.”
