requested! thank you.
content: pregnancy, public affection, protective!pedro
the press tour is loud. cameras flash nonstop, people shouting his name from every direction, microphones being pushed closer and closer like they might miss something if they blink. it’s overwhelming — not for him, never for him — but pedro still feels his hand tighten around yours instinctively.
you’re glowing. visibly pregnant, dress hugging your belly in a way the internet has already dissected frame by frame. there’s something sacred about it, about you standing there so calm, so sure, one hand resting protectively over your stomach as if the world isn’t screaming around you.
pedro doesn’t let go of you for a second.
his hand never leaves the small of your back. sometimes it slides lower, palm splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles like he’s reminding both of you that everything is okay. that you are okay. that the baby is okay.
and the internet? the internet is feral.
someone posts a clip — barely ten seconds long — of him stepping slightly in front of you when a photographer gets too close. his body shields yours without thinking. his arm curves around you, firm and sure, chin dipping just enough so he can murmur something only you can hear.
you smile immediately. that’s what sends everyone over the edge.
because you don’t look scared. you don’t look fragile. you look adored.
during the interview, the host asks a question about the project — some joke about long shoots and exhausting schedules — and pedro answers politely, smoothly, like always. but then he glances at you.
“we adjusted things,” he says easily. “made sure she was comfortable. that was the priority.”
no hesitation. no overexplaining. the priority.
your hand squeezes his, and he looks down at you like you’re the only person in the room. like the cameras aren’t there. like the world hasn’t been watching every move you’ve made together since the pregnancy became public.
later, when you’re seated, he pulls your chair closer without even asking. his knee stays pressed against yours the entire time. when you shift, he notices. when you breathe differently, he notices. when you absentmindedly rub your belly, he’s already there, covering your hand with his.
photos circulate within minutes.
pedro pascal cannot stop touching his pregnant wife.
the way he looks at her???
that man is DOWN BAD.
and they’re right. because when the carpet ends and the noise fades just a little, pedro leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple. not for the cameras — they just happen to catch it.
“you okay, baby?” he asks quietly.
you nod. “yeah. you?”
he smiles, wide and warm and so full it almost hurts.
“never better.”
that night, the internet keeps spiraling.
zoomed-in screenshots of his hand on your belly. slow-motion gifs of him guiding you through the crowd. compilations titled pedro pascal: protective husband era.
and somewhere in a quiet hotel room, away from the flashes and the noise, he helps you out of your heels, kisses your stomach goodnight, and holds you like the world can wait.
✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work.
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.
pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader
summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.
part 2 here
a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now
tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.
w/c: 9k
Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.
That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.
But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.
The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.
The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.
You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.
Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.
And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.
Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.
Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?
The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”
He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.
Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.
It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.
In the end, he liked it. You know he did.
Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.
So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.
Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.
He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.
“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”
And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.
But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.
Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.
You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.
“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”
“Yeah? Did you like it?”
You nod, excited.
“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”
Harry gives a quiet grunt.
“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”
“Just a moment.”
You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.
“I can go.”
“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”
You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:
“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”
He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.
“Thank you. And I know.”
He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.
And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.
The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.
“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.
“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”
You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”
“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”
The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:
“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”
By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.
You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.
Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.
“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”
Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.
Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.
Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:
“Harry, I’m not—”
“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.
You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.
Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.
The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:
“So?”
And the show begins.
The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.
The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.
The man immediately falls silent.
“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”
The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.
“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”
“Mr. Castillo…”
“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”
The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:
“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”
“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.
The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:
“Yes, we are.”
You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.
“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”
Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.
“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.
A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.
“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”
More silence.
Harry concludes:
“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”
Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.
It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.
Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.
Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.
“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”
“They sent it late?”
“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”
Harry plays along, whispering back:
“A corporate scandal.”
The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.
“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”
You shake your head.
“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”
The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.
“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”
He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:
“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”
“Rare.”
You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Obviously.”
Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.
Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.
You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.
“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”
“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”
“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”
Your brows lift.
“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”
You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.
She fires back:
“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”
“You’re being irrational.”
“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”
You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.
“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”
She hangs up on him.
You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.
“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.
“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”
Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.
“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”
It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.
“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.
He shuts that down quickly.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“What about him?”
Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.
“Is he okay sharing you with me?”
Your hands freeze mid-motion.
“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”
“Of course.”
The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.
“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”
Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.
“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”
You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.
“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”
“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”
“With who?”
“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”
“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”
“I will.”
You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.
Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.
“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.
“I know you can.”
“Why not take a vacation?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”
“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”
“Really? Why?”
“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”
“Definitely not. Waste of money.”
You snap your fingers and point at him.
“Exactly what I said!”
“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”
Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.
“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”
You do the math.
“Three years and two months.”
“Has he proposed?”
Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:
“Can I grab a ginger ale?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:
“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”
“Can I ask why?”
You shrug.
“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”
“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”
“You love your wife.”
“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.
“I do.”
“Okay, but?”
“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”
Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.
“Harry.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”
“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”
“Maybe.”
Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.
“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”
You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.
“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”
He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Not your fault.”
As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.
“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.
“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”
Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:
“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”
“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.
There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.
His muscles are rock solid.
“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”
Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.
“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”
You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.
“This okay?” you ask.
“Yeah. Keep going.”
You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.
“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“And it still feels fucking incredible.”
He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.
Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.
“There should be an engagement ring here.”
“Maybe.”
“If you get married, would you still work with me?”
“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”
“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”
“You are.”
God. His scent is going to kill you.
“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”
“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”
“What? Why?”
Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.
“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”
“You don’t care?”
“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”
Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.
“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”
“So when we stay late working together—”
“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”
Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.
“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”
“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”
The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:
“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”
He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:
“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”
“You just got a 10% pay cut.”
You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.
The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.
“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”
“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”
You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.
Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.
“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”
As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.
The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.
There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.
You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.
“I sent it,” you say.
“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”
“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”
“I might not answer.”
“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”
Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“People talk.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”
That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.
“I don’t” you say finally.
He laughs, incredulous.
“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”
“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.
Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.
“I have my morals,” he says.
“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”
God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.
“Makes? Present tense?”
His quiet laugh is almost bitter.
“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”
You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:
“Even on nights like this one?”
He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.
“Don’t do this.”
That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.
That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.
“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”
You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.
But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.
“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.
“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”
“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be.”
At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.
“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”
“Is that a command?” you challenge.
Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.
His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.
“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.
“Of course I do.”
“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”
You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.
But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.
“I want a kiss first.”
Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.
You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.
But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.
Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.
He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.
The curse he whispers makes you smile.
“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”
Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.
You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.
Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.
His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.
With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.
Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.
That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.
It earns you a low, guttural curse.
Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.
And then just one question slices through the haze:
“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”
You narrow your eyes.
There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.
But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.
You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:
“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”
Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.
“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”
“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”
“Do you want to?”
He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.
That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.
Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”
“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”
He gets it.
“Can I?”
“You can.”
Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.
“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”
“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”
You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”
Harry raises an eyebrow.
“I want details.”
“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”
“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”
When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.
“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”
You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.
“And…” you press.
“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:
“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”
“While thinking of me.”
Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:
“While thinking of you.”
Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.
You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.
Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.
“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”
Well. Okay.
Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."
“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.
“Please.”
He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.
“Harry, I need to—”
“I know.”
You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.
You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.
“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”
He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.
It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.
You look down at him and say:
“We’re going to hell.”
He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.
“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”
“Okay.”
“And now?”
“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”
Harry sighs your name.
“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”
You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.
The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.
As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:
“It’s only nine-forty.”
“Hm?”
“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”
You look up at him, and he adds:
“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”
You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.
You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.
Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.
Summary: You saved Joel's life from raiders but he, instead of thanking you for it, he gets mad at you for risking your life.
or
You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.
wc: 7k
warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff
a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌
The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind, just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel, who was ahead of you, and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day; his broad shoulders seemed tense under his jacket, his grip on the rifle was tighter than usual.
It felt like the premonition of something bad coming your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand. Staying alert in case something bad could happen.
“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered exasperated, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.
Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”
You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel's back. His jaw was tight, the scar on his temple crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs; he was worried. More than usual today.
That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.
One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed, came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.
“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”
“Joel—”
“Stay here."
You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another, and so on.
But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this a thousand times before, as you already know, but even then, it was too much to bear; he didn't feel strong enough as before. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.
Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it, and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you as if it wasn't worth saving.
“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.
“Wait, what are you doing?!” she whispered.
Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.
You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own knife into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could think of recovering. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.
You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.
Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey, hey, are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours, not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, still coughing.
You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I-I-I had to...He was going to—”
“And you didn't listen to me!" Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole body trembling with anger. He hated when you had to put yourself in danger because he hadn't been strong enough to save the day. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”
“Well, he didn’t kill me,” you stated, “I saved your life.”
“And you risked yours doing it." His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.
“Well, thanks to that risk you are not fucking dead." you spat back.
Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.
He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you right now. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"
"I get it. I just saved your ass." You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"
He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I won't do this with you."
"Fine," you bit out.
The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed as if sensing the tension.
You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the cut on your cheek burned, you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.
"We should get moving," he muttered, voice strained.
You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like the open wound on your cheek.
That night, you found a small clearing tucked between big trees, far enough from the road to feel safe enough to spend the night. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.
You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly dying and feeling at peace with it. How easy would it be for him to leave you behind and on your own?
You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.
A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.
"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."
You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the liquid and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.
"Sorry," Ellie murmured, biting a laugh, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."
You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe this day.”
Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."
You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, Ellie."
She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."
As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort, at least from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of your little camp.
Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over your sleeping form.
You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.
The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his thermos, sipping coffee out of it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.
Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before, reminding him of how you always put yourself in danger for him.
He hated himself for it. How he had come to the point where he felt useless to protect you.
Now, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well to know what was happening.
Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel.
“Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”
Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”
Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She has a frown.”
Ellie blinked. “Yeah, because she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Just let her sleep a little bit longer.”
Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer in her gaze, “You really pay attention, huh?”
Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire, fading. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her, of course I do.”
Ellie sighed, dropping back down next to him. “So are you gonna fix this or what?”
Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”
“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.
Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”
“She saved your ass, Joel.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. “That isn't the point.”
Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”
Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.
“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.
Instead of an answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look; tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.
Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… do you carry her pills?”
Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.
Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”
Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”
Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just, you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”
Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.
You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once; he wouldn’t fail you now.
Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.
As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression.
Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.
Ellie nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, at least.”
Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling and fading nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion from the last day.
And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.
Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, and Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.
You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.
Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”
It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.
You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight with him again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.
Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.
Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo, does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?
You shot her a look. “Ellie.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”
Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.
You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.
He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.
You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.
Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to. The way he always did when you were hurting.
But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.
You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.
Except you did.
Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”
You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.
His lips pressed against your temple, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.
“Get ready, we have to go now,” he said, still closer to your face.
You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.
He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you just a moment ago. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest. "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.
Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one who didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.
Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning.
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."
She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."
You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended to, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely, like he always did.
The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.
Joel was beside you, his pace slow, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, and you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments.
Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.
Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of them.
Joel’s outburst had been raw and desperate, yes, but now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just losing you. But what did it mean to him if he did it?
Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe, he would never be the man you need it.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.
Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you, you shout at me and I'm angry about it."
His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.
"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.
You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for days, something's been different, and yesterday you just broke."
Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."
You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."
Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.
Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.
Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.
That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.
So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."
He heard the way your voice broke at the end, and he just watched as you joined Ellie.
Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this again.
Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable, before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.
And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.
Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.
A few hours later, when the cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.
Joel stepped inside first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies; he was looking for danger, as always, and he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible.
He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.
Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Is it safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.
You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished.
“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.
Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”
You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”
She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.
His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.
You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.
Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead.
You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you again, “You good?”
It was automatic, the way he asked. Like, even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.
You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”
But it wasn’t alright.
Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close, but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder again, as if he didn’t want to let go.
Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show.
You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.
A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin; your foot didn’t feel right.
"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.
Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”
“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You were grateful for his presence when you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.
He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"
“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.
Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.
Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”
Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.
Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”
Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."
You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but something was comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.
“Joel,” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.
“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."
As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle was still lingering.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.
Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands working carefully as he pulled your boots off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.
Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.
Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.
You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”
Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.
“Do you think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.
You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like...like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”
Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter. You are the most important person to me. ”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”
“I was saving you.” You protested.
“I don’t need saving,” He replied, rough as always.
Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you."
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”
His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”
The words hit you hard. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.
You swallowed, your throat tight. “So do you think I want to lose you?”
Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.
Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper.
“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like, none of this matters to you. Like, I don’t matter.”
Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.
You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”
He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.
“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”
Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”
You scoffed, looking away.
“I’m not,” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to protect you.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.
You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable to your eyes.
"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.
"You're strong," he stated.
"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death," you said, tired of the cycle.
“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.
“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse, watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”
His brows furrowed. “That isn't-"
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it, that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.
But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing traces of your face.
“I do love you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”
Your breath stilled.
Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”
Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.
“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.
He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.
“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw, something raw and unprotected. He was always protecting people.
Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.
“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, and none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”
“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.
You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”
He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”
A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.
Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention; it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.
“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.
Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was careful, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.
You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.
Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.
Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.
“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”
You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”
Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious. Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was everything he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment in the middle of this kiss.
“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.
You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.
Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”
Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”
“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”
Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”
“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”
Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”
You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.
As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”
As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.
“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes.
“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.
You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”
He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”
Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”
You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.
“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”
You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.
You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with slow steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.
Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.
A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”
He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”
You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”
His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.
He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.
But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.
warnings: 18+ (minors dni). established relationship, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, degradation, dirty talk, spanking, bodily fluids, mild choking, praise kink, oral, domestic fluff and filth, profanity, slight age gap, discussions of children, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!
a/n: *taps mic* hi besties...remember me? got inspired to write a little extra for love is complicated. it’s mostly self-indulgent, but i hope you enjoy! you can read it as a standalone, though it makes more sense if you’ve read the original (here's the masterlist) and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax. happy reading <3
The bed was cold on his side.
You stirred, eyes blinking open to gray London light filtering through the curtains. For a moment you thought he’d gone completely, that he’d slipped away unnoticed like a dream, but then you padded barefoot across the chilly wood floor and found him.
Pedro stood on the balcony, leaning into the railing, broad shoulders framed against the pale sky. Dark sweats, messy bed hair, and the damn purple Lakers t-shirt that had grown as familiar as your own heartbeat. His hand rubbed absent circles over the railing. He looked like he was carrying something invisible but heavy, the kind of weight only he could name. You paused in the doorway, watching. Being with him had taught you that love wasn’t just closeness, it was curiosity. You wanted to know every thought, every hidden corner of him. Even the parts he kept behind that polite smile, the eternal people-pleaser. You wanted to swim inside his mind until you knew every shadow.
So you crossed the room and slipped your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into the softness of his shirt, breathing in clean soap and him.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured.
He laughed, low and rough, the vibration shaking through his stomach beneath your cheek.
“Thank you, mi amor.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s crazy early.”
“Felt a bit restless.”
“Birthday blues?” you asked, your cheek still pressed to his back.
He didn’t answer at first. The city stretched out below, a smear of gray rooftops and cranes. It was one of those mornings that felt caught between night and day, muffled and uncertain. His silence said enough. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders rising and falling under your cheek.
“Hm. Yeah. A little.”
You could hear the way he said it, soft but weighted, like a man reluctant to admit he was carrying more than he wanted to show. He was Pedro, after all, he’d made a career of smiling through exhaustion, of filling other people’s needs before his own. You understood the feeling intimately, that quiet ache that came with another birthday, the strange mixture of gratitude and grief that aging brought.
You slipped around to face him, leaning your back against the railing. He looked at you then, eyes heavy-lidded, framed by the faint crow’s feet etched deeper than the year before. His beard was still wild from sleep, silver scattered like threads of light through the dark. He was beautiful, but you knew he wouldn’t call himself that.
“Talk to me,” you said gently, offering your hand. He took it, warm and rough, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles like he always did when he was trying to himself grounded.
He sighed again. “I don’t know. Fifty just… sounds old.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “I wake up and sometimes I still feel like I’m twenty-five, like I’m waiting for my life to start. And then I catch myself in the mirror and think—shit. You’re not the kid anymore. You’re the old man on set. The one people call sir.”
You bit back a smile. “They don’t call you sir. They call you something else.”
That earned a laugh, though it was short and self-deprecating. He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s worse. It’s funny until I’m the punchline, you know? Until I wonder if I’m just some caricature." His shoulders hunched slightly, his voice softer now. “Sometimes I wonder if people really see me. Or if I’ve just become… whatever they need me to be.”
You let that sit between you, because you knew what it meant. The man who had spent a lifetime offering himself up in pieces until he forgot where the performance ended and the person began. You reached up, cupping his cheek so he’d look at you properly.
“P,” you said, your voice breaking on the letter. “I hope you know how loved you are.”
His eyes flickered, glassy now, but you didn’t stop. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I wish you could see how much you mean to me. How kind you are. How brave. How fucking extraordinary you are just by existing in the world. Not for the roles, not for the public, not for the stupid labels people give you or don't give you. For you.”
You slid your arms around his hips, pulling him closer until you could lock your hands against the small of his back. He leaned over you, bracing his hands on the railing at your sides, caging you in as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He looked down at you, eyes shining, his expression both open and vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” you pressed, your voice low, urgent. “I see the man who makes everyone in the room feel safe. I see the boy who worked harder than anyone gave him credit for. I see someone who is better than he thinks, someone who deserves every ounce of love that comes his way.”
His jaw flexed, as though he was holding the words in, not trusting himself to speak. Then he pulled you into him, crushing you against his chest so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe.
“I love you,” you whispered against the fabric of his shirt, muffled, “even if you suffocate me to death.”
That broke him. His laugh was wet, shaky, reverberating through your body as he loosened his hold just enough to kiss the top of your head.
“I love you too,” he said, his voice hoarse, like the words had been waiting there for years.
•••
Later, the place smelled like coffee and butter as you clattered around in your pajamas, hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves tugged down over your hands as you set the small kitchen table. Two mismatched mugs, the blue plate he always claimed as his favorite, and a stack of pancakes you’d managed not to burn this time, amongst other things. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and that was the point.
He emerged from the bedroom shower-fresh, a curl of steam drifting out behind him. His hair was damp, curling in places you wanted to smooth down with your fingers. The silver threaded through his beard looked sharper now that it was trimmed neat, catching the morning light from the window. He padded in barefoot, tugging absently at the hem of his faded sweats until his eyes landed on the table. That smile—boyish, warm, a little disbelieving—lit his whole face.
“You made all this?" he said, the soft wonder in his voice like you’d laid out a feast fit for a king.
“Your favorites,” you replied, sliding into your chair.
He sat close, closer than he needed to, his knee brushing yours under the table. The press of it stayed there, steady, as if he needed the reminder that you were real. He forked into the pancakes first, humming his approval around the first bite, and reached over to cover your hand with his. Big, warm, calloused. He always ate like this with you: hand to mouth, mouth to hand, as if affection and food went hand in hand.
Conversation meandered easily. His schedule for the day, your teasing complaint that of all days he had to be busy today. He groaned about it, dramatic enough to make you laugh, then squeezed your hand like an apology.
“Hope they don’t make you work too hard,” you said, giving his fingers a squeeze back.
He swallowed, looked at you with those soft eyes of his. “I’ll survive.”
When he finally pushed his plate back and started to rise, you caught his wrist. “Ah, ah. Sit. I have something else.”
He raised an eyebrow, but sat again. You darted into the kitchen, quick on bare feet, and returned with the little box you’d hidden last night. Inside was the small cake, crooked on one side, frosting uneven, and rainbow sprinkles scattered like confetti. You like to think you get better at it each time. You’d fussed over it for hours, but when you set it down in front of him, candle already flickering, you forgot every insecurity. Because his face cracked wide open, grin blooming like sunlight.
“Babyyy,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like he couldn’t believe you.
“You say that every year,” you teased, setting the lighter aside. “And every year I remind you—tradition. I have to make you a cake.”
He tilted his head, grin still splitting his face. “Sprinkles this year, huh?”
“You gotta tell me what you want next time. I’m running out of ideas.” He leaned forward then, catching your cheek with a kiss that was so tender, so brief, it left you smiling helplessly when he pulled back.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered, lighting the candle. The flame wobbled between you, and you felt suddenly silly and shy, but also glad. “Make a wish.”
He closed his eyes for just a second before blowing it out, then turned immediately to you. One big hand came up to cradle your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing your cheekbone as if you were the gift.
“I have everything I need already,” he said, his voice low, certain. “And more.”
Your throat caught. You leaned in and kissed his nose, soft enough that he shut his eyes and smiled.
“I love it when you do that,” he murmured.
•••
The venue was buzzing long before you even walked in with him. Inside, the air was warm with bodies, laughter, and the clink of glasses. Everyone you’d ever expect. old friends, castmates, family seemed to orbit him, pulled in by that gravitational charm he never quite believed he had.
He looked devastatingly good, of course. Loose black pants, a “Protect the Dolls” t-shirt stretched just enough across his chest, that black coat he shrugged off halfway through the night when it got too hot. His dark-rimmed glasses caught the purple strobe of the lights, and the grey at his beard glinted like it had been put there just to make him more dangerous. He smelled of cedar and the scotch someone kept topping up for him, and even across the room you could feel the pull.
The problem was—so could everyone else.
You felt like you barely saw him. Everywhere you looked, he was being pulled into another conversation, another dance, another photo. His siblings had him for a while, and you smiled watching them laugh with their heads tipped together. Then someone else whisked him away, then another. Every time you started toward him, someone was already dragging him off, clamoring for just a brush of his hand, a story, a laugh.
“Have you seen Pedro?” you asked Coco, leaning in as you wiped sweat from your collarbone.
She glanced toward the bar. “I thought I saw him doing shots with Jason a second ago.”
You turned, and there he was: framed in the glow of the bar lights, head tipped back in laughter, surrounded. He looked younger like that, unguarded, his hand slicing the air as he told some story. You wanted nothing more than to press yourself into his side, claim a sliver of him just for yourself.
But by the time you made it across the room, he was gone again. You ordered another drink, biting back your impatience, telling yourself you could wait.
Prince’s “Kiss” pulsed through the speakers, and you gave in, dancing with your girlfriends, hips loose, skirt glittering purple under the lights. You were tipsy enough not to care who was watching when you felt him, those familiar hands sliding over your hips, tugging you back against a body you’d know blind.
“Hi, stranger,” he murmured into your ear, voice all smoke and warmth.
You smiled, easing into him as he swayed you to the beat. His palms skimmed lower, playful, testing the hem of your skirt. You reached back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, and felt him singing into your ear, his breath hot as he ground against you. Hard already. The alcohol, the heat, the bass vibrating through the floor, it all rushed to your head.
“Missed me?” you teased.
“Very much so.” His voice was rough and purposeful.
You turned, facing him now, and his hands were quick to drag you close again, with no space between you. His glasses slid down his nose; his eyes were dark, hungry, happy. God, he looked so fucking good like that: loose, flushed, alive.
“Thought you’d forgotten me, Mr. Popular.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended. “I could never, princesa.” And then he kissed you, right there in the middle of everything. You didn’t care about the stares, the burning eyes; you only cared about his mouth slanting over yours, desperate, relieved.
When you pulled away, he stayed close, his lips brushing yours. “I’ve been staring at you all night.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“That little skirt—fuck."
You grinned devilishly. Before you could say something, someone cut in—“Lovebirds, sorry to interrupt, but they need you—” Whatever it was, it pulled him away. He looked at you like he was asking permission. You gave him a quick peck and said, “Go.” He mouthed I love you before disappearing into the crowd.
You were patient.
Then, half an hour later, he found you.
You were leaning near the hallway by the bathrooms when his hand caught your hip, turning you toward him. The crowd was a wall of sound just behind, but here, tucked in shadow, it felt like the world had gone quiet.
“Hi again, birthday boy,” you murmured, fingers grazing the hem of his t-shirt.
“Hi, trouble.” His voice rasped low, already frayed. His eyes swept you—sparkly purple skirt, boots, mouth curved in that knowing smile—and something in him snapped.
He pressed you against the bathroom door, broad chest flush to yours, pants hard against your thighs. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?” His breath hitched. “And those boots—don’t get me started.”
You tugged his belt loop, testing. “Yes, actually. That was the plan all along.”
He groaned, kissing you like he’d been holding back for hours, because he had. Sloppy, hot, his teeth catching your lip as his hands dragged under your skirt, cupping your ass and lifting you onto the sink like you weighed nothing.
You laughed, breathless. “You’re shameless.”
“Always have been with you.” His voice was a promise, filthy and tender at once.
The bathroom smelled of soap and spilled beer. The music thumped faint through the door, but here, it was just you and him, and he was starving. His beard scraped your neck as he kissed down, big hands greedy over your thighs, your jaw, every inch he could claim.
“Pedro—”
“Feliz cumpleaños to me,” he muttered against your skin, grinding into you, voice breaking with need. He shoved your skirt up, groaning when he saw the lace beneath. His fingers slipped under, finding you wet already, and he laughed softly, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Mira eso,” he whispered, pushing two thick fingers inside with no hesitation. “Already ready for me.”
You clutched at his shirt, felt the flex of his biceps as he fucked you with his hand, the fabric tight over his chest as he held you pinned with his other arm. His eyes locked on yours, feral and sweet at once.
“Pedro—please—”
“You want me to fuck you here?” His tone was half-taunt, half-desperate.
“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.
That was all it took.
He bent you over the sink so fast your breath caught, the porcelain biting cold into your palms. In the mirror you saw the feral version of him: hair mussed, glasses slipping low on his nose, mouth already parted like he couldn’t get enough air. His pants shoved down just enough, and then—without mercy—he rammed into you, one brutal thrust that had you crying out, the sound strangled beneath his palm clamping hard over your mouth.
“Shhh,” he hissed, hips driving in with a punishing rhythm, the slap of skin sharp in the cramped, tiled space. “You want everyone to know I’m bending you over a fucking sink on my birthday?”
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, back arching, ass pushing into him, wet and greedy. His chest pressed to your back, sweat soaking through the cotton of his shirt, the thick scratch of his beard against your neck as he growled into your ear.
He let go of your mouth only to drag your head up, forcing you to meet your own reflection.
“Mírate,” he panted, fucking you so hard your tits bounced against the porcelain. “Look at yourself. Look how messy you are for me already. You love it.”
His hand came down on your ass with a vicious smack, the sting searing, your moan bouncing off the glass. He did it again, harder this time, and smirked at the way you clenched around him.
“Dirty little—" he groaned, a moan getting in the way of his words. “Bending over for me in your tiny fucking skirt, making me chase you all night. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as he yanked your panties to the side and fucked you even rougher, each thrust rattling the sink.
“That’s right,” he rasped. His fingers found your clit, rubbing it ruthlessly, timed with every brutal slam of his hips. “My birthday, my rules. You come when I say.”
You whined, helpless, tears pricking your eyes as your orgasm threatened to tear through you too soon. He spanked you again, his rings leaving faint marks.
“Beg for it.”
“Please,” you choked out, your forehead hitting the mirror. “Please, Pedro, let me come.”
“That’s it. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours. I’m yours.”
The way he growled, low and guttural, was enough to undo you. Your release ripped through you, violent and wet, your body jerking as he fucked you through it. The mirror fogged with your breath, lipstick smeared, hair a tangle.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, losing his rhythm now, thrusts erratic. “So tight when you come, you’re milking me—fuck—” His hand dug bruises into your hip as he spilled inside you, hips slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt.
He stayed pressed against you, both of you panting, sweat sticking you together. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Flushed, mascara smudged, mouth swollen, and of him, glasses crooked, lips parted like he could devour you all over again.
When he finally pulled out, your thighs trembled, his cum dripping down your thighs. He slapped your ass once more, possessive and filthy, and leaned in to kiss the back of your neck.
“Happy birthday, old man.”
“Best fucking gift I’ve ever had,” he muttered, voice wrecked. Then, softer, almost tender through the filth: “My love…mía."
Your legs wobbled as he finally stepped back, tucking himself away, breath still ragged. You caught his reflection in the mirror, glasses crooked, hair slightly damp with sweat, that wild smirk softening into something far too tender for what he’d just done to you. You shifted, skirt still bunched at your waist, thighs slick, your panties hanging uselessly to the side. “I can’t feel my knees,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
Pedro chuckled, the sound gravelly and smug. “Good. Means I did it right.”
You turned slowly, leaning against the sink for balance. He was already pulling paper towels from the dispenser, wetting a few under the faucet. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” you teased, but your lips twitched.
“Oh, come on, mi amor. You’re dripping all over the floor,” he said, kneeling in front of you with zero shame. He nudged your thighs apart with those big hands, cleaning you gently, almost reverently, even as his smirk lingered. “Messy girl.”
“Mess you made,” you shot back, a shiver running through you when his thumb brushed too close to your clit on “accident.”
He looked up at you from his knees, glasses sliding down his nose, and your stomach flipped.
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll keep you in here all night.”
You swatted his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “People are gonna notice we’ve been gone forever.”
“They already noticed,” he said, rising to his feet, leaning in close until his beard scraped your jaw. “They’ll know you’re mine when you walk back out there flushed and wrecked in that little skirt.”
You gasped, but his lips caught the sound, kissing you slow this time, sloppy and sweet, tongue lazy against yours. When he pulled back, he nudged his nose against yours, softening again like he couldn’t help it.
“Fix your lipstick, amor,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip. “Or don’t. I like it like this.” You grabbed a napkin and dabbed at your mouth, half-hearted, still dazed.
“You’re impossible.”
Pedro leaned back against the sink, watching you with that quiet, satisfied look that always undid you. “And you’re trouble.
You rolled your eyes, tugging your skirt back down and straightening your top. “Come on, birthday boy. Before someone sends a search party.”
He chuckled, slipping an arm around your waist as you headed toward the door. But just before opening it, he bent down, lips at your ear. “Later,” he promised, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not done with you.”
You adjusted the mic, smiled at the sea of expectant faces, and said,
“It’s exciting. To be stepping into a movie now, after three seasons of the show. To see these characters evolve on a bigger canvas. I’m very much looking forward to everyone finally seeing it.”
The crowd clapped, cheers bursting like confetti. Pedro’s hand brushed the back of your chair, a subtle reassurance. You didn’t look at him, restraint had become second nature at these things, but you felt his presence, steady and comforting.
When Pedro spoke, he was all charm, leaning forward in his glasses and blue shirt. “We’re having the time of our lives. It’s been a dream working with this group—” his eyes cut briefly to you, a flicker of softness hidden behind the professional smile—“and I think fans are going to feel how much love went into this.”
You caught the way his lips twitched like he wanted to grin just at you. He always did that, little cracks in the armor.
Later, on the carpet, you posed dutifully for the flashing bulbs, turning your head this way and that, striking practiced smiles. And in the corner of your eye, you caught him. Not posing. Not playing to the press. Just…taking photos of you on his phone like you were a tourist sight, like he couldn’t help himself. When your eyes met, he grinned, unashamed.
That night, tucked into a narrow booth in a sushi bar down an alley you’d never have found without a friend’s recommendation, you finally breathed again. The city outside pulsed neon; inside, it was all wood panels and low laughter. You sat hip-to-hip, chopsticks clumsy in your tipsy hands.
“This sushi is soooo good,” you groaned, mouth full, and Pedro snorted.
“You sound like you’re in pain.”
“I am in pain. It’s too good.” You swallowed dramatically, then nudged his plate. “Wanna try mine?”
He lifted his chopsticks, feeding you a bite of whatever he’d ordered. You chewed, eyes closing, practically moaning again. “Oh my god.”
He was watching you with that fond, amused expression, elbow propped on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, shaking his head like you were the most entertaining thing Tokyo had to offer.
You poked his side. “Shut up. Let me live.”
After a beat, he tilted his head, quieter. “Do you want to do something tomorrow? We still have a couple of days here.”
You glanced at him, lips still shiny from soy sauce. “Like what?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You, me. Just us.”
You smiled. “I like that plan.”
As you reached for your cup of sake, he caught your hand. “Wait—hold still.” His thumb grazed your nails, eyes narrowing with interest. “These are new.”
You laughed. “Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. I got them done this morning by this girl—they’re perfect, right? Look—” You turned your hand under the light, the gloss catching. “She’s amazing. I’m going back to her next time we’re here.”
“They’re beautiful,” he said simply, still holding your hand, as though the nails were just an excuse.
•••
The next morning, you walked through Shinjuku Gyoen, cherry blossoms just past bloom but still scattering petals like secrets across the grass. Pedro carried iced coffees, his free hand tucked into your back pocket, completely unbothered by the stares you drew. You caught him sneaking petals into your hair just to hear you protest.
That afternoon, you took the metro at rush hour, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and he leaned down to murmur, “Todo es romántico contigo.” Just like that, simple and lovely, as though a packed subway could be the most intimate place in the world.
Another night, you wandered into a tiny record shop in Shibuya. Pedro dug through crates, humming softly, until he found an old Caetano Veloso vinyl and held it up like treasure. “For our place,” he said, already imagining the sound of it filling your home.
And there were the small things: you feeding him takoyaki too hot off the grill while he hissed and laughed through the burn; his bullseye tattoo tracing idle circles on your bare knee under a restaurant table; his glasses slipping down his nose as he studied a map, refusing your help just so you’d tease him.
Everywhere you went, he touched you. Your wrist, your shoulder, your hip, as though anchoring himself. And everywhere you looked, the city glowed brighter because he was there, beside you.
The Riviera heat clung to your skin like silk, the kind that made your hair stick to the back of your neck even though the sea breeze tried its best to cool you. The sun was beating down on your face as you walked the Croisette with Pedro at your side. The flashbulbs hadn’t started yet, that storm still waited for you, but even in the quiet before, you could feel it: the shift in the air, the way strangers looked at him like he was theirs to consume.
He wore black—head to toe, simple, sexy. Sleeveless shirt, tailored trousers, arms bare, the definition in his muscles making you want to claw at him right there in the street. His sunglasses glinted, reflecting back the world he was about to conquer.
“You ready?” His voice tugged you out of your thoughts.
You blinked, forcing your focus from the past. Cannes years ago, just friends then, oblivious idiots standing outside some afterparty, you tracing his nose with your fingertip like it was the most natural thing in the world, him freezing, swallowing, smiling because he didn’t know what else to do. How had you not seen it then? How had you wasted so much time?
“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked now, low enough that only he could hear.
His smile was slow, teasing. “You like it?”
You stepped into his space, ignoring the handlers and assistants buzzing around, and kissed him once, firm. “How lucky am I to have the hottest man on earth?”
He chuckled, his hand brushing your waist like he couldn’t help it. “You flatter me, amor.”
But the truth was, there was no flattery. Cameras devoured him. His sister glowed beside you both, proud, radiant, but you couldn’t stop watching him. Pedro, walking into Cannes like he had always belonged there.
Pedro’s face was everywhere. Posters, red carpets, interviews where he was lit in gold and called every flattering name under the sun. And you were happy for him, genuinely, achingly proud. He deserved it all, every ounce of attention, every headline, every stranger screaming his name. So you didn’t know where the pang in your chest was coming from. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was your period.
Probably both.
When his name flashed across your phone that night, you answered instantly.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, propped against a hotel headboard, glasses on, the faintest rasp of exhaustion in his voice.
You smiled, settling back against the couch with your bowl of pralines ice cream. “Hi, movie star. Long day?”
“The longest,” he groaned dramatically. “Smile, smile, wave, wave, ‘how does it feel to be everyone’s crush.’” He widened his eyes and raised his brows in parody, making you laugh.
“Poor baby. Must be so hard being adored by millions.”
“It is, actually,” he said gravely, then cracked into a grin. “What are you doing?”
You scooped another bite of ice cream. “Watching Love Island. Trying to figure out how people can fall in love after two margaritas and one firepit chat.”
He laughed, a warm rumble through the phone. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t dominate that show. You’d have three men crying by day two.”
“Excuse you,” you said, mock-offended. “I’d only have two crying. The third would be fetching me snacks.”
He shook his head, smiling so soft it made your stomach hurt. “You’re ridiculous. I miss you.”
You blinked at the screen, heart tugging. “I miss you too.”
There was a beat of comfortable silence, just his quiet breathing through the speaker, and then he said, casual as anything, “I’m having dinner with Dakota again tomorrow night, by the way.”
The shift inside you was sharp, unwelcome. Not ugly, not the kind of jealousy that burned, but a sudden dip you hated yourself for.
“Mm.” You tried to keep your tone even, spoon scraping the bowl.
His eyes narrowed a little. “What’s that ‘mm’?”
“Nothing.”
“Amor.” He tilted his head, glasses sliding further down his nose. “Talk to me.”
You hesitated, pressing the spoon to your lips. “It’s stupid.”
“Probably,” he said, smiling gently. “Tell me anyway.”
You exhaled. “It’s just—sometimes it’s hard, you know? Seeing you out there with all these people, all this… everything. And I’m here with my ice cream and Love Island. It’s dumb. I’m happy for you, I swear, I just—sometimes I wish it was me you were having dinner with. I haven't seen you in so long.”
His expression softened instantly. “Amor.” He leaned closer until the screen was filled with beard, silver, and love. “Do you know what I think about when I sit down at those dinners?”
“What?”
“You. How you’d sneak your dessert onto my plate. How you’d tell me later that half the table bored you and then make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. You are my favorite dinner date. Always will be.”
You smiled despite yourself, spoon forgotten. “You’re the cheesiest man alive.”
He grinned, proud. “Yeah. But I’m yours. Even when the world wants me.”
And just like that, the heaviness shifted. Not gone, but lighter, softened by the way he said it. Not as reassurance, but as fact.
Other nights were different.
You were curled up in bed, the glow of your lamp soft against your face, hair down and falling over your shoulders. Pedro was in another hotel room, the kind that all blurred together for him by now.
“You look cozy,” he murmured, lying back against the headboard, his t-shirt tugged loose at the collar. His voice carried that gravel it always had when he was tired, low and slow, the kind that pulled a shiver right down your spine.
“I am cozy,” you said, pulling the blanket higher with a small grin. “You look…” You trailed off deliberately, eyeing him through the screen.
“Handsome? Rugged?” He waggled his brows.
“Like you need a hug,” you teased, softer than your grin suggested.
His smile faltered into something tender, eyes catching yours through the pixelated glow. “Yeah. That too.”
The conversation drifted. Little jokes, talk of the day. But then his voice dipped lower, the way it sometimes did when he couldn’t quite keep the want tucked away.
“Amor,” he said, quiet but direct. “Show me.”
You tilted your head, pretending to misunderstand. “Show you what?”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t play.” His eyes were steady, soft but hungry. “I miss you too much tonight. Just… let me see you.”
Your chest tightened. You hesitated only a second before you shifted, setting the phone against your pillows. The screen tilted, framing your face, your hand sliding down under the blanket. His eyes darkened instantly, his breath catching.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his hand disappearing below the camera’s edge, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
Your breath hitched as your fingers worked between your thighs, the sound of his voice alone almost too much. “Pedro—”
“Say it again.” His voice broke, rougher now.
“Pedro.”
He groaned, hand moving faster. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Pretend I’m there, right there between your legs.”
Your hips arched, blanket slipping as your body betrayed you, breath coming quicker. He cursed, words tumbling low and filthy.
The room shrank until there was only the sound of your breathing, his muffled groans, the rhythm of two bodies trying to bridge oceans through glass. You gasped as release crept close, fingers trembling.
“Pedro—”
“I’m right here,” he panted. “Come for me, baby. Come with me.”
And you did. The sound you made was caught by the quiet of your room, by him murmuring your name like a prayer through the phone. He followed, breath breaking, glasses slipping down his nose as he came with a groan that felt ripped from his chest.
When it was over, you both lay there in your separate beds, sweaty, flushed, quiet but smiling.
“God,” he muttered, pushing his glasses back up. “When I get back to you…I’m not letting you leave the bed for a week.”
You laughed, still breathless. “Promises, promises.”
“Pack a bag,” he said before hello. “I’m taking you away for the weekend.”
“Well, hello to you too. How are you?”
“I’m good, baby. Pack a bag.”
You laughed, half incredulous, half giddy, clutching the phone closer. “So bossy. Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, no, señor. That’s not how it works. Because, one—I hate not knowing things. And two—I need to know what weather I’m packing for. You know I don’t play about my outfits.”
Pedro laughed, head tipping back, the sound rich and smug. “Cold.”
That caught your attention. July, and cold? You narrowed your eyes at him through the screen. He was grinning like he’d just checkmated you.
“Cold where?”
“You’ll see.”
You scoffed, dragging out a groan. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” he shot back without missing a beat, lips twitching.
You leaned forward, squinting at him. “Hmm. I’ve got a couple of ideas where you might be taking me.”
“Oh yeah?” He shifted, leaning closer now, his tone low and baiting.
“Cold. July. I actually paid attention in geography, you know.”
He smirked, shaking his head like you were incorrigible. “Okay, smarty pants, don’t spoil my surprise, please.”
You groaned louder, throwing yourself back against the pillows. “You’re soooo annoying.”
“Don’t be a brat,” he warned lightly, smiling like he liked it when you were.
“Fine,” you said, though you were still pouting. “But if I end up in Antarctica without the right coat, it’s on you.”
“Deal,” he murmured, leaning so close to the camera that his face filled the screen, eyes warm, crooked smile softening. “I’ll keep you warm.”
•••
Three days later, the terminal smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, yet you found him instantly. Even with the cap tugged low, even with the way he tried to blend into the quiet corner of the lounge, he was impossible to miss. You walked fast, then faster, until you were crashing into him, arms tight around his torso, your face pressed into the familiar scratch of his t-shirt. You held him longer than usual, long enough to feel the slow exhale against your hair, long enough to breathe him in like oxygen after drowning.
“I missed you too,” he whispered into your crown, his voice low, the warmth of it settling deep. His hand spread wide across the back of your neck, anchoring you like he always did when words were too small.
The jet felt impossibly private once you were inside; two seats facing each other, a couch that seemed too sleek for comfort, windows framing nothing but endless sky. You fell into the same quiet rituals you always did: Pedro ordering snacks from the flight attendant and sliding the ones you liked onto your tray, you stealing the crossword from his lap only to abandon it half-done between you, your cheek pillowed on his chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath cotton.
Now and then, you caught fragments. Little hints, enough for your mind to start tracing patterns, though never quite settling on the whole picture.
It was only hours in, when the hum of the cabin had softened and the window framed nothing but sky, that he finally said it.
“Bariloche.”
The name dropped like a stone into a still pond. Patagonia. The word unfurled in your head like music, like a chord struck after silence. Cold in July, mountains serrated against the horizon, sky so wide it might undo you.
You turned toward him, lips parting, and found him watching you with that half-smile, as if he’d been waiting for the exact second it clicked.
The flight was long, a stretch of hours that should have worn you thin, but instead it meant more of him. More time pressed against his side, more cardigans stolen and bunched beneath your cheek, more of his palm coasting idle circles over your thigh, warm syllables spilling over you until your body felt loose, your mind sliding toward dreams.
•••
The plane descended into Bariloche beneath a sky so crystalline it looked rinsed clean. The mountains rose like cathedral spires, snow clinging to their ridges, the peaks pale against the cobalt stretch of sky. The air outside the terminal cut straight through your coat, sharp and clean, your breath turning visible as you exhaled. Patagonia. It was almost absurd that a word could contain so much space.
Pedro tugged his beanie lower over his ears and caught your hand, squeezing once, eyes darting as if memorizing the view and you all at once. “Worth packing a sweater?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.
“You didn’t even let me bring half my closet.”
“Because your closet doesn’t fit in a carry-on, mi amor.” He smirked, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder. “I did you a favor.”
“Mm, debatable.” You nudged him with your elbow. “You’re only saying that so you can keep stealing my cardigans.”
He gave you that exaggerated guilty look, eyes wide behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.
The cabin he’d rented sat at the edge of a lake, its surface glassy, catching every cloud as if it had been painted with mirrors. Inside, the place smelled faintly of cedar and woodsmoke. Thick quilts piled on the bed. A kitchen that begged for coffee and late-night snacks. Pedro opened the balcony door, and the cold rushed in; bracing, alive. He stood there for a moment, broad shoulders silhouetted against the mountain line, grey threading more boldly now through his hair. You caught yourself staring at the slope of his neck, the scatter of freckles across his skin. That familiar ache of wanting everything he was, and everything he tried to hide.
The first night was quiet. You cooked a simple meal together. Pasta with jarred sauce, garlic bread singed at the edges, and it tasted better than anything expensive. Pedro put music on his phone, something low and winding, and you danced barefoot in the kitchen while the water ran in the sink. He spun you in one of your own cardigans, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the hem brushing his thighs.
“Is that mine?” you accused, tugging at the sleeve as you passed him.
“Guilty,” he admitted, pulling you close, his nose brushing against your temple.
•••
You woke to sunlight brimming at the edges of the curtains and the scent of coffee. When you went downstairs he was at the kitchen counter in yet another of your sweaters; stretched out by his broad back, sleeves pushed up, the bullseye doodle inked on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger peeking through as he poured milk for your coffee. He watched you with a look like his ribs had migrated to his face, soft and honest.
“Lake?” he asked, and later you were bundled in thick wool scarves and boots, walking the narrow path to the shore. The cold bit your nose. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pressed you closer until the heat between you fought with the frost on your lashes.
You took photographs, a ridiculous number of them: him with his mug of coffee and pretending to fall into the lake, you laughing at a joke only you two understood, his hand tucked into the small of your back. He made faces at the camera, then stole a sudden, fierce kiss that left you dizzy.
You continued your walk, he stole the camera from your hand at some point. Your boots sank into the damp earth while he stopped every few minutes to take pictures of you. You laughed, half-shy, half-delighted, as he crouched to capture you adjusting your scarf, as he murmured, “Just one more,” even after the twentieth shutter.
You huff out a laugh. “Don’t you ever get tired of pointing that thing at me?”
He lowered the camera, his Roman nose catching the last of the sun, and shook his head with quiet gravity. “Nope.”
That evening, his hands were gentler. You set the table; candles trembled. He stood behind you as you stirred something in a pot and slid his arms around your middle. “You look so sexy in cardigans,” he murmured, nuzzling the knot at the back of your neck.
“You’ve been wearing mine so much I can’t tell which are mine anymore,” you said, but you did not demand them back. What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine.
There was so much love during those days, so much laughter, and so much sex.
The first night, it felt like release. Hungry, unpolished, the way you both ached from the time apart. He had you on the cabin’s old wooden table, the quilt you’d dragged from the bed bunched under your hips, his glasses discarded somewhere between the stove and the door. His thrusts were uneven, rushed, as if he couldn’t get deep enough. Your hands scrabbled at the freckled skin of his shoulders, nails marking crescents, and he only pressed harder, whispering against your mouth, “You missed me.”
“So much,” you gasped, and he smirked, almost feral, fucking you harder until the table creaked in protest. He came with your name broken in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, breath shuddering out of him like relief.
The second night, he took his sweet time. He pressed you against the cold window overlooking the lake, fogging the glass with your moans, the sky outside pale and endless. His beard rasped against your neck as he sucked bruises into your skin, leaving proof, claiming you quietly. His hand between your thighs worked you open, slow and deliberate, until you were shaking before he even pushed inside you.
The glass was icy against your cheek, but his body was molten, his chest flush against your back, his sweat dampening the fabric of your borrowed cardigan. Yes, one of yours again. He fucked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, pulling you back onto him until your voice cracked.
“You’ll wake the whole lake,” he teased in your ear, muffling your mouth with his hand when you cried out, grinding into you with filthy precision.
After, you stayed there against the window, your breath still painting clouds on the pane, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He kissed your shoulder tenderly, murmuring, “Mía. Siempre mía,” in a voice that was as much prayer as it was possession.
The third night, he worshiped you. He laid you on the bed, stripped slowly, until all you could see was the grey threading through his hair, the long slope of his Roman nose, the freckles scattered like stars on his chest and shoulders. He kissed down your body as if he had nowhere else to be, as if each inch of skin mattered. His tongue traced the inside of your thighs until you begged, until your hips lifted helplessly toward his mouth.
When he finally gave in, his beard scratched deliciously against your skin, his groans vibrating into you as he devoured you. He held you down with big hands on your hips, keeping you spread, keeping you trembling until you shattered under him. He looked up at you with his mouth slick, eyes glassy, whispering, “So perfect, baby. So perfect for me.”
When he slid into you after, it was slow, a stretch that made you both gasp. His lips brushed your ear, his words soft, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.” You pulled him closer, fingers digging into his skin as he fucked you slow and deep until tears pricked at your eyes, not from pain, but from the unbearable sweetness of it.
•••
The last day tasted like endings you didn’t want. You sat curled together on the couch, mismatched mugs of coffee warming your palms. The lake outside shifted colors as the clouds rolled past, from silver to deep, startling blue.
Pedro had saved an article, a long essay about the evolution of character-driven films in the last decade, and the ways directors shape performances to create lasting impact. He adjusted his glasses, tufts of hair escaping, and you smoothed them absentmindedly. He began reading aloud, letting his voice roll through the room, pausing on lines that made him grin or groan.
"The actor becomes a vessel for the director’s vision, but also must carve out their own soul within the frame,’” he read, then looked at you, shy.
“What? You think that’s pretentious, P? No!” you said, teasing.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, red creeping up his neck, “I love everything I’ve done so far.”
You gave him a funny look, squinting. “Uh-huh.”
He laughed loud and full, head thrown back, eyes small by his cheeks. “Well… almost everything.”
You just sipped your coffee, a small smile playing on your lips.
“The point is,” he said, quieter now, voice soft, shifting in his seat, “I think I’m ready to do more. More serious stuff, you know?”
You leaned forward, playful but earnest. “I think it’s a smart move. You’ve garnered all this attention from your recent projects. It’d be really cool if you started exploring auteur-driven films now.”
He ran a finger through a curl of his hair, shy and proud at the same time. “I’ve been approached for a couple of things, actually…”
“Yeah?”
“One of them is with Tony Gilroy.”
“No way…” Your eyes widened, disbelief and excitement mixing.
He nodded happily. “That reminds me—we need to finish Andor, babe.”
You didn't reply and he continued, “Should we watch an episode now? Before we leave?”
“About that…” you said, trying to keep a straight face.
“You finished it without me?” His face contorted in mock horror, voice high.
“I’m sorry! I was really hooked and—”
“You evil woman!” He lunged at you, pretending to be outraged, and immediately started peppering your face with quick, playful kisses. “I can’t believe you! How could you?!”
You laughed, trying to dodge him. “Pedro! Stop! I really am sorry!”
“But you know,” you added, grinning, “I can rewatch it with you, yeah?”
He paused just long enough to frown at you theatrically before grabbing your cheeks and kissing you again, slower this time, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You better,” he said between kisses. “Or I’ll keep attacking you until you beg for mercy.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing, completely helpless under his playful, relentless onslaught of kisses.
Several weeks had passed since and his press run was still in full swing but he had a couple of days off and was finally home in LA.
Pedro saw it before you showed him: the carousel of photos on Instagram.
You, posing with posters and banners for Freaky Tales, Eddington, Materialists, Fantastic Four. New York streets, London corners, Los Angeles bus stops. Every shot was different, but the throughline was unmistakable: your grin, your playfulness, the way you pointed at his face looming several feet tall, or pretended to kiss his printed cheek. You’d captioned it simply: “Pedro Pascal summer, indeed.”
He smiled, slow and easy, the kind that reached his eyes, but beneath it, a strange feeling crept in. Rolling his head against the back of the couch, he let the weight of it settle for a moment. There were also the not-so-kind comments he’d glimpsed at sometimes, the judgment, the eyes trained on him with critical precision. He didn’t care. Not really, but they were still there, like shadows at the edge of a bright room. The strange feeling wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was vulnerability, a sudden awareness that even in the comfort of home, the world could reach him.
He cracked one eye open to look at you, sprawled beside him in a T-shirt that wasn’t yours. His T-shirt. His his, his. Your toes nudged his calf. “You think people will get tired of me?” he asked, softer than he intended. The room was dim, some old black-and-white movie murmuring on the TV, the kind of background noise that had always made him feel less alone.
The question surprised even him. It wasn’t false modesty. It was the same raw worry that had lived under his skin for quite some time now. The suspicion that people would one day wake up and decide he wasn’t worth it anymore.
You tilted your head toward him, a slow blink. “Who cares?” You said it like fact, not comfort. “If it were up to me, you’d be in every movie ever. This face—” you tapped his jaw, where the salt had crept into the black, “—was made for the screen.”
He snorted, shifting uncomfortably because compliments sometimes still stung, even from you. Especially from you. “You’re only saying that because you love me.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure the internet agrees with me.” You shot back. “At least the smart people do.”
And then you leaned back, lazy and radiant, and kept scrolling, unbothered. As though your love wasn’t a knife but a balm.
Pedro turned his head away, staring at the flicker of the movie. And it hit him, out of nowhere.
This was what he used to run from.
Years ago, at Oscar’s house, the moment you turned and he caught your face in the light. That hunger, the way it had terrified him, the way he’d smothered it under the safety net of “just friends.” He remembered convincing himself he couldn’t do relationships, that he wasn’t built for them. That love was a trap leading only to pain, and he didn’t like pain, so he avoided it like fire. He remembered shaking his head in bitterness, muttering to someone once that you deserved better, that he’d only hold you back.
But here you were. Years later. Wearing his T-shirt, nudging him with your foot, captioning your joy to the world without hesitation.
You had lived strangely in his head for so long. And now you lived everywhere else: in his mornings, in his nights, in his suitcases, in his phone, in the curve of his days. And the fear? It wasn’t gone, but it was useless. You’d made it useless.
Sometimes, when Pedro looked into your eyes, he knew God existed. He was not a religious man, but there was no other explanation for how a life so riddled with loneliness, fear, and the sharp edges of doubt could land him here, with you, building something incandescent out of ordinary days.
He didn’t say it, not yet. But inside, it clicked. Clear as a bell.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. You, you, you.
Not because the world said he should, not because it made sense on paper, but because it was the only way he could imagine giving language to what you’d done to him. To how you’d cracked open his avoidance, dug your fingers into the softest parts, and stayed. To how you’d made him believe that forever wasn’t something to run from, but something to sprint toward.
You shifted closer on the couch, tucking yourself into his side, pressing a kiss absentmindedly against the bullseye tattoo on his hand. He shut his eyes again. That was it. The quiet knowing. He would carry this realization with him until the day he asked you.
For now, he let it settle like a secret vow inside his ribs, the sweetest secret he had ever kept.
The front door creaked open just as you were muttering at the open kitchen.
“No way, oh my god. That’s just not very smart,” you said to the air, pausing at the counter to shuffle your audiobook back a few seconds. AirPods in, leggings stretched tight around your thighs, bagel half-assembled and bacon cooling on your plate.
Pedro’s footsteps padded across the floor, the faint squeak of sneakers still damp from his morning workout. He appeared in the doorway, hair plastered to his forehead and a half-drunk green juice in one hand.
“Who are you yelling at?” His voice was rough from exertion, but amused.
You turned, cheeks a little flushed from the kitchen heat. “Oh, hi. How was the workout?”
He leaned down, pressed a quick, sweat-salty kiss to your lips before answering. “Exhausting.” Then, predictably, he stole a strip of bacon from your plate.
“Hey, that’s mine,” you protested, snatching the plate back.
He only grinned, chewing. “New book?”
“Yeah. Started it last night.” You tapped the phone on the counter, pausing the audio.
“What’s this one about?”
“It’s a thriller. A psychiatrist who murders a patient.”
Pedro raised both brows, juice bottle paused mid-sip. “That’s crazy.”
“Mmhm. It’s not too long though, so we can read something together after this one.”
He put on a gravelly, mock-serious voice. “The book club lives!”
You laughed around a bite of your messy bagel. “The two-people book club.”
“Hey, it works because we like most of the same stuff. If we add more people, it’d be an issue.” He wagged a finger dramatically. “Imagine if we had to read Atomic Habits?”
You stared at him, then made a dramatic gagging noise. “Ugh. Don’t even joke.”
“Exactly.” He chuckled, pointing at you with his bacon. “Fiction all the way, baby.”
“Fiction all the way.” You slapped his raised palm with your free hand.
For a moment, you just stood there, your morning routines colliding: his damp t-shirt sticking to his chest, your counter cluttered with bagel toppings, the kitchen smelling like coffee and bacon grease.
Then Pedro tipped the last of the green juice back, set the bottle down, and smirked at you.
“Wanna shower together?”
You tilted your head, smiling. “An offer I can’t refuse.”
He held out his hand, already tugging you away from your breakfast.
He had not meant to steal it. The ring was nothing loud or showy, only a thin gold band that lived on your finger as casually as a habit. He noticed it the way he noticed small constellations on your skin: the freckle at the base of your thumb, the tiny nick on your knuckle from some kitchen accident you never remembered to tell him about. One afternoon, while you were in the shower and the house smelled of steam and whatever playlist you had left on, he slipped that ring into his pocket because he wanted something to take to the jeweler, something honest and exact to show the man behind the counter. He told himself it was practical. He told himself a dozen clever reasons and then pocketed the truth like a warm stone.
Days later you were rifling through your bag. “Think I lost one of my rings,” you said, voice light. You paused, thumb skimming the lining. “Maybe between fittings on set.”
His chest tightened hard enough that for a second he could not breathe properly. He kept his face even. “Sure it will turn up,” he said, because that was the least dramatic, most useful lie.
You let it go with the rest of the day, because you always let the world push forward with its own momentum. He did not. He took the ring to the jeweler with Lux, hands that did not know how nervous they were until the clerk put velvet trays between them and the soft light made everything look ancient and important. “Not too much,” he muttered, turning bands as if the right one might reveal itself by touch. “I don’t want it to look staged. I want it to feel like her. Simple. Right.”
Lux nodded. “You know her. Beautiful. Timeless.”
He rubbed his jaw and for a moment felt foolish. He was a grown man, he told himself. He had been through so much. He had been the steady voice on the other end of countless people's crises. And yet the ring on the little stand looked suddenly so heavy. He asked the quiet question that sat where fear usually lived: do you even want this? Do you want this with me?
Lux was talking to the jeweler, voice softened then and as if reading his mind said what everyone sensible said: she loves you. That's enough. It was not enough for the small dark thing that lived in him and fed on all the what ifs.
•••
At one of the Fantastic Four premieres he watched you the way a man watches sunlight fall through old glass. You laughed with Vanessa, your hands at ease on her belly as you both talked about names. His stomach tightened without permission. A selfish thought that felt like a stain slipped into the margins of his mind: what if you want children and he cannot give that? He had imagined other futures for himself, but they had become hazy in the years he spent avoiding the kinds of attachments that hurt the most.
The worry simmered for days until it no longer stayed in the quiet places. One night, back in a hotel room you emerged from the bathroom, a cotton pad in your hand. “I can’t believe Vanessa is doing all of this while pregnant,” you said, the tone bright. “She’s really a superhero.”
Pedro, bent at the edge of the bed, was tugging at his shoe. “Mm,” he said.
“And Jen called this morning. She’s expecting her second! Can you believe it?” You sounded delighted, the kind of delighted that made his chest ache.
“That’s wonderful, mi vida,” he managed.
“More babies to play with,” you added, disappearing back into bathroom steam.
He stared at the carpet until you returned and then could not keep the distance between his thoughts and his mouth. You noticed the way he shuffled and asked with the soft patience of someone who had learned the contours of him. “You okay, P?”
"Yeah."
You didn't push him after that and just continued to put on your pajamas and went into the bathroom once again, when you returned to the room, he spoke suddenly.
“I lied,” he said, because the truth had begun to feel heavy and immediate.
You arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, figures.”
He chose his words like stones and then threw them clumsily, urgent and earnest. “Do you want kids?”
You froze for only a second. “What?”
“Do you ever think about kids?” His voice was small, the conversation spilling out of him in the way rain spills when it is suddenly uncontained. “I’ve seen you with Vanessa, with my nephews over the years, with Oscar's kids. You seem…so natural, so happy. I thought maybe—”
You let him talk until he ran out of words. Then you spoke, clear and kind. “You thought I wanted one?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted.
You smiled then, the kind of smile that was both reassuring and mischievous. “I get excited for Vanessa because she’s excited. That’s her story. With your nephews and friends’ kids, I’m mostly thrilled because I get to hand them back after sugar crashes. I’m flattered you think I’m a natural, but the truth is I do not want children. I never really have, if I'm being completely honest.”
Relief cracked across his face like sunlight. He dropped his head into his hands and choked out a laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” You curled into him. “I spiraled about it too last year. I thought what if you do want kids and I cannot give that? I was terrified of breaking something.”
He kissed your temple as if sealing a promise. “We have to stop spiraling alone.”
“We will,” you said, and meant it. “Kids are beautiful. Not everyone needs them. My mother said it was selfish to say that, but I do not believe that. I love the life we have. I love you.”
He said he loved you back into the thin light, and for a moment the room felt like a harbor.
The ring burned a hole in his pocket. It rode with him through dinners and dressing rooms and late-night interviews. Pedro had rehearsed it too many times. In his mind, the night unfolded like film: dinner at your favorite restaurant, laughter echoing against wine glasses, the familiar comfort of food you both loved. Then, the car ride to the museum, quiet anticipation, your hand resting on his thigh. Finally, the moment, just the two of you in a room full of art, asking a question that would change everything.
But New York had other ideas.
A car accident blocked half the avenue. He sat in the back of a black SUV, knuckles white on his phone, while the minutes bled out of his plan. You were supposed to arrive together, supposed to glide into the night with ease. Instead, he was watching tail lights blur red in the rain, your name glowing on his screen.
“Baby, it’s okay,” you told him when he answered, your voice warm and steady even through the static. “Traffic’s been terrible today anyway. I can wait.”
He could hear the clinking of cutlery on your end, the low hum of conversation around you.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, forehead pressed to the window.
“Don’t be silly,” you said, light, teasing. “I’ll order for you. By the time you get here, it’ll be perfect.”
But an hour passed and he was still stuck. You ordered, ate, even laughed on the phone between bites while he cursed the gridlock. Finally, when it became clear he would not make it, he texted your driver. Take her to the museum. Don’t tell her anything. Just get her there.
You left the restaurant with a takeout bag for him, still thinking the night was only slightly derailed. When Tom opened the car door for you, you slipped inside, thanked him, and scrolled your phone as the city lights smeared across the glass.
After a few turns, you looked up. “Tom, where are we going?”
“To the museum, ma’am.”
You frowned. “The museum? It’s late, just take me home.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Pascal asked me to take you there no matter what.”
You laughed, disbelieving. “Tom, you work for me. Turn around.”
He hesitated, then with quiet finality: “Technically, I work for both of you.”
You huffed, half amused, half annoyed. “Fine. We’re almost there anyway.”
The car stopped at the steps, and Tom opened the door. The night air hit you cool and alive, a faint breeze carrying the smell of rain. You checked your phone—no missed calls—and began climbing the stairs, your coat wrapped tight, your hair lifting in the wind. The city loomed behind you, grand and restless.
Pedro arrived seconds later, bolting out of the SUV, feet pounding against wet pavement. As if the night had not mocked him enough, it began to drizzle until the steps glistened with water. He spotted you at the top, your back turned, shoulders hunched against the rain.
He called your name.
You turned, slow, and it felt like the city paused. He reached the top, chest burning, out of breath, dripping hair clinging to his forehead. You stood one step higher, looking down at him with that small, unshakably soft smile that undid him every time.
“You know,” you said lightly, “the last time we were outside in New York and it rained, we were fighting.”
The memory flickered in him: rooftop after his play, cigarette between his fingers, the rain as sharp as his temper. He swallowed hard.
“Let’s get inside,” he urged, voice rough.
“They’re about to close, P.”
“Please,” he tried, but you shook your head.
“It’s okay. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
“No.” His voice cracked on it. He had run out of plans. “No, I can’t. I… I fucked up.”
You blinked at him. “Why?”
“Because I had the perfect night planned. The universe clearly had other ideas.” His laugh was strangled, bitter with nerves. “You deserve perfect. And this—” He gestured helplessly at the rain, the empty steps. “This is not perfect.”
“Pedro,” you said softly, “it’s fine. We’ll try again another night.”
But the words he had swallowed for weeks clawed their way out now, reckless and unpolished. “No, this was supposed to be the night I asked you to marry me.”
Your mouth parted, eyes widening, the world slowing.
He pushed on, rain dripping down his lashes, voice breaking open. “I know this isn’t how it should’ve been. You deserve candlelight and music, not me looking like a drowned rat on a museum step. But none of that matters. What matters is you—always you. I want to tell you everything and nothing, I want to hear you mutter to yourself about whatever audiobook you’re devouring, I want to argue with you about movies until we’re both stubborn and smiling, I want to steal your cardigans and hear you scold me for it, every single time.”
Your laugh broke through your tears, thin and trembling, but it glowed like light in the storm. “God, you’re so ridiculous.”
He smiled, closing the gap, his hand lifting to sweep the wet hair from your face with aching tenderness. “I want every boring morning and every sleepless night. I want to hold your hands through the good and the bad. I want to be the man who stands beside you until my legs give out.”
Your eyes filled, rain and tears blurring together, and he fumbled for his jacket pocket. His knees nearly gave way, but he let himself drop down, rain soaking into the stone beneath him. He pulled the small box free, water streaking his glasses, his grin wild with nerves and hope.
“You’re going to have to help me stand after this,” he said, a shaky laugh undercutting the gravity, “but—will you marry me? Will you let me love you for the rest of my life?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking, then stronger, clearer, certain: “Yes.”
The world blurred at the edges. Your hands flew to your mouth, laughter spilling through your sobs, rain dripping off your lashes. “Yes,” you said again, sure as anything you’d ever known.
He rose and kissed you, fierce and unshaken, the drizzle wrapping you both in a silver curtain. He held you as though he had just been given everything he never dared believe he could want. He carried that moment inside him, secret and holy, knowing he would ask you again in a thousand ways, in a thousand small proofs, for the rest of his life.
The hotel pulsed with the low hum of chaos. Doors opening and shutting, assistants balancing garment bags, the scent of hairspray seeping into the hallway. Your room was crowded, stylist, makeup artist, publicist, everyone orbiting around you while you sat in a robe, makeup done, hair half-pinned. You were mid-laugh at some story when your phone buzzed.
Pedro: Can you come over for a moment?
You excused yourself, murmuring you’d be back in five, and slipped into the hall barefoot. Carpet soft under your soles, you crossed to the room opposite. His door was propped open; you greeted the small army of stylists and agents buzzing inside.
“Where is he?” you asked.
“Bathroom,” someone replied, distracted by a garment bag.
You nodded and slipped through.
He was there, leaning on the sink counter, white shirt unbuttoned low enough to show the double glint of necklaces at his chest. His hair was perfectly styled, his reflection half-shadow, half-gold under the vanity lights. He turned, and the shy smile that crossed his face almost undid you.
“Woah. Handsome,” you said softly.
“Are you good?” you asked when you reached him.
He faced you fully, shoulders rising and falling. “Yeah. I just needed to see you.”
Your hands found his chest. His fingers pressed into your sides like he was bracing himself.
“Award jitters?”
He nodded, almost ashamed. “I don’t even know why I’m fussed about it. After the SAG win I let myself get hopeful, and now I’m scared of being disappointed if it isn’t me tonight. But I do want it. God, I’d like to win. And at the same time, it’s just an award, right?”
You tilted your head, steady. “All valid thoughts, baby.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
“It’s okay to want this. It doesn’t make you greedy. It’s recognition from your peers—it’s not stupid. But if it isn’t your name in that envelope, it doesn’t take anything away from you. You’re still… incredible. Always.”
He exhaled, a laugh in his chest, and kissed you, slow, grateful, lingering. His hands found the belt of your robe, tugging until the knot slipped loose. You smiled against his mouth, warmth in your belly as his palms traced your bare stomach, your breasts, the low hum in his throat vibrating against your lips.
“You’re so wise, fiancée,” he murmured.
“I have my moments, fiancée,” you teased back.
From the other side of the door came his stylist’s voice: “No funny business, you two! That’s a Céline!”
You both broke into laughter, your foreheads pressed together. He re-tied the robe, neat little knot at the front.
“I have to finish getting ready,” you said, reluctant but smiling.
He nodded, kissed you once more, and let you go.
Back in the hallway, you brushed past his stylist and grinned. “The Céline survived,” you quipped, earning a laugh from her and his agent.
That night, Pedro looked devastatingly handsome, moving through the room with ease, charming everyone, stealing kisses from you whenever he could. You showed off your ring, happy to tell the story. “It was raining, he looked like a wet rat, and it was perfect,” you said, and everyone laughed.
When his category came up, you held his hand tight. Someone shouted his name from the back as the envelope opened, but it wasn’t his. He was the first on his feet, clapping hard for the winner, and you followed, pride in your chest even as you glanced at him.
“Two-time Emmy loser,” he whispered when you both sat again, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, kissing his cheek.
•••
Long after the dance floor had spun you both breathless, after champagne and laughter and friends pressing in on every side, Pedro pulled you away. The hotel room door shut behind you and the noise of the night dimmed into silence.
He finished what he had started in that bathroom hours earlier, only now there was no one to interrupt, no knock at the door, no warning about delicate fabric. The Céline suit lay crumpled on the floor, a casualty of urgency. His mouth was on your skin, his hands sure, his body pressed to yours; winning, losing, none of it mattered. What mattered was you, the way you gave yourself over to him, the way he whispered your name like it was the only award worth having.
You were two days into a blur of sun and wine when the reception settled into the kind of slow reckoning that makes you forget the clocks. The villa sat like an old story on a hill overlooking the valley, terracotta and ivy and a sea of vines that caught the light and turned it warm. Guests drifted between tables. A child chased a paper lantern and the sound of small feet punctuated the low hum of conversation. Somewhere, a cork popped. Someone laughed too loud. It all felt, improbably, like a miracle that had finally been arranged around them.
You did not remember exactly when the speeches began, only that they came as a river of voices you loved. His father’s voice was quiet and lovely. He spoke about Chile, about medicine and music, about Pedro’s mother and the ways she would have adored this night. And Pedro, who could perform a dozen lives on screen without faltering, blinked hard, his jaw tense, his eyes glassy. He turned to Pedro with a look that was equal parts pride and warning, and you watched his son melt into the child his father remembered.
Lux followed with a roast so sharp it cut through every remaining jitters; even the cousins who had been brazenly flirting at the aperitif quieted to listen. Oscar, the man who had been present at every comic beginning of this life, gave a toast laced with profanity and tenderness that made half the table cry and half the table howl with laughter. He stood with a glass raised high and said, “I was there the night these two idiots met, and I knew then what everyone knows now—it was inevitable. The universe has been conspiring to put them in the same frame all along.”
The speeches had done what speeches always do: revealed all the small, private histories that had been wound together to make this life. Friends told stories about the early days, about ridiculous things Pedro said on his first attempts at charm. The stories were funny and awful and true.
You remembered briefly last night, at the rehearsal dinner, Pedro leaned in toward you, arm warm against your chair, and whispered, “There’s still time to back out.”
You rolled your eyes and nudged his thigh under the table. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious,” he said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “One word and I’ll stage a dramatic runaway. You’ll never see a man vanish so fast.”
“Please,” you scoffed, sipping your wine. “You’d trip over your own shoelaces before you made it to the door.”
He laughed, but you saw the way his eyes softened, the way he reached for your hand beneath the table and squeezed. For all the jokes, he was sentimental, dangerously so. His throat had already tightened twice that evening.
People said love felt like a thousand tiny sensible things, said commitment was not fireworks but the daily smallness of habit and patience. But there were moments, places between sentences, little gaps in the music, that felt more like revelation. You found one of those moments when a friend raised a glass and said something simple and ridiculous, the kind of sentence that flattens you with its perfect honesty: “You two are that rare kind of mess that’s actually beautiful.” The table laughed, and you looked up at Pedro and saw every line, every river of light, and thought: oh here's the rest of my life. It had arrived wearing his laugh.
He looked impossibly handsome, as if every wrinkle and freckle had been placed by a kindly editor. The late sun made the brown of his eyes molten; you thought of honey, of a leaf falling slow and final in autumn. He caught your eye and the smile he gave you was private and whole. He threaded his fingers through yours beneath the table and you felt the old, familiar anchoring, a small, exultant theft.
At some point you were pulled into another circle, arms entwined with family and friends. Laughter echoed and glasses were raised and words were offered that meant more than the sentences themselves. You heard yourself say thank you a dozen times and mean it in different ways each time.
As the night wore on and fireflies flickered into being like old film frames, you slipped away from the crowd with Pedro at your side. The music and laughter from the villa softened behind you as you wandered barefoot past hedges and olive trees, gravel cool against your soles. His suit jacket had been discarded somewhere hours ago, forgotten on the back of a chair, and now he looked undone in the best way, shirt loosened and collar open.
When he stopped, he turned and cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing at your damp temples as if even your sweat belonged to him. The world shrank to the span of his palms. “How do you exist and how are you mine?” he asked, voice cracking on the marvel of it, the question as much an admission as it was awe.
You smiled, because you knew the answer, though it was too large to fit into words. It was there in the thousands of small proofs that had carried you here.
Later, back beneath the string lights, the last slow set unfurled, and the Bee Gees played again as though the world itself wanted to underline the night. Pedro drew you into his arms, your bare feet atop his polished shoes for a moment before you slid back down, swaying together. Around you, the party blurred into islands of light and laughter, but you and Pedro moved with a rhythm that was only yours, earned across years of travel and absence and return.
It was not cinematic, not ostentatious. It was brave in its simplicity. Honest in the way his chest pressed against yours, his head tilting down to rest in your hair. You felt the shape of a lifetime in that closeness.
Love, you thought as you watched the light catch the brown in his eyes, is a gentle thing that shows up in the middle of things you did not expect to be sacred. And here, in the impossible autumn of your life, it was.
I see the signs of a lifetime, you til' I die.
a/n: they are so sweet :( thank you for reading, besties. please let me know your thoughts! like and reblog.
You have just married Marcus Acacius and despite ignoring him for the first few weeks of your marriage you can't help but eventually fall for him...
Contains: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), virginity loss, slight possessiveness, shy and inexperienced reader, soft!dom Acacius, caring Acacius, talking you through it, implied age gap (I imagined reader to be in her early 20s and Acacius around 50) angst, slight aftercare, mentions of pain and discomfort, arranged marriage, sort of enemies to lovers
Wordcount: ~10,612
Masterlist
The bracelet was too tight and painfully cut into your flesh.
That was the first thought that was in your head as you stood in front of Marcus Acacius and you wanted to slam your head against a wall so badly because this was supposed to be the most beautiful moment in your life and instead you were on the verge of crying. Perhaps it would have been the most beautiful moment if it wasn't him.
A part of you just wanted to let the tears flow, break down and make it physically impossible for you to marry him but you couldn't do this to your father. This had been his last wish and every time you cursed this arrangement in your thoughts you remembered your father's tired pleading eyes making it impossible for you refuse his demand.
You had promised that you would marry Acacius and frankly, you hadn't thought about the consequences of it until after your father had been dead. It wasn't just a little kindness so your father could fall asleep peacefully knowing that you would be taken care of, no you were about to spend the rest of your life with Acacius, a man that made a shiver run down your spine every time he laid his eyes on you. There was something so intimidating about him that you feared to be alone with him. He radiated dominance and authority and perhaps even a little danger.
The whole procedure was a fever dream. Your body was separated from your mind, your legs doing what they were supposed to do, carrying you down the aisle by Acacius' side but you didn't feel anything. You were numb, expressionless which almost made you think that the people around you might believe there was something wrong with you but it was the only way to cope with all of this.
Time passed way too quickly for your taste and then the feast in celebration of your wedding was over and Acacius was about to lead you to your bedchambers. The two of you had barely exchanged a word except a 'Thank you' when you handed him a jar of wine or a 'Excuse me for a second' when he went to speak with one of his friends.
You couldn't remember if you had said anything at all to him though. You were a ghost, a lifeless shell that did just what it was supposed to do like smiling at all the congratulations and looking pretty. That was what you would be to Acacius after all. Someone to put his babies inside and be used as a stress relief. And this was what had killed his last wife and now it was your turn to be humiliated and turned into his plaything.
The fact that you were still a virgin didn't exactly calm you either and now was the first time you felt something. It wasn't pleasant; a bitter feeling was creeping up in your belly spreading all throughout your body and making your heart pound fast in your chest. You couldn't tell if Acacius noticed your discomfort and merely didn't care about it but his night was a lot busier than yours as no minute passed in which no one came up to him talking about some matter that you couldn't care about less.
When you felt that the night slowly came to an end you would have liked to stop time or perhaps even reverse it so you could tell your dying father that you loved him more than anything else in the world but you couldn't do him this favor.
You wanted to run out of the building and hide in the stables right next to your villa you had always gone to when you were in trouble or cried about a fight with your siblings. When you were a child you had believed that no one could find you there but this dream had been shattered when your sister had dragged you out of there by your hair when you were 12 after you had broken her favourite doll. It was better than nothing though, you bitterly thought and watched your clenched hands giving away just how tense you were.
Your whole body suddenly twitched when you felt a hand on your bare arm and you turned your head probably looking like you had just seen a ghost.
"My lady," Acacius' deep voice brought you back to the present moment. "I think it is time for us to leave."
'No, it's not,' you wanted to answer, cross your arms in front of your stomach and sit here until the sun would rise in the morrow. Maybe you could sit here until Acacius was even older than now and would be too old to bed you.
"Yes… of course," was what you mumbled instead well aware that this wasn't a proper way to address your new husband in public but honestly, you didn't care. This whole thing couldn't get any worse so why worry about what other people might think about you?
Acacius rose from the chair offering you his big hand which you grabbed and you felt his rough skin against yours. You almost stumbled over your own feet following him but fortunately didn't fall down although it might have been a good way to avoid the inevitable bedding ceremony.
Acacius led you out of the magnificent hall to the corridor and you blindly followed him too focused on breathing and controlling your wobbly knees. Perhaps he noticed your mental and physical state to some extent because he didn't let go off your hand while guiding you up the stairs.
He started talking to you for the first time when you passed the library and a new wave of shock ran through your body at the sound of his voice.
"Did you enjoy the festivities, my lady?" he asked calmly which only made you angrier because you felt pathetic almost clinging to his helping hand while he had never seemed more at peace.
"Yes," you shortly answered staring ahead of you but felt his eyes on your profile.
"That's good to hear."
Then there was silence which would have been unbearable in any other circumstances but not with him tonight. Right now you rather welcomed it because you had a feeling that every movement, twitch or sound escaping Acacius' mouth only unsettled you further. He seemingly was oblivious to what you needed right now because he tilted his head towards the library that you had passed by now and looked at you again.
"Do you enjoy to read? I am most proud of the collection in there."
You slightly nodded still avoiding his gaze and dug the nails of your free hand in your palm just to feel a little bit like yourself. "I do. Yes."
You knew that you were more than impolite and Acacius could have snapped by now but he received your answer with a nod of his head but then remained silent until the two of you arrived in his bedchambers.
It was a comfortable big room that was beautifully lit by countless candles and you would have enjoyed the view if your eyes hadn't fallen upon the big four poster bed that made the center of the room.
Not only were you afraid of the act itself, but more importantly, you didn't want your husband to see you so vulnerable. He would regard your bare and naked body the way you were born, touch your most intimate parts and eventually melt with you and everything inside of you twisted and turned at the thought.
You didn't really know this man but what you knew was that he was evil and vicious, that he was violant and rough on the battlefield and he wouldn't be any different when he was laying with you. You could quite literally smell the danger off him and only had to look into his dark eyes once to know everything you needed to.
The tears collecting in the corner of your eyes were inevitable and you couldn't stop them from escaping either. You didn't care about it; he should see them and maybe if he had any humanity left in him he would feel bad although you were certain that after decades of fighting in bloody and brutal battles one couldn't be moved by a couple of tears running down the face of a stranger.
You felt awkward standing next to Acacius quietly sobbing and when he finally turned to you his eyes remained on your face for way too long. You turned your head away from him covering your eyes with your hand because all of a sudden you chose not to be seen by him which he allowed for a moment before gently, yet firmly pulling you towards the bed by your arm.
Something inside of you shifted, your heart beating loud and your eyes widening in shock because it would finally happen now but your were incapable of speaking up and try to stop him. He pushed you to sit down on the bed your hands instantly wrapping around your own upper body while dropping your gaze to the floor beneath you.
You couldn't see his reaction and what he might be thinking but when you felt a hand on your shoulder a sob escaped your lips and you squeezed your eyes.
"My lady," he cooed softly rubbing your cold skin. "I'm not going to touch you. I promise."
It took you an embarrassingly large amount of time to understand his words but once you did you slowly looked up to him his eyes looking surprisingly warm.
"What?" you breathed, your bottom lip trembling so hard you tried to control it by pressing your lips together.
"I will not touch you. You clearly don't want me to."
His words were still too surreal to accept so the crease between your brows only deepened and you couldn't allow your body to relax just yet.
"B-But I thought we… I thought we have to," you whispered so quietly that you almost didn't hear your own words but Acacius did.
"We don't have to do anything. I'm the General, little one. I think I can decide when I want to bed my wife."
Your big eyes stared at him almost as if you were waiting for him to deliver bad news but Acacius just tilted his head looking pitiful as he took in the mess on your face.
"Do you remain a virgin?" he then asked which was followed by another twitch of your body and your eyes narrowed again.
"Y-Yes," your shivering voice cut through the air questioning why he was asking but your husband just ran his eyes over your face and then sighed.
"Go to sleep. I have a feeling you need it."
Sensing that you didn't react to his words at all, he lifted his eyebrows slightly leaning back and giving you a curious look.
"I will not harm you. I give you my word."
You let out a bitter laugh shaking your head and then hissed out sharply. "How am I supposed to trust you? How do I know the worth of your word?"
Silence. You were about to chuckle again but then Acacius next to you rose to his feet approaching the table nearby.
"You don't. But this is all I can offer you," he said and not sure how to react you nervously toyed with your fingers your sobs slowly quieting down.
"Sleep now," he then repeated while tidying up the table looking unbothered which made the blood in your veins boil. Eventually you complied though, lying down on your back moving as close to the edge as possible so when Acacius joined you you wouldn't touch any part of his body.
He had been kind to you thus far but firstly, he might do so just to take what was rightfully his the next day or the day after and secondly, this didn't change the way you saw him. Maybe he was just old or not in the mood tonight and the picture you had of him couldn't be shifted 180 degrees just because he didn't rape you in your wedding night.
He was the enemy and now you would be bound to him for the rest of your life serving him in the bedroom and spreading your legs for him whenever he wanted you to just so he could get rid of his adrenaline. This wasn't how you had imagined your life at all but it was too late to change anything about it. All you could do was not make it easy for him. Whatever the reason was why he hadn't taken your virginity tonight you wouldn't be on your knees thanking him for it but remain your own person independently living your life.
These were the kinds of thought you fell asleep with. It was a chaotic, restless night shifting from one side to the other waking up every few hours. You didn't know whether it was the new environment or the person next to you but either way, when you woke up the next day you were sweaty and felt not at all well rested.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next days passed and you stayed true to your promise bringing as much distance as possible between the two of you at all times. It became your obsession, your purpose to not allow anyone to treat you like Acacius' wife, let alone think of yourself this way.
You have convinced yourself not to believe in your new status as a wife and instead acted as though nothing had changed except your residence. That way you didn't have to deal so much with your role as the general's wife and fled from reality.
At first Acacius granted you this freedom, seemingly satisfied with seeing you at lunch and supper but allowed you to do whatever you wanted the rest of the day. He was gone most of the time anyway so he didn't mind you strolling through the city during the afternoon just as long as a guard or two were with you.
But the quietness didn't last that long and the first time that the two of you really spoke since your wedding night was when Acacius entered your bedchambers one afternoon while you were writing a letter to a friend.
It was his physical state that shocked you and made you stare at him totally forgetting about the paper the ink was dripping onto. He was covered in blood, open wounds clearly visible on his face and arms and it almost felt surreal seeing him walk in here as if nothing was wrong.
Your mouth was open as you waited for him for some kind of explanation which didn't come so you cleared your throat while your husband took off his shoes not even as much as glancing at you.
"Ehm… Are you alright?"
He lifted his gaze running his eyes over you and then shrugged his shoulders. "Yes. Are you?"
"You're hurt," you said quietly ignoring his question and unable to hide the shock in your voice.
It wasn't like you were concerned about his well-being because you couldn't have been farer from feeling attached to this stranger but it was the fact that you hadn't believed that his time on the battlefield caused him to look like this.
"Yes. But it will heal."
With these words Acacius walked to the table you were sitting by and poured himself a cup of wine. Perhaps it was still the surprise mixed with your curious state of mind that made you expectantly tap with your fingers on the wooden table as you confidentaly raised your chin.
"Why haven't you consumated our marriage yet?" you asked a lot more secure than you felt.
You didn't know why you were asking this. You should be glad that the things were the way they were but if you were being honest with yourself it actually was mere curiousity. You had come into this marriage expecting him to use you for sex and to produce heirs and now you were married for a week and he hadn't touched you yet. There had to be a reason.
Acacius chuckled lowly taking a sip from his wine while intensely watching you from over the cup. Then he curled his mouth into a smile.
"Because I had the feeling you don't want me."
You rolled your eyes flaring your nostrils because you grew angry at how he was acting all caring and kind making you believe that your well-being was actually important to him.
"I didn't think you would care," you replied clenching your hands into fists.
"I do. You're my wife. I want to protect you."
"I don't need anyone to protect me," you shouted jumping to your feet and flashing your eyes at him. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone."
Acacius sighed putting the cup back on the table and licked over his lips to remove the remains of the liquid.
"What do you want then? Do you want me to take your virginity or why are you asking me?"
You quickly shook your head and took a step back just in case.
"No. But I… I don't want it but I don't want you to protect me either. I just want you to leave me alone."
Acacius lifted his eyebrows resting his hands on the back of a chair. "I'm your husband."
"This is an arranged marriage," you breathed trying to make yourself look as tall as possible in front of him but didn't stand a chance.
"We should just live our lives the way we want to and mind our own businesses."
He smirked and then pursed his lips as he looked you up and down.
"I might be wrong but I did mind my own business the last couple of days. It was you who came up with this just now."
Of course Acacius was right and you felt your cheeks growing hot at his words desperately trying to come up with an intelligent answer.
"But I don't want anything from you. I don't want you to protect me and I don't want you to harm me. I want you to ignore me."
Your husband sighed looking disappointed like he was talking to a little child and you once again were reminded why you hated this man so much. He was arrogant, self-centered and so smug.
"Good night, my lady," he eventually spoke with his husky voice and made his way over to the bed on which he fell with a groan and turned to his back so his wounds could heal during the night.
The remaining blood glistened in the dim light and it almost made it look black. There was a strange beauty about him laying so peacefully while his face represented a brutal battle field and you couldn't take your eyes off him for a few seconds before approaching the bed as well taking your right side of the bed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next few weeks passed relatively peacefully and despite cursing yourself for it and trying to convince yourself into believing that it wasn't the case, you started to adjust to this new life as well as to Acacius as your husband.
It took you quite some time but you figured out that he was far from being the person you had thought he was. It happened a lot when he returned from the battlefield. You would wait in your chambers looking him up and down and felt unsettled by the way his body was marked and violated. Perhaps you realized that he was in such great danger every time he stepped outside the villa and that there was a chance that he wouldn't return which seemed to make you see that he wasn't as selfish and arrogant as you had thought he was.
And then there was the fact that he still didn't demand anything of you and let your body untouched for the next weeks as well merely giving you little smiles that you yet didn't return. You just couldn't let show that a small part of you grew to trust him and so you kept up the stubborn facade treating him coolly although you believed that he might have noticed a small change in you.
The longest Acacius was gone was for two weeks and it felt strange to be in the villa without him. Of course you usually avoided his gaze and barely said anything to him when he entered your chambers in the evenings but there was a familiarity to it that you now seemed to miss. It had been your ritual; sitting by the table either writing or reading something and then watching him walk or stumble into the room depending on how much he had drunken.
You had even come to say goodbye to him, letting him kiss your hand and bringing out a quiet "Take care, Acacius. I'll be looking forward to your safe return."
It seemed like your husband wasn't sure whether you had actually meant these words or just said them for custom but either way, it looked like you had figured that you had no choice but to adjust to this new life and had gotten used to having him around you.
But now you spent the nights alone and although you would never admit it, it again took you some time to adapt and there were moments when you wondered if you had been unjust. He wasn't manipulative and vicious after all and sometimes you asked yourself why you had even believed him to be that way.
He was kind to you. Patient and undemanding and had never asked anything of you. It only got worse the next couple of days and when Acacius finally returned you felt something new. It was like things had changed between the two of you and you saw him in a different light as he stepped through the door, his hair messy, his face once again covered in dirt and wounds and his eyes so incredibly tired.
"My lady," he said slightly bowing his head but you didn't listen to him. Instead you smoothly rose to your feet slowly approaching him your eyes fixed on his harmed face.
"Acacius," you whispered seeing his forehead furrow at the unfamiliar softness in your voice.
He clearly hadn't been blind to the way you had started to accept this union and even seemed to tolerate it, by not hardening your face every time you saw him but now your eyes searched for him which was something new.
"I…," you started almost shyly lowering your head.
"What?" he softly asked you craving to run his thumb over your cheek but stopping himself before he would scare you off.
"I want to clean your wounds," you then breathed and Acacius couldn't help himself but smile at your words. Who would have thought that going away for a few days would be enough for you to start trusting him?
He didn't want to spend too much time wondering what had provoked this change in your though and instead finally allowed himself to touch you even though he just did so by briefly brushing over your shoulder.
"Yeah?"
You nodded dropping your gaze feeling both intimidated and reluctant about what you had just asked. But when your husband encouragingly offered you his hand you bit your lip and took it.
"Do you want me to sit down then?" he asked doing his very best to help you, sensing how nervous you were but you determindely shook your head which surprised him.
"You don't want that?" he demanded to know brushing with his thumb over your fingers while you escaped his piercing eyes once more.
"No," you whispered so quietly he had to concentrate really hard on the sound leaving your mouth. "I want to take a bath with you."
To say that Acacius was surprised was an understatement but he couldn't deny the excitement growing within him. Days ago it had looked like you were cursing him by merely observing him and like he was the last person you wanted to see after a long day and now you wanted to show yourself in your most vulnerable state and additionally look after his wounds.
"Whatever you like, my lady," he said taking in how beautiful you looked in the dim light and then offered you his hand once more guiding you to the huge bathtub in the room right next to your bedchambers.
Acacius was just about to start to peel off the layers of his armor but you were faster putting your hands on his broad shoulders staring at him almost as if you were mesmerized. Then you took on the task of undressing your husband and when his breeches were all that covered his body you gave your best not to stare at him but of course he noticed your wide eyes as you regarded his muscular upper body.
There was something so incredibly intimate and close about the scene that you felt your hands starting to shake even though it also might be caused by your nervousness.
Acacius gave you a smile before entering the bathtub leaning his head against the edge and sighing in pleasure clearly giving you the privacy to get rid of your clothes without having to feel his eyes on you.
The truth was that he wanted nothing more than to see and feel you but he wanted you to be in charge of everything that would be happening between the two of you so he closed his eyes hearing the swishing of your clothes and then the next thing he noticed was the water splashing a little.
Acacius opened his eyes a little and looked right into yours as you sat in front of him in the bathtub your eyes on his cuts and wounds again.
"Do they hurt?" you asked your voice barely more than a breath while getting closer to your husband.
"A little," Acacius truthfully answered his eyes following you reaching to a shelf close by to grab a ointment that would soothe the burning pain.
Your pupils were widened when you started to examine the wounds on his face and Acacius couldn't quite recognise whether you were still in awe by how damaged his body looked or scared of him.
He hissed out quietly when the salve made contact with his flesh which instantly made you flinch but Acacius was quick to run his hand over your arm signalising you that you were doing fine.
"It's alright. It's going to help me with the pain."
You nodded reducing the distance between the two of you again and your lips were so close to him now that he wished he could kiss them or at least trace them with his thumb. And then there were your hands that so gently and carefully applied the ointment on his skin that one could confuse you for a life-long and loyal wife instead of a little girl that despised him. There was softness and love in your touch, so much that Acacius closed his eyes giving himself to you and allowed himself to stay in the llusion.
"Acacius?" your voice cut through the air all of a sudden which made him lift his eyelids making out your face in front of him.
"Yes?"
"You are a good warrior, right?" you carefully asked stopping applying the salve for a second to wait for his answer.
"Yes. I'm experienced. I've been doing this for almost 40 years."
You drew your face like you were thinking and then bit your lip.
"But… But there must be a point when one… I mean one can't do this forever, right?"
Acacius chuckled and it was a low and deep, yet friendly sound. "Are you trying to say that I'm old, love?"
You broked into a shy smile as well shrugging your shoulders and then continued to lubricate the little cuts on his neck.
"No," you nevertheless answered your eyes on his neck while Acacius took in the beauty of your face that looked so concentrated right now.
"I'm trying to say that everyone gets old some day. And I'm just asking myself when a warrior stops fighting in battles and retires."
The corner of his mouth lifted again but his smile faded as he felt your knees against the inside of his thighs. You were kneeling between his legs and definitely were too close right now so he cleared his throat trying to collect himself and only then answered you.
"It's his choice. When he decides that he's not able to keep up anymore, he retires."
In addition to the closeness of your body it was also hard not to look up to that little amount of your skin that was exposed. The water covered most of it but the swell of your breasts peaked out and it took everything in him not to stare inappropriately. He could swear that this was harder than any battle he had ever fought in his life and closed his eyes to force himself to breathe properly.
"Acacius?" your soft voice spoke once again and he was absolutely smitten with the way you finally seemed to enjoy his presence and said what was on your mind.
"Yes?"
You stopped your hand movements again chewing on your bottom lip while staring at the water as though it was the most interesting thing you had seen in your entire life.
"I think I want you," you whispered with a surprisingly stable voice and now Acacius was officially speechless lifting his eyebrows and slightly leaning back against the wall of the bathtub.
"Are you sure, love?" he asked after a while caressing your bare shoulder to signalise you to look at him but you still avoided his eyes too embarrassed by your confession.
And yet you nodded which made him break into a smile. Suddenly his hands were on your waist his thumb drawing patterns over your skin as you finally had enough courage to look him in the eyes.
"Let me take care of you then," Acacius whispered his heart pounding loudly in his chest at how you nodded again your hands reaching up to hold on to his broad shoulders. He cupped the side of your face finally feeling the softness of your skin and then gently pulled you towards him to connect your lips.
It was a careful kiss. Like the two of you were getting to know each other and slowly explored the other person. There was nothing demanding or rushed about it; Acacius carefully nibbled at your bottom lip leaving small kisses and when he pulled back your face was flushed and your eyes were glistening with a new adventurousness.
"You want more?" he asked his hands lingering at your cheeks and after an airy "Yes" had escaped your mouth your husband sat up straight in the bathtub his hands at your waist again.
"Let's get you out of here then. The bed is going to be a lot more comfortable."
You followed his movement grabbing the edge of the tub to support you and managed to rise from the slippery ground with Acacius' hand assisting you. You stepped out of it waiting while he followed you but kept your eyes on the floor not wanting to stare too obviously either.
The air was thin now, filled with your louder breathing and the heat your bodies radiated. And still there was such a gentleness in everything he did so that nothing about it felt too fast or intense to you.
Your husband picked up a towel from a shelf which he wrapped around your upper body so carefully that you almost started to pur like a cat. He made sure that you were properly covered and then rested his hands on your shoulders.
"Turn around, love."
His voice was like a curse and a gift at the same time because it embraced you like a warm blanket but seemed to enter your body heating you up from inside and causing your core to throb and pulsate so uncomfortably that you craved to rock yourself against something. Or someone.
You followed his voice like you were hypnotised without even questioning what he was going to do. It was strange because a few weeks ago you had believed that you would never going to be able to trust him and now here you were offering yourself to him in such a vulnerable state.
But all Acacius did was collect your wet hair and then comb through it with your wooden comb. Never would you have thought that his rough hands could do something so precisely and carefully but you found that you could fall asleep to this feeling.
When he was done he turned you around brushing with his thumb over your chin and stole yet another kiss from your lips. You smiled against his lip feeling yourself melt in his arms which scared you to some extent but right now you couldn't bring yourself to fight the urge to give your body and soul to Acacius.
The man you had sworn to marry because you hadn't been able to refuse your dying father's wish. The man you had despised from the moment you had walked down the aisle. The man you had avoided at all costs these past weeks but right now something about it felt right. You were a stubborn and proud person and hated to admit that you had been wrong but perhaps you had been mistaken this time. At least you hoped so because you simply couldn't believe that an evil man's touch could be this tender.
Acacius' hand glided over your arm all the way from your shoulder to your hand and then invited it to lay in his while his eyes had followed the motion.
"Do you want to go to bed?" his voice brought goosebumps to your arms and of course you nodded.
It was all it took him to guide you to the center of the room and once there he turned to you giving you the softest eyes you had ever seen and you wondered if these could actually be the same you had been so scared of in the beginning of your marriage. He took your face in his big hands and you unconsciously snuggled your head against him.
"Let me take care of you, sweetling," he murmured holding you as if you were made of glass and would break at the slightest roughness.
"Yes. I want it. I need you."
You really didn't want to beg him but it felt right to you to show him that you wanted him after having treated him so coolly. Acacius gave you yet another kiss on the corner of your mouth and then pushed you back until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
"Lay down for me," he spoke, his voice just a slight whisper that brushed over your skin like a light feather.
Mesmerized by his radiating warmth you climbed on the bed resting with your head against the cushion and awaited his next move.
He regarded you lovingly keeping his eyes on you at all times almost as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn't vanish into the air and then took off the towel covering his center that you hadn't even noticed he had wrapped around his body.
By now you couldn't bring yourself to feel ashamed by the way your eyes glanced to his cock gulping at how massive and heavy he looked but your attention was drawn to his beautiful face again when Acacius approached you.
Everything was slow and slight, giving you the time to stop him if need be but you didn't even think about it. You craved to be embraced and loved by him. You wanted to feel his hands on your body, melt with him and become one. You wanted him to whisper things in your ear that that were only meant for you and praise you until you forgot your name.
"You look so pretty, darling," he said and then you saw his face coming closer to yours as he climbed on top of you his hands instantly reaching down to graze over your cheeks.
You smiled, light-heartedly receiving the compliment and spread your legs for him so he could settle in between them. Then he kissed you again your lips feeling beyond swollen by now but he tasted like cinnamon and pepper and so you gladly parted your lips letting him devour your mouth.
His hands were on a mission feeling every naked inch of your skin which mostly was your face and neck and shoulders and finding pleasure in the way Acacius teasingly rubbed over your skin and traced your veins you soon noticed your core yearning for stimulation which led to you buckling up your hips in search for anything he would give you.
Your husband obviously noticed how he enhanced your desire with each stroke and brush and soon kissed his way down your neck until his mouth was on your collarbone.
"You're perfect. The most beautiful girl I've ever laid my eyes upon."
His words were muffled by the way he pressed his face against your body but you heard them clearly and felt the blood rising in your cheeks. You let yourself go completely concentrating on how his mouth savoured your neck and shoulders until his hands traveled to the hem of the towel that still hid most of your body.
"Can I take this off?" he politely wanted to know and although you didn't hesitate when you nodded with your head you were glad he asked for your permission every time he did something. It made you feel like you were in control of everything that was happening and you could stop him at any point.
Acacius slowly removed the fabric until you were completely bare underneath him and it seemed like he was now too eager not to stare as well. His gaze fell upon your chest and then wandered down to your stomach and your core taking his time to examine you as though he didn't intend to bed you but paint your picture. It intimidated you because no man had ever seen you like this so you nervously clutched the bedsheets keeping your eyes on him to try and read his facial expression.
When he noticed it he let out a quiet chuckle and then grabbed your hands next to your body. You bit your lip as he lifted them up in the air and then pressed kisses alternately to the back of your left and right hand.
"No need to worry, my love," he said soothingly tracing the delicate veins on your wrists with his thumb. "No need to worry about anything. I got you. You're looking so beautiful like this and all you have to do is listen to my voice. I'll take care of the rest."
Acacius dropped your hands again so your arms fell to the side of your body and a shiver ran down your spine seeing how he looked like he was about to eat you alive. Not in a bad way though.
The blood in your veins was quivering, making your mind blank and utterly in awe of the way his mouth curled up at the view before him. He ran his eyes over you again for a brief moment before lowering his face to your collarbone tenderly kissing and biting your skin and then he dared to travel further south.
Your perky nipples simply looked too delicate and pretty not to lick over them and soon Acacius was addicted. The best part about it was perhaps the way you squirmed underneath him and then there were the little moans escaping your mouth when you were too lost in pleasure to concentrate on surpressing the noise. If it were up to him he would have wanted you not to hide anything and instead let him listen to all of your little squeaks and sighs.
He took his time teasing you although his mind drifted to your perfect pussy that he only had seen for a short moment thus far every few seconds. But this was about you after all. This was about making you feel comfortable and safe and slowly teaching you everything there was to know about the act of making love. Because this was what tonight was about; making love.
Acacius knew that he could be dirty and primal in bed, making his partner break and beg and getting off on a little power-play. Perhaps he would introduce you to this side of him at some point if you were up to it but definitely not tonight. Tonight he wouldn't make you beg for anything. He would fulfill your wishes even before you would be able to express them, gift you indescribable pleasure all while looking out for your comfort. He would go slow, test your waters and give you time to adjust to anything that he did and Acacius had a feeling that it was just what you needed after having treated him with such coldness these last weeks.
His tongue was twirling around your left nipple sucking it into his mouth every now and then but he made sure not to neglect your right breast. His hand massaged your flesh gently grazing the outline of your breast and rubbing over your nipple or taking the nub between two of his fingers. It was heavenly to him and Acacius had a feeling that you didn't enjoy it any less.
He hadn't estimated you as a very vocal person so he was thrilled by your quiet moans that he was sure he would be able to turn into cries if he continued like this.
Soon he made his way further down though leaving wet kisses on your stomach which made you lift your head slightly questioningly flickering your eyes at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Making you feel good, my love," he replied softly caressing your waist and giving you these warm eyes of his. "All you have to do is relax and feel my touch. I promise it will feel divine."
You narrowed your eyes not yet fully trusting his words and heaved yourself on your elbows.
"But-But I thought you would…"
You left the sentence unfinished but Acacius seemingly knew what you were alluding to as he gave you an assuring smile his hands stroking the curve of your hip.
"I can do that if you want me to. But you need to be prepared because otherwise it might be painful to you."
"Painful?" you repeated with round eyes feeling frightened as you hadn't expected the act of love to be hurtful.
"You are a virgin. The first time can be painful but I'm going to try my best to make it pleasant for you. I'll give you my fingers first and make sure you're properly lubricated and then I'll go slow."
Your eyes hectically wandered over his face taking in each of his words with a trembling feeling in your stomach but Acacius was quick to soothingly kiss your stomach.
"It's going to be fine. But if you want to stop that's fine as well."
Did you want to stop? Did you want him to roll off you, take out the lights and go to sleep? Definitely not. You were scared of the pain but you needed to feel him now and with the slight fear came also a curiousity about what the act of bedding was about. He seemed so certain and confident in everything he was doing so you wanted to know what he would be capable of making you feel. Therefore you shook your head helplessly reaching down to him and felt your heartbeat fasten at the way your husband instantly took your hand.
"No. I don't want you to stop, Acacius."
Hearing his name roll off your lips awakened a new form of lust in him and he bit down hard on his bottom lip in order to prevent himself from growling lowly.
"I'm glad to hear that," he then said gliding his hand down your side after carefully putting your hand back on the bed.
He crawled even further down your body until his face was almost on the same level as your most intimate part and if Acacius hadn't given you another tender smile you would have felt anxious and fearful about letting him see you like this.
You had learned that this wasn't the way of things. A husband wasn't supposed to see his wife's sex this close but concentrate on his duty. What Acacius was doing right now made the blood in your veins throb and you knew that a part of it could be traced back to the nervousness and uncertainty about what he was going to do to you while another part was simply craving to feel him with every inch of your body.
"Just relax, sweet girl."
With these words he lowered his face to your center and you curiously lifted your head attempting to see what he was doing but you suddenly gasped for air as you felt his tongue on this special little spot between your legs grazing over it carefully almost as if he wanted to get to know your body.
"Ah," you sighed digging your toes in the mattress next to him and instantly pressed your lips together in order to stay quiet from now on. But that didn't align with what Acacius wanted because he looked up to you his brown eyes full of warmth mixed with a hunger that drove you insane.
"No need to stay quiet, love. I want to hear you. Don't you hold back anything."
Then he licked over your slit quietly humming at your taste which sent vibrations all throughout your body.
"Acacius. Fuck, that's so good," you moaned your hands reaching down to hold on to his locks while trying to keep a clear mind.
He concentrated on your clit for the most part, circling it with the tip of his tongue, gently pressing into it and sucking on it. He soon noticed that you found a special liking in feeling him blow air over your little nub and was happy to comply watching your little squirms and your trembling legs with pleasure.
Only when you writhed beneath him restlessly shifting with your hips he firmly grabbed them pushing you down and letting out a growl that told you to stay still for him.
"Stay here, love. Let me enjoy you," he said at one point and you felt your cheeks heat up at his words.
You followed his command because when you did so, Acacius showered you with praise and compliments telling you how good you were for him and it never failed to make your heart flutter and your pussy uncomfortably clench around nothing.
But your husband soon changed that as well, literally touching you just where you needed it without even having to ask him to. He kept his mouth on your clit kissing it as if it was the most precious and delicate little spot in the world when you felt one of his thick fingers at your entrance tenderly inserting it inside of you.
You jolted at the intrusion and narrowed your eyes as this was something you had never felt before but Acacius knew just what you needed running his left hand over your hip in a soothing manner while whispering sweet things against your pussy.
"It's alright, darling. You're doing so good for me. I'm just gonna open you up a little bit, hmh? So you'll be able to take me."
You let out yet another moan and Acacius, feeling you relax around him, went deeper until his digit was fully buried in you.
"That's a good girl…," he growled rewarding your clit with a skillfull twirl of his tongue and then as he started moving his finger in you your hands in his hair tightened pushing him closer to your center.
"Oh," you gasped bending your neck to watch his activities between your thighs but all you could see was his head pressing himself so close to you, you would assume he was looking for heaven.
Acacius fingered your cunt while continuing to give you pleasure with his mouth, now gliding his tongue over the underside of your clit which earned him tugs at his hair by your demanding hands. You needed him, wanted to feel him in more ways than you did right now and forgot that it simply wasn't possible.
"I want you to come for me, darling. I want you to soak my face," his voice cut through your clouded mind and you made out his face through half-litted eyes.
"How?" was all you asked which he reacted to with a low chuckle.
"Listen to my voice. And do what feels right. Your body will know what to do."
You couldn't deny that you trusted him, your body and mind completely surrendering to him and so you did just what he had asked of you.
You let your head sink back in the cushions sprawled out underneath him and let him do with you as he desired. He was like a magical creature bringing you so much pleasure with just the tip of his tongue that you asked yourself if sex was always supposed to be this way because if yes, you thought you might never want to do anything else in your life. Or perhaps he was just a god or a witch and had enchanted you.
There was this prominent tense in your thighs that seemed to grow the longer your husband kept going and soon you knew it was about to burst and take utter control of your body. You hummed to yourself feeling your core clench and almost couldn't hear Acacius whispering to you, his mouth still busy smearing your wetness all over your clit.
"That's it… you can let go. I'll catch you, my love. You're a fucking dream, baby, god…"
And then the tension was freed spreading in your body like a disease and you felt like your whole world was shattering into a million pieces; but in the best way possible. You closed your legs around Acacius, buckled up beneath him and squeezed your eyes while trying to deal with these overwhelming and new emotions.
"I'm right here, just breathe for me, sweetling. There you go… Just like that," he talked you through it and crawled up to you again to hold you through your high.
Your hands clung to his shoulders welcoming him so close to you and you heavily panted in his ear while he tried to calm you down.
"That's right. You did so wonderfully for me, darling and I'm so proud of you."
Slowly, you came back to him your eyes still a little glossy but you smiled up to him feeling high on this peacefulness and the effects of your release. Acacius ran his thumb over your cheek and then kissed your forehead endearingly.
"You're so perfect. I wanna make you feel good all the time."
You nodded eagerly still not able to process how good this had felt. Never had you believed that being with a man could be that amazing and you truly wondered if everyone was as good as Acacius or if he was merely talented.
"I want that too. But now I want you to take me, Acacius. I want you to take my innocence."
He bit his lip which was so hot to watch that it felt obscene and smiled looking at the ceiling as his mouth came down to your neck once more sucking on your veins and your sensitive thin skin.
"I will, sweet girl. And then you're gonna be mine until the end of time. You want that, love?"
You nodded although you probably would have agreed to anything he asked of you right now.
"I want that. I wanna be yours."
You didn't know what it was; maybe just his appealing aura or the confidence in everything that he was doing, either way, you felt this craving to be his alone. The desire to snuggle against his chest and feel protected and cared for.
Acacius parted your legs a little more so his hips pressed you down into the mattress and when you felt his finger at your throbbing entrance again you jolted.
"Shh sh," he cooed you starting to fuck you with his finger again. "I don't want you to be in pain when I fuck you."
That was the moment when you were reminded again of what he had told you earlier and Acacius could instantly see the slight panic in your eyes.
"Please be careful, Acacius," you begged him which made him feel stitches in his stomach.
"I'll go as slow as you need me to. I'll be careful and stop if you change your mind. I promise."
You nodded feeling a familiar warmth in your lower belly despite the little part of you that feared the inevitable pain. He steadily thrusted his finger in you until adding a second one that stretched you but you listened to him and focused on breathing.
"There you go, love. I know what you need, you just concentrate on me, alright?"
"Yes, Acacius," you panted clasping at his broad shoulders that felt so strong beneath your touch.
Your husband let you adjust to his thick fingers for a while before fucking you with them as well and it didn't take long until sweat was covering your forehead your pupils dilating. It definitely wasn't as good as feeling his mouth on your clit but his presence so close to you and his body caging you underneath him as though he had just found the most precious and treasured price that he never intended to let go already made you go feral.
You forgot the time fully giving yourself to the way his fingers filled you up, hyperaware of every contact his skin made with yours but at the same time feeling your mind relax, and then hazily blinked a few times when you felt him pull out of you.
"Are you ready to take it, sweet girl?" he asked his voice sounding rougher and thinner now as well.
"Yes. I can take it, please."
He chuckled lowly the vibration transferring over to your body and you possessively wrapped your arms around his back; as if there was anything that could possibly make him stop right now.
"I know you can. Because you're being such a good girl for me all the fucking time."
Goosebumps covered your arms at his words which made you wonder if this was a normal and natural reaction to such simple words but you didn't question it any further as you heard him nestle between his thighs and then you glanced at his cock that was beautifully lit by the dim lighting.
He had wrapped a hand around the shaft his red tip glistening with precum and groaned as he dragged it through your folds collecting your wetness. He noticed the way your body had stiffened up a little your eyes wide open and made sure to soothe you by kissing your shoulder and embracing you in a soft hug.
"It's alright, darling. It's going to be fine. But we can stop if you want to."
You were quick to shake your head helplessly clinging to his arms.
"No. Please do it."
And then Acacius didn't need any further permission and guided his cock to your hole his hand lingering at your cheek.
"Breathe in. Just like that…" he mumbled and felt the way your body tensed.
"And now out…"
Just when you felt the air escaping your lungs there was a sharp pain in your center making your eyes go as round as coins and you choked on a gasp.
"It's alright, it's alright," he quickly purred making sure your eyes were on him. "It's gonna be better soon. You're doing so wonderful for me, just breathe and try to loosen up."
It burned incredibly and you wondered if he was completely inside because it already hurt so badly although it seemed like he had only pushed inside a little thus far. Your nails dug into his skin surely leaving marks but Acacius didn't mind solely focused on talking you through the pain and comforting you.
"Look at me, y/n. Look at me, darling."
Your stinging eyes searched for his pupils hectically flicking over his face but something about him made you forget about the way you felt like your pussy was being ripped apart. Time stopped and you just watched his beautiful face slightly drawn with pleasure but clearly concerned about you as there was a deep crease between his eyebrows.
"Good girl. How are you feeling?" he wanted to know and despite feeling incapable of delivering a coherent sentence you nodded your fingers firmly holding on to him.
He waited like this until he felt you relax your muscles the pain beginging to fade and then pulled out just a little bit only to thrust back in, still very slow and careful and yet the intrusion was enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes.
"You feel perfect. And I promise you it's gonna be better soon."
You tried to believe him forcing your center to welcome the pain rather than fighting it and in addition closed your eyes breathing steadily just like he had told you. And he turned out to be correct; a few more minutes later the pulsating burning ache started to disappear until you eventually felt confident enough to arch your hips a little.
Acacius had tried his best to hide how much everything about you affected him the whole time but this gave him the rest. The way you buckled up trying to get him to move and how your eyes rolled back when he slid his hand between your thighs again finding your clit and rubbing a few comforting circles around it. He needed to claim and devour and he just hoped that it was what you wanted as well.
At first your husband followed your gesture backing out again and then filling you and this time it was so much better that you gave him a wide smile.
"That's good, Acacius. I want more, please I need you to fuck me."
Perhaps it was the additional stimulation on your clit that made you grow eager instead of his thick cock stretching you but either way, he intended to give you just what you wanted.
"Alright, love," he replied and then began to fuck you at a slow pace.
In the first few minutes it was still a strange and unfamiliar feeling to melt with someone this way but along with his skillfull fingers he actually managed to envoke new noises leaving your mouth soon. Acacius was blind with lust almost feeling like an animal that intended to lay claim to his prey and picked up the pace while still looking out for your well-being of course.
"You like that? You like me fucking that sweet pussy like that?"
Although the phrase was meant to be filthy and wild, your husband made it somehow sound warm and gentle. If it was his voice or the soft features of his face you didn't know but a new wave of pleasure hit you.
"Yes I like it. Oh fuck, I need you," you cried against his shoulders that were now gently pressing you into the bed.
It was dirty, primitive almost begging and urging your husband to go quicker, reach deeper inside of you to hit that magical spot but you didn't care. All you cared about was Acacius who was so tender with you and at the same time awakened these intense feelings in you that you had never felt before.
And he complied, his tip repeatedly grazing over that spot in your body and there was something so delicate about it like he intended to kiss it just the way he had kissed your clit earlier only that this time it was his cock making you feel that way.
You couldn't deny the slight stretching burn that still ran throughout your body every now and then but it was nothing compared to the accumulating tension that now wasn't new to you and told you that you were about to burst again. His touch on your clit became lazy, rapidly rubbing over it and when he kissed you sloppily you knew that he probably was just as close as you.
"Come for me, darling. Give me a second one, I know you can to it. You respond to me so beautifully and I know you want it."
You had difficulties comprehending him as his voice was muffled by your chin which he covered with kisses and yet you did just as he had told you reaching your second high of the night at the same time as he came inside of you, ropes of his sticky cum filling you to the brim. He collapsed on top of you in the moment you arched on the bed the weight of his body pushing you down as you shivered and trembled and little sighs escaped from your mouth.
"Acacius," you cried tasting every sweet second of this divine release and then just listened to both of your loud pantings while watching him savour the effects of his orgasm.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he cursed inhaling deeply as he watched your red face that made you look like you had just exhausted yourself but in his mind you had never been more radiant. This was his work. He had been the one to make you feel like that and his heart seemed to explode in his chest almost incapable of believing his luck.
"I don't think you're aware of how fantastic you are," he whispered in your ear which made you smile like an idiot.
"Thank you," you answered wanting to bump your head against the wall because why couldn't you think of something more clever?
He rose his head again taking in your face and each detail like your swollen lips or your flushed cheeks and then kissed you upon your brow.
"You need some sleep now in order to be fit in the morrow."
You pursed your lips in disappointment feeling how he rolled off you but when Acacius offered you his arm you were quick to wrap your arms around it and clench your body against it.
"You will not leave me, right?" you anxiously asked which made your husband run his hand over the back of your head his fingers playing with single strands of your hair.
"Never."
This was just what you had wanted to hear and you contently closed your eyes feeling like this was a position you could find some sleep in.
"If something troubles you, you're going to wake me up, alright?" he asked but you almost couldn't perceive the content of his words anymore as you were slowly drifting to sleep.
"Yes, Acacius," was the last thing you whispered before you entered the lands of dreams, firmly clinging to your husband and a smile on your lips.
--- A quiet moment turns heated as Joel reminds you why some things are better kept just between the two of you.
Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader (4kwc)
tw: 18+ MDNI; explicit sexual content, heavy sexual tension, age gap, possessiveness, jealousy, hiding a relationship, emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, groping (over/under clothes), neck kissing, hair pulling, power imbalance (protective/possessive), soft dominance, slow-burn to heat, lingering touches, close proximity, unspoken intentions, introspection, private/domestic intimacy, mild language.
a/n: BC IM GONNA ACT LIKE NOTHING BAD HAS EVER HAPPENED EVER; have just for some reason been thinking a lot abt pedro lately it’s absolutely insane, also now that lent is over i’ve taken up gardening again and i’m just yearning so inspired again.
--
The wooden screen door swung open effortlessly, to your surprise, to a clean and empty kitchen save for the half drunk mug of coffee on the kitchen island. The jagged edges of the chipped paint on the door caused your skin to rise as you cushioned the door on your bare shoulder to not let the door slam shut.
You let in a breath about to call out, but the faint sound of music could be heard playing in the other room. Stepping lightly around the corner, and peeking behind the wall you saw your current beau— well, the back of his head but him nonetheless. He was sitting on the sofa, gazing down at something on his lap as the late afternoon sun showered him in rays of light. You watched as small dust particles floated around his frame, and it was then you realized you were holding your breath.
Letting out a small huff of air you hoped the floor wouldn’t creak beneath your shoes as you took slow steps towards the open room. You were in a quiet awe watching a moment of rare vulnerability, the man you figured was just permanently stiff now had his back hunched, causing his shoulders to slouch. Despite his slacked frame he was still broad, taking up a large amount of quiet space. Eyeing the outline of his body, you watched how the muscles of his traps dipped below the neckline of his shirt, only a sliver of sun kissed skin visible between the curls at the base of his head, and the fabric of his ratty t shirt and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of the exposed skin, you found yourself reactively sticking your hand out to grasp that warmth—and grab you did.
You let your fingers graze the side of his neck, finally giving away that you were here. The flesh beneath your fingers went rigid, and a small chuckle hid behind a puff of air left your body. Leaning your body over the back of the sofa your hands again finding the base of his neck fingers entangling in the strands of his outgrown curls tugging ever so slightly.
“Hi.” You whispered, pressing your lips to his temple.
“Almos’ scared me half to death,” He said, trying to play it off by flipping a page of the town newspaper. Your fingers left his hair and slid down his neck, and chest to clasp your fingers together, arms hung around the man.
“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist,” you snickered lightly, resting your chin in the crook of his neck staring at his fingers. “It’s not every day you see Joel Miller relaxing.” Your fingers started roaming his chest again, coming to toy lightly with the stubble on his jawline. His skin was warm from the summer sun, and the Wyoming heat. Joel cleared his throat, rustling the papers in his fingers shifting beneath your weight.
“I wasn’t relaxing, I was jus’ readin’ up.” He shook his shoulders lightly to try and shoo you off, and you did just briefly enough to realize he was wearing his reading glasses, yet another rare sight.
“Right, because Jackson Hole is so big.” You teased, resting your cheek on his shoulder.
He cleared his throat again, beginning to fold the pamphlet between his hands eyeing you from the side.
“Ellie?” He asks tossing the papers to the side, he then moves his fingers to take his glasses off, but you stop him, enveloping his fingers with yours.
“Out with Dina,” you say, a hand finding its way back to his salt and pepper curls tucking loose strands behind his ear.
“Are you—”
“Saw them with my own two eyes at that food hall.” You reassured him, already knowing if he was going to ask for reassurance.
“Next to your very much in love Brother and his wife.” You mumbled, and you felt a deep sigh leave his body and only the sound of music played softly in the background as a pause of silence passed between the two of you. Joel held your fingers, resting his prickled cheek against your forearm as you rested on his shoulders.
“Joel,” you whispered, you took his silence as a sign to continue. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about us?” you said softly, hoping your question didn’t just break this glass bubble you were both floating in.
But it was eating away at you, especially when you saw what seemed like everyone and their brothers' mothers in a tooth-rotting, core cringing relationship.
Joel cleared his throat and shifted in his cushiony seat.
“W-well, uh…” He cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable. You kept running your fingers through his hair, gentle and steady, trying to ease him. You knew he didn’t mean any harm with how he was fumbling—he was just like an old car that needed a few tries to get going.
“What’s got you thinking like this?” He quickly rushes out, grabbing your hand, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You debated on telling him the drawn out version of word jumble, and anxious rambling or tell him outright like you’ve been rehearsing.
“I would just—” You grabbed his hands again, thumbs caressing his calloused fingers noticing the faint tan forming beneath his wrist watch. Suddenly struck with shyness you shrug, toying with his hands. “Sometimes, I’d just… love to hold hands with you.” you said said, voice getting softer with each syllable.
“Sweetheart,” He whispers, pulling your hands, and bringing you around the arm of the sofa. Your hand trails the length of his right arm, muscles taut beneath the pads of your fingers. You watch the hairs on his arm stand, as your nails lightly scratch the surface of his skin. He makes you stand before him.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, placing you in the space between his legs, your knees pressing gently against the edge of the sofa. You feel yourself pouting, lips tugging downward despite your best effort to stay composed. Joel’s large hands wrap around yours, rough palms hot against your skin as he brings them to his lips. The soft brush of his mouth on the back of your hand sends a flush to your cheeks, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other.
“As much as I would love to show everyone what’s mine…” he says, voice low, as he leans forward, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders. He kisses the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hands slide up the length of your forearms, settling at your hips, fingers curling into the small of your back.
“Right now…” he presses a small kiss just above your waistband, his lips lingering against your skin before he looks up at you, gaze steady, almost searching. “I just wanna keep this ours, for a little longer,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you. One hand dips lower, fingers brushing over the sliver of bare skin where your shirt lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring it.
"It’s good like this. Just you and me."
You feel him breathe you in, feel the way his fingers linger at your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of your body like he needs the contact to stay present.
"I think about it too," he says quietly. "What it’d be like, not keeping it quiet." His hand rests firm, steady against you, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. "But... I ain’t had something like this in a long time."
His voice trails off, thick with something unspoken, thumb still moving like he can’t bring himself to stop, can’t let go.
"I just... I wanna hold onto it a little longer, like this."
You cradle his head in your hands, fingers threading through his hair before dragging down the length of his back, nails scratching softly against the fabric of his shirt as you let out a deep, aching sigh. Joel’s thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch firmer now as he pulls back just enough to see you.
You meet his eyes, face to face, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at how good he looks—his glasses slipping low on his nose, jaw tense, eyes soft. It only makes your chest tighten more.
You huff, frustration bubbling up.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you say, quiet, yet certain.
Joel’s eyes stay on you, hands steady at your waist.
“I know you don’t.”
He swallows hard, more of his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, onto your skin.
“But this—what we’ve got right now—it’s the only thing in a long time that’s felt…” His eyes search yours, waiting for that unspoken understanding, and when he finds it, he leans in, voice low.
“I’m not ready to give that up. Not yet.”
Your forehead rests against his, as if the closeness alone could quiet the anxiety crawling its way up your throat.
“Can… we really keep going like this?”
Your fingers find their solace in the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with them in slow, nervous motions, your nails lightly tapping against the arms of his glasses with every other pass. You can’t help but watch your hands move, almost detached, like they don’t belong to you anymore.
It’s some quiet reminder—how much you already lean on him, how even now, you’re using the feel of him to steady yourself, to keep your worry at bay.
Joel lets out a soft chuckle to the side as he straightens up, leaning into the back of the sofa with a sigh, his eyebrows scrunched with disappointment but you knew it wasn’t directed at you.
His hands pull you easily, guiding you into his lap, like a missing puzzle piece. Straddling him now, your knees press into the cushion, chest light against his, the steady rise and fall of his breath meeting yours.
His hands move down your sides, and around the curve of your ass to rest against the sides of your thighs, his palm’s warm against the fabric on your legs.
“You’re here. I’m here. Is there somethin’ else we need that I’m missin’?”
Your eyes search his, drawn to the fine lines at the corners, the way they crease softly when he looks at you like this. The sun has left its mark on him, scattering faint freckles and warm tones across his skin, like time didn’t just pass—it stayed, settling gently. As if in a trance, your eyes find a way to his lips, holding his face delicately in your hands, you shake your head slowly.
“Baby girl,” his fingers burn against your skin, his voice low, and rough, “I’m tryin’ to keep you to myself, just a little longer.”
His thumb drags slowly over your skin.
“Ain’t ready to let everyone see what’s mine.” And with one more look, you feel yourself caving. You subconsciously lean in closer, absolutely weak to whatever hold he seems to have on you.
“Damn you, Miller,” you whisper, and he lets out a small snort, breath fanning across your lips.
His hands slide up from their place on your thighs, slowly, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin before settling at your hips, pulling you closer.
You watch his hands, almost dazed, as your jean-covered knees shift, dragging his shirt up ever so slightly along his sides. The fabric rises, revealing the warm skin beneath—soft, familiar, the faint line of his waist exposed in the now dimming light.
You don’t look up. Not yet.
Your hands slide what feels incredibly slow from his jaw down his neck and chest, fingertips tracing the edge where his shirt had risen, drawn to the heat of him. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady, waiting.
And then you look at him, really look, taking him in for all he’s worth, and you lean in, tapping your forehead to his, the plastic of his glasses cool against the bridge of your nose. You dip your fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt and pull him closer. Your lips tentatively brush against his, light as breath, your eyes half-lidded, hoping—waiting—for him to meet you there.
When his lips finally touch yours, he kisses you, really kisses you, it’s slow, and deliberate at first, like he’s aware of how delicate this moment is. His breath hitches, just barely, but you feel it in the way his hands dig into your exposed skin, dragging you flush against him, no space, no air, just him.
His kiss stays soft, for a moment. The kind of soft that makes your chest ache, makes you lean in harder, chasing the heat of his mouth, the way his lips part just enough to taste you, to take more. Your hands trail up his neck and down his chest, in slack patterns stopping at times to caress his ears, or toy with his tousled hair.
His tongue brushes yours, just a flick, just enough to make your stomach twist. and you feel his hands slide, lower now, gripping at the curve of your ass, squeezing like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
You let out something between a sigh and a whimper, and that’s all Joel Miller needs.
The already searing kiss somehow deepens, rougher now, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothes it with his tongue, pulling you impossibly close, taking and giving all at once.
You sigh into him, your breath warm between you, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it as you shift in his lap. The cotton stretches under your hands, bunching in your fists as you press closer, the solid weight of him beneath your palms impossible to ignore.
Your hands roam, slow, dragging over his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric, your fingers curling, groping softly here and there—testing, squeezing, not quite gentle, not rough, just needing, just taking your time as you explore the shape of him. The way he breathes beneath you, steady but tight, makes you linger, pressing your palms flat before curling them again, feeling the give of muscle, the warmth that seems to rise with every touch.
Your hands drift lower, fingers dragging across the stretched fabric, and it’s only when you shift again that you feel it—your knuckles brushing against the sliver of skin exposed just above his waistband. You pause there, just for a moment, fingers tentatively skimming the heat of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, where the faintest line of hair disappears beneath the waist of his jeans.
He tenses, breath catching against your lips, and you can’t help the small smile that ghosts across yours.
One hand finds its way back to the curve of his neck, slipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, holding him there, grounding him, grounding yourself. You lean in to kiss him again, your hips pressed firm to his, and your other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his stomach, light at first, like a question, before smoothing higher, feeling the heat, the tension, the way he shifts beneath you like he’s trying to stay still, but he can’t.
His hand slides up your back, slow, firm, until his fingers are tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to pull you away.
When you let him pull you back, it’s only enough to breathe, to see him with his lips swollen, eyes heavy, chest rising hard beneath your hands. You stay close, your breath still tangled with his, the warmth between you humming, thick.
A slow smile pulls at your lips, fingers brushing the warm skin on his back, light, deliberate.
“My, my, Mr. Miller...” your voice is low, soft, but there’s no mistaking the edge of it, “I’m seeing all kinds of sides to you today.”
You feel the way he tenses under you, the pause in his breath.
Your thumb drags along the curve of his necklline, slow, tracing.
“Didn’t think you got jealous.” The words are almost a whisper, your eyes focusing on his skin exposed fingers ghosting, not quite touching.
“Didn’t know you could be so...” you pause, fingers slipping beneath the waistline of his shirt into the curls at the base of his belly button, your palm warm against the heat of his skin. He gazes down, and watches your hand move beneath the fabric of his shirt. “...soft.”
The heat of the room caused his glasses to slide further down his nose, as we quickly glanced up at you. Smirking slightly at his disheveled state you take your hand that’s on his shoulder and swiftly push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before a smirk found its way to your lips.
The weight of his gaze was heavy on you as he doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leans in, his breath hot against your cheek, and then lower, until his lips find the spot just below your jaw, kissing you slow, open-mouthed, like he has all the time in the world, like he’s content to feel you melt into him.
His hand moves from your body, sliding down your arm, fingers tracing lightly until they curl around your wrist, rough and sure. He doesn’t speak, just guides you, pulling your hand from his shoulder, slow and steady, down the curve of his chest, lower, until your knuckles meet the hem of his shirt.
And then he pulls you under.
Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, joining the other hand already resting there, against the warmth of his stomach, where the muscles are tight beneath your touch, where the faint trail of hair leads down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he holds your wrist there, pressing your hand lower, like he wants you to feel just how much he’s burning, how much of him is wound up right beneath your palm. His breath stutters against your neck, lips still moving over your skin, kissing, nipping, but slower now—like he’s caught in it, too.
You feel the heat of him, the way he shifts beneath you, hips pressing up ever so slightly, chasing your touch as your hands move together, exploring the firm planes of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, groping, lingering, hoping to god you’d take more—but instead, your breath catches, something low in your belly pulling tight, and though you don’t stop, not really, your hands stay, palms still pressed to the bare skin of his stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the way he stays warm beneath you, the tension thick, still humming between your bodies, heavy and close.
You lean back—not far, not fully, just enough to draw in a breath, to see him, to take in the way he looks, the way he’s fallen back into the sofa, not letting go but giving in, his chest rising sharp beneath your touch, his shirt pushed up, bunched high enough that you can still feel him, still press into him, skin flushed deep across his chest, creeping high along his neck, blooming in his cheeks, the color settling there, soft and red and beautiful in a way you weren’t prepared for.
And you don’t move your hands—you can’t—because there’s something about feeling him like this, about having him beneath you, so undone, so real, that makes it impossible to pull away, impossible to even think about letting go.
His hair’s a mess, still tangled from your fingers, the curls at the nape damp with heat, and those glasses—slipping low, crooked, barely holding on—make him look ruined in the best way, like no one’s ever touched him like this, like no one else should ever get the chance.
Your thumb drags slowly over his waist, your other hand rising slightly, feeling the way his stomach still trembles under your touch, and your breath hitches—not from what he’s doing, but from what he is, from what you see, what you feel, what you know.
“Yeah...” the word leaves you soft, low, more breath than sound, your eyes locked on him, watching the way he stays with you, caught in it, flushed and open and completely yours. “No one else should see you like this.”
You feel him shift beneath you, his breath deepening, like he knows, like he’s heard exactly what he needed, and you press your hands to him, firmer now, like you’re holding him there—not just to feel, but to claim, to remind yourself that this, him, all of it, belongs to you.
And you’re definitely not letting anyone else have it.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
---
a/n: WAAAHHHHH I WANT TO KEEP HIM SAFE IN MY ARMS FOREVER (also not really edited so soz for the typos)
