becca

🧸 aries girl. 25. joel.🤎

[worhols]

jackson!joel miller x f!reader 🤎

500 words | warnings: mostly fluffy, some sexual thoughts

in honor of the trailer and this gif, here’s my first real piece of writing, pls be kind 🥺 - minors dni

He’d seen you so many times.

Regular patrol partners, he’d gotten to know you very well. He knew you were younger. He didn’t even want to think about how old you might have been when the outbreak happened. Maybe that’s why he had to fight off the thoughts that came to him when he saw you.

You knew he was a lot older than you. You’d found him handsome initially, despite his gruff personality. You’d watched him soften in Jackson, the two of you becoming friends. You knew he liked to keep to himself and play his guitar on his front porch in the evening.

Tonight was a community gathering at the Tipsy Bison. It wasn’t often that adults could gather like that, away from the kids. Joel showed no interest in being there, but you had. He’d told you that you should go and live a little. As he spoke about it, he faintly remembered the times him and Tommy could go to a bar on a Friday night. The thought of him meeting you at one popped into his mind and he quickly dismissed it.

His fingertips were dancing on the strings of his guitar, the music flowing into the warm summer air. Seeing him made you nervous, but the music calmed your nerves. Even with his bad hearing and the music, he had heard you step foot into his yard. Pulling away from the neck of his guitar, he couldn’t help but stare.

Seeing you dressed how you were made his cock twitch. A dress you’d had shelved for years now framed your body, hugging your curves. He’d never seen so much of you, and he didn’t know where to look.

“Still against the Bison tonight?”

He was silent for a moment, still taking you in. You noticed a finger of whiskey sitting on the ledge. Setting his guitar aside, he folded his hands over his middle.

“I think it’s best I stay here tonight.”

You pouted. He noticed you’d put something on your lips to make them shine. It made him think about how beautiful they’d look wrapped around him.

“Why don’t you come down there with me, just for a little?”

His eyebrows pinched together. He looked like he was considering it. Grabbing the whiskey and downing it in one gulp, he stood from his rocking chair and took the two porch steps down to you. He loomed over you now, eyes trailing down your body.

“What would an old man like me look like going down there with a beautiful girl like you, hm?”

You blushed and peered up at him. He felt like he was 30 again, picking up his date. The feeling was unnatural after years of being so closed off. You looked as if you were thinking for a moment before taking a step back, his porch light illuminating you again.

“Do you like my dress?”

You were flirting with him. His nostrils flared. He held his fingers out and twirled them. You spun around for him. He eyed the curve of your ass, the length of your legs. Touching your chin with his finger and thumb, he moved your face side to side observing your makeup.

“I really like it darlin’.”

He’d actually smiled then, one side of his lips twitching up to a grin. You had a feeling he knew it was just for him.

[99fish]

hi heres the entire twilight movie as a stamp

[tortol]

circus animals 🥠

[auteurdelabre]

The holidays are around the corner and I have been working on a special project for my readers. I have mentioned it before but...

On December 15th I will be dropping

1. A final, completed version of "So much to Lose" in epub and mobi format.

It will include the following:

- fully edited story (I'm doing my best here kids, don't expect perfection!)

- additional and expanded scenes

- a brand new chapter

- the final installment of the seasons series

- a kiss for each one of you who read, wrote comments, supported me and fell in love with the characters.

2. A companion book who's details I am keeping a surprise for now!

I read many of you telling me that you couldn't afford much in this economy and I heard you. All of this is FREE, my Christmas gift to you.

3. I have also started an author instagram in the hopes of building a following so I can go to publishers to be like "See! People like me! Publish my book!" If they don't, the plan is to self publish STFF by July 2026 and "The F*ck-It List" by early 2027 (or earlier if things work out well!) so if you could support me on there I would so appreciate it!!!

Lastly, if you feel like tipping this author, I thank you kindly. Ko-fi is here.

So excited to share this magical season with you!

Love, Emma

[beoperolover]

Fav gif #132

[penvisions]

burning miseries {prologue}

Pairing: Dr. Victor Frankenstein x Housekeeper! Reader

Summary: A hidden journal, books with content not approved of for a woman to consume, an upset father lecturing you of your worth- and suddenly you find yourself removed from your family and a working woman.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: mary shelley canon compliant, frankenstein canon compliant, germanic language translations - which might be bad since i only know the basics, horror, body horror, victorian time sickness and death, canon deaths off screen, medical jargon, medical horror, medical experiments, yearning, reader is unmarried and therefore 'innocent' for the times, period piece i guess, lust and the sin of it, internal dialogue, self depreciating thoughts from victor, we love a tortured man, sexual content, primal play, slight corruption, reader loves 'sullied subjects', victor struggles with the death of his wife and is mean at first, forced proximity, power dynamics, reader works for victor, more to be added

Fic Note: the lore of the fic is a mixture between the original writings of mary shelley as well as the film adaptations

A/N: oh gosh, here's this thing i poured my heart into amidst my bronchitis induced fever. this is so different from anything i've written so far, so please let me know what you think?

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation

The sun set hours ago, dousing the city into darkness and a chilling mist that blurs everything into an almost surreal landscape outside the tall windows of your room. You cautiously rise from within the covers of your bed, unwilling to let the undisturbed hours of the night go to waste even as you feel the tether of an ache in your temples. The fabrics of your sleep gown hushing as you move toward your desk and reach for the book of matches you know is in the first drawer.

With a waft of sulfur and the spark of the wick, the candle atop the desk flares to life and you stare into the yellow of the flame. Your eyes drift to the expansive shelves that house the books you’ve indulged in since you could remember. Your family priding themselves on the education of their children.

But what they didn’t know, what anyone knew, is that you strayed from approved subjects.

That of the reproductive systems, the way a woman’s body changes during pregnancy, something that went unnoticed as you doted on your mother and sister as they carried their own babes to term. It simply looked like you were a concerned daughter or sister, not that you were cataloguing the things they were going through or the changes of their minds and ways of thinking as well as their bodies. It’s fascinating in the way that makes you want to publish your own findings, but you aren’t completely foolish.

You know that is but a dream that will never come to fruition.

It would warrant laughter and judgement, some even may go so far as to accuse you of sorcery and fantasy. Women don’t get the chance to be taken as seriously as men and certainly not you, the eldest of five children. Seven if you count the two that never took a breath, whose names you carry in your heart while everyone seems to ignore the subject of them altogether.

You make quick work of notating the contents of a book that you’ve snuck out from the main library of the house. This one on the changes in women who experience hysteria and the treatments given to them in order to abate their symptoms. The notion of a lobotomy truly terrifies you and you hope you never experience such a thing- though a small comfort you guess would be that you wouldn’t even know it’s occurred.

Shaking such thoughts from your mind, you simply make a personal commentary on the one symptom that you’ve experienced yourself- fevered longing.

That ache that happens beneath your middle, the one that tingles between your legs and makes you slick in a way you’ve never experienced before. Surely the relief of such a thing would not be that of removing a woman’s sense of self but of…applying pressure to the bundle of nerves there that throbs.

You’ve never tried anything of the sort, too afraid of what would happen, but you won’t deny crossing your legs as tight as possible and reveling in the jolt of heat it sends up your spine.

“But brother please!” Your voice rises with the shame you feel, the fear at the news broken to you just moments ago. Your chest stings with the panic that rouses high and fills your entire body, eyes jumping from the journal in his hands that he brandishes at you to the stern look of your parents across from you in the morning room.

The very same journal you wrote in last night of your own experience with that ache between your legs. You aren’t a fool, you know how children are conceived, and yet you aren’t really sure you know anything but the barest of minimums when it comes to that- ensured by the lack of lessons on the woman’s body given to you and your siblings.

Your mother won’t make contact with your eyes, your father however seems to have no such qualms as he fixes you with a disappointed, if not disgusted sneer upon his features.

“We are all in agreement,” He shakes his head, coiffed curls bouncing along with the movement. Sealing your fate and stealing your future of finding suitor within society.

You recall the moment as your carriage turns onto a private road, the one that leads to a lone estate far in the distance. The wooded terrain new to you, typically gazed upon through a windowpane. Sent away, hidden away in the wilderness by your family.

To be a working woman- no longer on the marriage market.

No longer valuable to those who raised you and within the society circles you’ve graced your entire life.

A housekeeper, they said. Bought by the brother of the man who holds a decent standing within society. Enough so that he can spend his days in his practice, a doctor seeking after research now that he’s tired of running a practice.

The man is across from you now. Victor Frankenstein.

“Brother, heed my words and actions. You require the help in order to court investors.” The man speaking now is his brother, telling him with a hard voice and a pleading face the reality of their circumstances. The reason for you being there in the drawing room with them- few bags unloaded in the entry way.  “The estate is in shambles, dirt and grime accumulating in a most alarming matter. If you refuse to visit the city to meet with them, an offer for them to stay here is the natural progression from there.”

“She is but a young maiden, she knows naught of housekeeping let alone tending to a man like me.” Victor’s eyes rove over your form, igniting a heat that flares from your middle and down over each limb. The tips of your fingers tingle, as they do when you never waited for the maid to place another log into the fireplace. The cusp of touching such a strong element enough to fascinate you into watching it until it was nothing but smoldering embers.

You feel the same now- as if you are on the cusp of burning yourself. But instead of controlled flames you’ve come to anticipate the actions of, it is because of the man who stands before you with downturned lips and the sneer of a strong nose.

“She looks like a babe, surely she’s better suited for another life far from that of mine.”

“Greif keeps you humble.”

“Does it not?” His voice rises along with a fist that slams harshly atop the desk in front of him. “Does my grief not keep me to myself so as to harm no others? Hidden here at the family estate removed from society as a whole?”

The motion makes you jolt in your seat, the layers of your dress shifting as your legs tense and your feet flatten on the floor. The urge to flee striking through you as fear fills your heart for a brief moment- this man, this doctor, is far more than his brother told you of. Not for the first time since leaving your family abode do you realize how fearful it is to meet new people. You no longer have their protection nor that of your brother’s, left to fend for yourself in this unpredictable world.

Surely you will burn should you fail to win his graces over. Or perhaps you will find your end no matter where you end up.

“It was an accident, brother.” Ernest waves off his brother’s heated words, tossing you a glance as he steps closer to the desk. But Victor doesn’t want the comfort he would deliver, shoving off from the heavy oak and positioning himself in front of the large window, his silhouette striking even as his next words make a weight in your heart.

“One I will not let this stranger but hear of. Get her out of my sight, I have no need of her.”

“We shall stay for two days, before we are off.” Ernest doesn’t seem to take his brother’s words too seriously. “The journey was long as we could use the rest.”

“I’ve no maids or servants to dote on you, it’s best you leave now.” Victor frowns, almost as if he knows he is alone in the family estate and how it looks. You don’t know his story nor the events that led him to have obtained the house, the only thing you know is that he is the middle child of three. He certainly acts like it, you muse as you regard him in all his upset splendor. His clothing is kept clean though you can see the oil built up in the curls of his thick hair. The dark scruff about his strong jaw gives way to how many days its been since his last wash. But his skin is still kissed by the sun despite his brother lamenting about how Victor never leaves the confines of his lab or the estate in general.

“Nonsense, Victor, we must rest.” Ernest announces with an air of finality, taking in the two of you scrutinize each other. When you lock eyes with the man, his moustache twitches as if he trying to suppress a smile, though you have no clue what anyone in this room has to smile about at the moment with how thick the tension is.

You’re ushered out of the drawing room, your bags picked up by Ernest, and you follow him up the staircase and to a hallway. He apologizes for his brothers behavior,

The room you’ve been left in with a promise to call on you at the break of dawn is anything but welcoming. There is dust covering each surface and the desk is home to more than a few bottles that were emptied so long ago that there is now mold growing inside.

Sleep evades you, never curling its tendrils around your mind and pulling you under.

Sighing, you remove the outer layers of your attire, the scarf used to cover and secure your hat atop your head, the hat itself, and the long sleeves of a half coat over your upper body.

The moon is bright enough to give you a decent view of everything as you carefully open the door to the room, a sconce lit up at the corner of the hallway to give a little more light to the inside of the dark castle. The hush of your skirts along the floor don’t rouse a soul, the snoring loud from the one other room in the same hall- you’ve no idea where Victor’s main bedroom is and honestly you want nothing to do with the man.

After finding your way back to the drawing room and then the kitchen from there, you gather what might help you to tidy up the space you’re meant to occupy for the night.

Time passes and the estate fills with the hustling of you going from your room to the rooms typically used by servants of the house. The hush of sponges scrubbing suds into caked on dirt and broom bristles on dirty floors is all that can be heard in the night, causing you to pause more than once to ensure you haven’t woken anyone. But you know that down on the main floor, there is no need to worry.

Buckets of soapy water, countless sponges and rags, and dusters wrapped with cobwebs all lay in piles on dirty sheets once covering furniture that now line the entrance to your room, the kitchen, and just inside the dining room. The evidence of your almost crazed cleaning obvious as both Frankenstein brothers rise for the day.

The sun is above the horizon now, the crickets of the night no longer chirping as the birds begin to sing their day break melodies outside the windows. You’ve not blanked out but you’ve gone into a trance almost, you realize as your eyes focus and you find yourself standing at the stove and tending to a simple baked oat loaf. Atop the stove is a cast iron filled to the brim with vegetables you found in the pantry and the fat left over from a previous meal.

It's not much, but it’s what you managed out of what you found- your mind working to prove that you are worth something, that you are capable of being this new version of yourself. You aren’t helpless, you can cook and clean and tend to a house- even if the head of the house has only but sneered in your direction thus far.

You aren’t sure why it’s so important a point to make, but it’s possessed you all the same, even to the point that you begin to take plates and the dishes over into the dining room.

They find you busy placing dishes full of steaming food atop the cleaned and polished dining table, candles light in the middle and chairs set up at one end- just two of them prepared while the others are still off in one corner.

“My dear, your dress is absolutely filthy!” Ernest exclaims, truly caught off guard by the way your face is scuffed with dirt, your hair is wild and barely held back by a barrette, and your pristine dress from the day before is now damp in certain spots as well as stained with wood polish.

“Tis a simple dress, I can wash and tend to it. Worry not, sir.” You rustle the skirts this way and that, taking in the way they’ve been marred. It’s not a concern of yours, seeing as the dress was something that your brother insisted on you wearing, a style and the pale colors not something you would’ve picked out for yourself. Mustering up a half smile, you shrug your shoulders and let the skirts go to flounce about your legs.

“What is the meaning of this?” Victor’s gloved hands clap to get your attention, the loud sound straightening your back and urging you to move your hands in front of your hips in a submissive stance. “You are you to make yourself so at home and help yourself to the stock of my kitchen?”

“Now, now, brother.” Ernest tries to guide the man to the chair at the head of the table, fingers massage the tense shoulders he finds the man carrying. “She is but a considerate girl who wished to serve you breakfast once before you banish her from your own home and to an asylum or church.”

“I hardly think that is where such a girl will end up, marriage will be best for her once she returns home.”

“A mighty fine wife she would make, you are correct. But as I was trying to explain to you upon our arrival-“

“Excuse me, sirs, but I would be so lucky as to end up in a church over the other options available to someone such as me. I am not one for the daily rituals, but it is a better fate than that which is my own now. Ostracized by my family and deemed a deviant by high society.” It may be deviant but your eyes meet those of Victor’s, the brown of them almost swallowing you whole as you keep his gaze. His brows furrow and his eyes harden but still you remain aware of the statement you’ve just made.

“And what exactly is a deviant, say you? Do you even know what language you use?” One thick eyebrow raises in question as Victor regards you from his chair. He’s yet to pick up his utensil nor take a sip from his glass. He’s challenging you, seeing if you do know what language you use and if it is being used correctly.

“I do not mind the hard work or the callous that will form on my hands, I just ask that you give me this once chance to prove I can look after your home and to serve you to the best of my abilities. Speaking of my sins is not polite conversation, lest you pass the same judgment upon me and my own family. All I ask is but for a chance, if you can find it in your interest.”

Seeming to think it over, Victor takes a bite of the food you prepared and chews slowly. Half of the serving he’s plated up is gone before he waves you off and demands you clean up whatever mess you’ve made in the kitchen from cooking. You leave the two men alone, hoping that they will discuss things further and come to an agreement.

But the pause he took as he chewed, the almost thoughtful glint in his eyes, it stirred up a bit of pride that you cradled close to your heart. You had made something satisfactory out of what little you managed to find and work with. That was enough to give you a bit of hope that you weren’t as completely clueless as everyone deems you to be.

If this isn’t the place for you to work and come into the next stage of your life, you can only hope that someone else will be interested in allowing you an opportunity.

Hours pass, nearing midday and your stomach rumbles from the nonstop activity you’ve managed since your arrival. But you don’t dare sneak a bite of anything within the pantry, instead opting for the small tin of butter cookies you keep in a deep pocket of your attire.

You hold it on the flat of your tongue and allow it to melt into a softened bite before chewing it and you feel a little better.

The house is expansive, containing many more rooms than your own family estate does- well former family estate. A pang of sadness settles in your chest, heart hefty at the state of things and how you may never see you siblings again. Deemed too dangerous and deranged for something so simple.

You truly don’t understand- on some level you do but within the grand scheme of things and the vastness of the world- what is so wrong with you studying something that men only touch on in their own research?

“There you are, my dear,” Ernest’s voice startles you from your deep thoughts as you gaze out a front window and down onto the expansive garden. You can only assume what flowers and plants used to thrive amid the hedges and marble statues, but everything is now withered and browned. Your fingers itch to dig into the dirt, to prune, to bring the once living things back to life.

“Yes, sir, apologies.” You turn to him with your hands tucked behind your back. “I strayed from the kitchen after cleaning it.”

“My brother is sensible in fleeting moments it seems, after all. We’ve been tasked with going to town in order to stock up for you both. He’s agreed to have you on for a month as trial of your skills.”

“Praise be, he won’t be disappointed, I promise you that!” The estate is large, impossibly so, but you are determined to bring it flourishing back into good shape. If the work you dedicated yourself to overnight is any indication, you know now that you are capable.

“Hush your words now, lest he hear you.” Ernest pats a hand on your cheek, much like your brothers would do and it stirs something in you. The smile that turns his lips up is less cordial than the one he greeted you with a week ago and more familiar. “If I know him as well as I anticipate, then this is merely a ruse, so he does not have to admit to hiring you outright at the moment.”

You nod fervently, your wild and frizzed hair bobbing with the motion.

“I’ll ready the carriage while you change into something more suitable for shopping.”

Pulling on your gloves, you descend the staircase at the front of the house, only to be startled by the door that leads off to the right opening with an alarming creak. The sound grates along the inside of your head and throbs in your temples, halting your next step despite already taking it.

You stumble, gloves sliding along the smooth stone of the banister and you end up landing on your bottom- roughly.

“Now is not the time to rest, young maiden, you’ve work to tend to.” Victor’s smooth voice echoes around the wide entry way. You stand at attention, feeling the heat of embarrassment behind your face even as you keep an even expression. His eyes scrutinize your features, making you almost self-conscious of where you scrubbed it free of dirt just moments before.

As soon as you reach the ground floor, he’s walking alongside you and it’s then that you notice his hands are full. In one he carries a parchment with lines of script, the looping black making you think of the last time you read. In the other, he carries the velvet pouch that looks hefty with weight and clinks metallically with his each step.

He’s handing them both to you before he open the main door and waves down the stairs at his brother waiting beside the carriage. The whiny and snort of the horses does nothing to draw your attention from the items now in your possession, nor the man towering over you with a hard look. His curls look more maintained, his face cleanshaven though you can see the shadow of his scruff already starting to grow back along his strong jaw. His eyes look just as tortured though he regards you straight on just as he did yesterday and this morning.

“Make sure to find your way back after completing the list, seems you are of some use to me after all.”

It seems Victor Frankenstein is your new employer and failure is not an option.

next chapter

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[moonlight-prose]

the creature who is exploring your body- groping, licking, biting, etc - wondering why yours is so different from his. at first it’s nice and sometimes even tickles, but when you slowly respond to his touch its not long til he’s overstimulating you.

whispers of darkness

a/n: love love your mind babes because this had me nodding in solidarity at the screen. between jumping from a borrowed laptop and my phone this took a bit to write. but thankfully i managed to sit down and churn out the rest in a mad rush. and because it's me there's a bit of angst but like not really if i'm being honest. this was so fucking fun to write and i did change it up a tiny but i really love how it turned out. divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics.

summary: time ceased to exist when you found him in the forest, when he read to you by a fire, and the moment you kissed him with an earnest smile. OR letting the creature explore how he wants.

word count: 2.2k+

pairing: the creature x f!reader

warnings: explicit so minors dni 18+ only!! tiny itty bit of angst, romance, body worship of sorts, gothic love, overstimulation, edging, lots and lots of kissing, the use of my english lit degree, waxing poetically about needing to fuck the creature.

The baritone of his voice grew dark against the glow of a raging fire he started to keep you warm. Chunks of wood ripped clean off trees he toppled, brush gathered at the forest’s edge and packed in around the base, and a cauldron—now empty of stew—settled on a hook in the center.

The pages were crinkled beneath his fingertips. Flipped delicately and set back into place as the curve of his spine bent forward to see the words better as night drowned the world in darkness again.

“I have loved her all my youth, But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit, From the withered tree.”

Your head pressed into his arm, fur draped over your legs as his voice washed over you. Calming waters strung together with blotches of ink, mistakes from the press no doubt yet still legible despite it all. He recited poetry like a whisper, reverence dripping off the stanzas and melting into your skin like chocolate on your tongue. Sweet, pleasant the longer he kept going.

“Know that love is a careless child, And forgets promise past, He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast.”

“Your voice is practically warmer than the fire,” you mused, pressing your nose into the thin fabric of his shirt—the cloth now smelling of rosemary and river water.

His hair was pinned back with twine you found in your pocket, giving you the chance to see his face in its entirety. The pale shades of his skin and muted gray tones of dead flesh sewn together with nimble fingers. You know the stories of his creator, listened intently as he recounted the years he spent on this plane of existence—the anguish in his throat that spilled out back tears and suffocating grief.

Solemnly uttered a year ago when you came across him in the woods—lost to the world and yet returning from the icy tundra from where he once existed. To say you clung to one another was an understatement. He could see the strike of lightning that brought life to his bones in your eyes, the dark clouds of forever slowly dissipating the longer he remained in your vicinity.

You smiled at him as if you’d know him all your life. An old friend returning from the past. A new soul already etched into yours.

There was no other option but to take his hand in yours and let him follow where you went. Traipsing after you with earnest in his heart and a belonging in his bones. You saw love beneath scars and healed stitches. An eternity was trapped in a steady beating organ he knew belonged to you. He never said it aloud, terrified of your response even after the time you spent together.

But you knew in the way he pulled you close by the fire, his chin resting soft atop your head, thumb running smooth along the length of your forearm. Tracing your only scar that sat ugly and raised on the edge of your wrist. A disgusting promise of permanence from a man who once claimed to love you—a life you could forget in the deep rumble of his voice.

“Tell me the end,” you breathed, tipping your head back to catch his gaze. “Before we sleep.”

Lips pulled into a grin, fingers tugging the page over with a breath. “But true Love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning; Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself…never…turning.”

“Mm,” you sighed. “I understand that.”

“Tell me.” The bend in his neck was unconscious, a familiar instinct he did to hear you better, to feel the sound of your voice vibrate against his skin.

“True love being a durable fire.”

The crack of wood splintering beneath the heat and sparks scattering out into the air echoed in place of your voices. Shared breath taking over the space where your lips were so close to his. You kissed him once. Months ago in the warmer air as he followed you through the forest on a stroll to find herbs and flowers. It was quick—fleeting. Stolen and chaste beneath a tree that wept the petals of small pink flowers, a soft press with a smile before you were dashing away on a different path.

It wasn’t until hours later that you wanted to ask what he thought. Pick his mind for more than just the comfort of friendship and hope it might evolve into more. But embarrassment won the battle warring in your mind, emotions traded for silence until life had no choice but to go on.

“Never sick,” he muttered, nose brushing yours as heat spilled into your cheeks. “Never old.”

“Reminds me of you.”

His eyes shut, lashes a dark shadow along the tops of his cheeks—both different lengths and some paler than others. “I…remind you…of love.”

“I like to believe-” Your fingers clasped around his wrist as you pulled his large palm to your face, allowing it to splay across your cheek. “That you were made for me to love.”

Breath stuttered in his chest and you smiled at the soft choking sound that came from his throat—warmth settling in the base of your stomach. This was inevitable. The wanting, the need for more than just friendship trapped within these four walls. He didn’t just exist to be a stranger turned companion, he was yours. Never in the hand of his creator, nor in his command, but meant for you to spend your days with. To hear the promise of his love in every breath and flutter of his heart.

His mouth sealed over yours, clumsy and unsure, barely remaining a second before he started to pull away. But your hand stopped him. Your fingers pressed soft against his cheek and dragged him back with a gasp, tasting the weight of poetry on his tongue when you licked into him with a bitten back moan. The fire raged in your bones, spreading out to the tips of your toes as he banded an arm around your waist and yanked you up into his lap.

“What do I…” The book hit the ground with a thud, your fingers quickly undoing the laces at the front of your bodice.

This was more than what you intended, but his curiosity kept you still and waiting. His dark gaze slid along your form uncovered by the thin fabric of your clothes, the top pooling around your waist and exposing your hard nipples to the cold air. Tension simmered between you, echoing with a loud breath he took when your hand guided his to the base of your throat.

You could feel the hesitation bleed into the air, fear of harming you, of doing something wrong, now pressing down on his shoulders. “How?” he pleaded with wet eyes.

“Touch,” you breathed, leaning into his mouth with a grin. “Wherever you wish.”

Nimble and trembling fingers traced the lines of your collarbone, the expanse of smooth skin so unlike his stitched together chest and abdomen. Marks littered his skin like a map he would never be able to retrace. Your body remained the way he imagined as you slept soundly beside him—unmarred by the cruelty of a creator, grown and formed and certainly not made.

You shuddered beneath his hand, teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the first brush of his thumb along the curve of your breast. He wanted to study you. Watch the rise and fall of each breath, witness how your limbs pulled and bones shifted beneath hot skin that warmed his palm. And you would let him.

There would be no question, no resistance to his touch. You were pliant beneath him, malleable and soft as he cupped your breast and felt the weight in his hand—your nipple pressing into his rough skin.

“Oh-” He flinched at the sharp gasp, but your hand clamping tight around his wrist kept him in place. “D-Don’t stop.”

“You echoed with pain.”

Lips molded to his with a breath he swallowed, a smile twisting soft against your mouth. “That wasn’t pain my love.”

The click of spit on your tongue trading the taste with him echoed in his ears, burning against pulsing skin as he dragged his mouth to your throat. He wanted to hear it again. That soft pull of breath and sharp pitch of your voice in the depths of your chest. Fingers pinched your nipple tentatively, pulling slow as your thighs clamped tight around his thighs, your head falling back and chest pushed forward.

“Bliss,” you got out between heavy breaths. “It’s bliss.”

Pleasure, paradise, satisfaction.

The meaning was familiar to him now. As if his body recognized it long before he did, parts of his soul flickering to life at the sight of you writhing against the strokes of his hand. Need shot down your spine when his mouth suckled at your other breath, his hand gripping tight at your back when you went limp in his arms. A cry ripped free when he cupped at your breast, kneading it gently as spit glistened along your skin.

It was soft, a silent prayer etched into your form when his hand slid down to your bare waist. Fingers spreading along your ribcage and mapping the layout of a body he’d see behind shut eyes. You giggled at the stroke of his thumb against your stomach and until then he never realized the skin could be ticklish.

He wrenched free from your breast, heaving in a breath just to see you smile, to hear your laugh again. “Some parts are different than others.”

“My side is tender,” you replied, curling your fingers into his now mussed hair. “It usually doesn’t get touched.”

“Should I move past it?”

“No.” Another stolen kiss had him chasing you with a grin. “Keep going. Please.”

You couldn’t exactly be sure how much time passed in the span of you being shifted from his lap to the pile of furs on the floor, but he had relented from his exploratory touches. Clothes were pulled off your form until you lay bare beneath him. With your legs hooked around his waist and his bare chest pressed to yours as heat crowded around you.

Something formed between the two of you. Expanding with every exhale until you could no longer ignore its existence. That unspeakable love you now felt press into the base of your chest. Thundering along your heart.

He watched the flutter in your chest as he dipped his hand between your thighs, the wet pool of slick jarring him for a brief moment until he was brave enough to see it web around his fingers.

Trembling beneath him, you felt his mouth seal over your breast again, his touch pressing against your folds as you sobbed brokenly. Your eyes were blurry with tears, body reaching past the limit you could take. But a part of you didn’t want to tell him no.

It broke you to think of him pulling away, severed you down the center to imagine the loss of his touch. So you grit your teeth and let him bring you to a brink that continued to grow and fade in a pattern that broke you. The edge rushed up to meet you again as you shut your eyes and blindly grasped for it with a shuddering breath. A crest you knew would never crash, a flood of heat pulling tight at your stomach.

He began to pull away, to slide his hand over your thigh, but something kept him there. Dark eyes latched onto your twisted up face, your mouth falling open the moment his fingers pressed against you roughly. The shake in your thigh should have let him know, but he’d never seen someone like this before.

Oblivious to the signs of what you could feel in your bones. It snapped with your cracked shout, his face pressed in close as another gush of slick poured out of your fluttering hole.

Tears spilled onto your temples, your eyes fluttering open to see his mouth parted in a gasp and feel his breath on your cheek. But the burn of pain had you yanking at his arm to make him stop—your mouth finding his with a soft pleased sigh.

“That was bliss,” he stated, touching your hip as you came down with shallow gasps of air.

You nodded, feeling his tongue press soft against yours. “That was more than bliss.”

He smiled. “The fires of love then.”

“Well…it did say it would never die.”

Brushing two fingers along your cheek, he watched in rapture when you chased their touch, your nose nuzzling into his palm. “Will the embers of it die out one day?”

“No,” you vowed. “Not as long as I’m with you.”

“The companion I sought but could not find?”

“It was I who found you.” The words wound tight around his heart. “Or were you looking for me all this time?”

His nose pressed against your cheek. “I searched for what seems like centuries.”

“Then time has finally ceased.” Wet fingers cupped your neck to tilt you closer. “You’ve found me my love. Your companion.”

A smile was traded between kisses, his other hand reaching for the furs to drape over your bodies. “A durable fire.”

[punkshort]

long way down | 7: head over feet

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You finally get your happy ending with Harry.

Chapter Warnings: language, food and alcohol consumption, mention of periods (not sure if that's relevant), angst, mutual pining, sexual tension, fluff, mention of therapy, reader has hair (unspecified length), smut (18+ MDNI fucking finally), oral f!receiving, pussy pronouns, fingering, dirty talk, hand job, dry humping, thigh riding, protected piv sex, possessiveness, so much sappiness and love... I think that covers it. Enjoy!

WC: 17.8K

Series Masterlist

Two weeks morphed into two months when you had a tougher time than expected finding a new job. Naturally, Harry encouraged you to stick around until you found something, a suspicious offer considering he is still resolutely determined to prove himself to you.

It's been impossibly difficult to stay strong over the last several weeks. Having Harry send you flowers weekly would have been charming enough to anyone, but apparently he had much more in mind. For starters, he asked you out every single Friday. Like clockwork, before you left for the day he would ask if you wanted to go to dinner, or see a show, or take a carriage ride around Central Park, or see a concert, or go to an art gallery... every time he asked, it was different. And every time, you politely turned him down.

You're too weak for him and you know yourself: you'd fall into bed with him the moment he had you alone, completely forgetting the point of standing your ground in the first place.

Harry needs to work on himself, and so do you. You need to have some space to heal, and he needs to decide once and for all if he's capable of love.

Given that he's spent nearly fifty years thinking he can't, you figure it'll take more than a couple weeks to change that mindset. But you can't deny how cute it is to watch him try in the meantime.

Every morning, Harry makes a point to tell you how beautiful you look. Throughout the day, he will tell you something that makes your heart melt: he thought of you when he heard a song in the car, he ordered your favorite coffee drink so he could get a better idea of what you liked, he started reading the same book as you and would periodically bring up some plot point to discuss. Endless little things that rolled into one big thing by the end of the two months since you left his penthouse after your accident. Each day it was becoming harder and harder to ignore, but you kept reminding yourself like a mantra that just because he was doing or saying something sweet, it didn't mean the crux of the issue was addressed: could Harry fall in love?

"And what needs to happen for you to believe he can love, exactly?" Mia asks you over pizza one night. You shrug, mouth full of cheese and eyes glued to your small television.

"I don't know," you admit, "I figure I'll just know."

"That's not vague at all," she mutters sarcastically next to you, then makes a face at the screen. "This movie is so fucking sad, why did you pick it?"

"Because... sometimes the best love stories are a little sad. I mean, look at them! Look how far they've come. Look how long he waited for her. They're meant to be and nothing could ever stop that," you say dreamily as you both watch Ryan Gosling pour his heart out to Rachel McAdams in the rain.

"Babe, this isn't real life. You can't expect this kind of thing to really happen."

"I know," you sigh, "and I know I'll definitely never see something like this from a guy like Harry, but sometimes it's fun to imagine fairytales can come true."

Fairytales: concept Harry was staunchly against. One of the many reasons why the two of you would never work. You knew that years ago and yet your heart never let you move on, something you foolishly romanticized all this time.

Your phone buzzed somewhere in between your couch cushions, pulling your attention off the screen.

"Who is it? Harry sending you a good night poem, perhaps?" Mia jokes. But when she sees your face, her smile slips. "What is it?"

"It's a... job offer," you say flatly while you stare at your phone in disbelief. You should be happy. You should be celebrating. And yet...

"That's amazing! Where?" Mia squeals while hitting pause on the movie. You try to clear the lump in your throat before you answer. It's for a law firm, a prestigious one at that. You'd just be a receptionist but during your interview they offered to pay for your schooling if you were ever interested in becoming a paralegal, a perk you figured would attract hundreds of more qualified applicants than yourself.

"This is fantastic! I knew something would shake loose for you soon," she gushes, but when you're only able to offer her a weak smile, she narrows her eyes. "We are excited about this, right?"

"Yes. Of course we are."

"Then why does it look like someone ran over your cat?"

You sigh and toss your phone to the side. "I guess it just means this is it. I'll officially be done working for Harry."

"Yeah... but it doesn't mean he has to be erased from your life. Like, he's practically throwing himself at your feet every day. This apartment has never smelled better with the flowers he's sent. And you look happier than I've ever seen—"

"Okay, I get it," you say with a hand in the air. "You're still throwing me for loop with all this. You've told me for years I needed to move on and now you're telling me to give him a chance?"

Mia grins around a bite of greasy pizza. "I guess people can change, after all."

---

The following morning happens to be Friday. There's an exciting buzz in the air when you enter the office: the weekend is so close, everyone can taste it, and yet you're shaking like a leaf as you walk to your desk.

You have to tell him about the job and you're not sure how he's going to react. You slept on it and decided it's the right move, but a big piece of you feels dark inside, like you're losing something you'll never be able to get back with this next step.

Since you're amazing at your job, you already mentally ran through Harry's schedule today and you know he doesn't have anything until ten. He should be free right now. There's no use in waiting, you think, so you drop your bag at your desk, take a deep breath, and knock softly on his partially open door.

"Come in."

You slip inside and shut it behind you. When Harry turns away from his computer, his face lights up, making the guilt weigh even heavier in your chest. "Morning, Sunshine."

"Morning," you mumble, and immediately Harry can sense the distress in your voice. His smile falters and he leans back into his chair to give you his full attention.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Yes. Well, no," you say while wringing your hands. He frowns as he watches you sink down into the chair across from him.

"What is it?"

You clear your throat, fiddle with the hem of your skirt, and say to the floor, "I need to give you my two weeks notice."

Harry laughs, surprising you, so you look up. "You already did that," he reminds you, but you shake your head solemnly.

"I got a job offer. And I am going to accept."

The smile freezes on his face while he processes what you said. You can see the whole gambit of emotions: denial, confusion, disbelief, and then finally—acceptance.

"Where?" he asks, voice tight. You swallow nervously and tell him the law firm. He nods and plays with a pen on his desk.

"That's a good firm."

"I know."

He struggles with it for a few more minutes. Rolls around the words in his head, tries to think of something proper to say, but the words on the tip of his tongue aren't proper at all. They're filled with longing and ripe with desire. He knows he holds no claim to you, and yet he is fighting the urge to call up that law firm and ask them to retract their offer. He can't lose you, he can't lose you, he ca—

"Harry?"

He looks up and finds you watching him curiously. You're a hopeless romantic. He's known that for a while. And he's... decidedly not. But he's trying to learn more about you, about what you want and need from a partner, and if he were to do that, if he were to make that call and ruin your chances at something you so very much deserve for his own selfish reasons, then that would be the exact opposite of what you want. You want someone to hold you up, to support you no matter what, and as much as it pains him—you want someone who will let you go so you can explore on your own.

Without him.

"Congratulations," he croaks.

You blink, then smile. "Thank you."

Harry fidgets with the pen some more. "No one will ever be able to truly replace you. You know that, right?"

You nod and swallow down the sadness that lodges itself in your throat. "I know."

His mouth turns downwards as he thinks. "But I'll still need your help training someone."

"I know," you repeat.

A long silence lapses, but it's not thick with discomfort. It's filled with something else you can't name.

"I'm proud of you," he finally says, so softly that it has your heart stumbling. His eyes flicker up to yours. "You're so smart. And quick. They have no idea just how lucky they are to have you."

Tears sting your eyes. You don't know what to say. You expected some kind of pushback, maybe to be dismissed, but not this. It truly feels like the end.

"You're gonna make me cry," you sniffle as you swipe at your eye. His throat bobs like he's trying to fight back his own tears.

"There's no need to cry. You're doing the right thing," he tells you with a sad smile. You nod but his kindness just makes you want to cry even more. "And I'm sorry it didn't work out here. I really am. There's not a day that goes by where I wish I didn't handle things differently."

He looks so forlorn sitting behind his big desk surrounded by dozens of achievements and framed photos of Harry with senators and celebrities, yet he sits across from you looking like a man who's lost everything.

"It's not your fault," you say, and you mean it. It's not his fault you fell in love with him. It's not his fault he's emotionally unavailable. It's not his fault you spent years fantasizing about being the woman to fix him.

"I took you for granted. And now it's too late," he admits sadly. It breaks your heart to hear that but some part of you assumed he would give up trying the moment things got a little difficult. You sigh and stand up, grateful at least you aren't the one with your heart on your sleeve this time.

"I should get to work," you say. He nods, gaze still cast downwards with a small crease permanently seated between his eyebrows.

"Thanks, Sunshine."

It hits you like a punch to the gut hearing the affectionate nickname, but you force your feet to move until you're safely back at your desk.

Maybe when he said 'it's too late', he just meant about the job. Maybe he still plans to prove his feelings for you, to show you he can be good, like he promised. However at the end of the day, Harry doesn't come up with some clever way to ask you out on a date like he had done the last eight Fridays. You even linger a few extra minutes, but he's wrapped up with a work call and doesn't notice you pack up your things to leave.

It's pouring rain again. Fitting, you think as you walk to the subway with your thin coat clutched around your shoulders. You're drenched by the time you board but you're not risking another Uber fiasco.

It's a long ride to your stop and what feels like an even longer walk to your apartment, but you make it. Your shoes are probably beyond hope. You're chastising yourself for not bringing a pair of boots when you notice a piece of printer paper taped up in the window of your building.

Buzzer out of order.

You roll your eyes and dig around for your keys. By the time you make it up to your apartment you're soaked and hungry and annoyed.

"Did you see—"

"The fucking buzzer? Yeah, I saw. Fifth time since March," Mia barks from the kitchen. She's listening to Fiona Apple and stirring a boiling pot of pasta on the stove in her comfiest pair of sweats.

"Oh. That time of the month, huh?"

She tosses a scowl over her shoulder. "Do you want dinner or not?"

"Yes, please," you beg with your widest grin. You leave your water logged coat and shoes by the door and head to the bathroom for a long hot shower. By the time you emerge smelling like the coconut vanilla shampoo you love and lathered up with your favorite lotion, you feel worlds better.

"Do you wanna watch Jeopardy!?" Mia asks with a bowl of cheesy pasta balancing in her lap on the couch. She's flicking through the channels mindlessly for other choices but you don't feel like wasting time finding the perfect show.

"Sounds good," you say after scooping your own bowl and sitting down next to her. You each blow on your spoons, tendrils of steam curling and rising up past your heads while the rain continues to come down in buckets outside and the host drones on in the background.

"Look at us. Wild Friday night, huh?" Mia laughs.

"Could be worse," you grin. Then you take your first bite of food and moan. "This is fucking delicious."

"Thank you. I don't know what it's called. I just grabbed whatever cheese we had in the fridge and a bag of frozen veggies and hoped for the best."

"You should come up with a name for it," you say, then when you hear an answer on the television you recognize, mutter under your breath who is Medusa?

"Uh, how about pathetic girl pasta?" she tries, making you laugh.

"There's nothing pathetic about this," you argue back.

It's quiet for a while. You're both focused on inhaling your dinner and watching the game show. It's peaceful and you can feel the tension leaving your shoulders with each bite.

You're happy. You have a good life. You're fortunate and you have the greatest best friend and roommate anyone can ask for. It's greedy of you to want more. But your mind still drifts to Harry during every ad break. Mia must catch on when she notices you pick up your phone and scroll through your messages, as if it's possible you missed one in the last eight minutes.

"So..." she says, dragging out the vowel while stirring her food, "how was work?"

You sigh and drop your phone. "I told him. And then I formally accepted the offer."

Mia is quiet next to you. You chew thoughtfully while watching some ad about topical pain relief but nothing is really getting through. You're too preoccupied.

"How'd he take it?"

"He was... great. I mean, he was sad, obviously, but he was incredibly sweet and supportive and... not at all what I thought."

Mia hummed under her breath as she popped a piece of broccoli in her mouth. You arched an eyebrow at her, knowing full well she had some opinion she was dying to share.

"What?"

She shrugs as she stares at the television. "Seems like he's grown a lot, is all."

You groan and set your bowl onto the coffee table.

"What? Are we really so cynical that we can't believe people would change for the ones they love? That they would learn to bend and twist in ways they never knew they could just to make their loved one happy?"

You balk in her direction, completely taken aback. "What the hell are you talking about, Jane Austen?"

She laughs and sets her empty bowl next to yours. "Okay. So maybe your romcoms are getting to me. Or maybe it's my period. Regardless, it's something to think about."

You breathe deep and suddenly grow intensely fixated on a loose thread so you don't have to look her in the eye when you say, "I think I fucked up."

Mia sits up straight next to you and pauses the show, the only sound echoing across your apartment now is coming from the rain pattering against your windows. "Explain."

You bite the inside of your cheek and twirl the thread tightly around your pointer finger. "He didn't ask me out on a date today. He said it's too late."

The gears working in Mia's brain are practically audible.

"Did you... want him to ask you out?"

You shrug and keep playing with the thread.

"Because you've been shooting him down for almost two months now, so wha—"

"Maybe. I don't know," you whine, throwing your head back into the couch. "I don't know what I want. Well, I do. I want him, but he can't be who I want him to be."

"But how do you even know?" she asks, her voice rising. "How do you know he can't? Because from everything I've been hearing, it really sounds like he's been working on exactly what he promised. He hasn't been fucking anyone. He's coming up with these cliché date ideas to make you happy. I mean, fuck, this man knows you better than me! He's paid attention to every single story, every single factoid, every single random little memory you've ever shared." Mia rubs her palms down her face in frustration. "He has been paying attention this entire time. He's been that guy for you this entire time. You're both just too stupid to see it."

You stare at her, mouth agape while she huffs and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

"Damn," you murmur, but then her face softens with a sigh.

"Sorry. I'm cranky."

"I guess you are," you reply, earning a sharp look that makes you wither.

"Just fucking call him, okay? Work it out and at least give it a try. If you don't, you'll always wonder," Mia says before standing to clear your plates. You bite anxiously on your bottom lip and stare at your phone, the dark screen taunting you, daring you to pick it up and grow a backbone.

But before you even lift your hand, divine intervention strikes and your phone lights up with Harry's name and photo.

"Oh, my god!" you practically scream. You hear a clatter of dishes in the sink and a second later, Mia is running into the room.

"What?"

"He's— he's fucking calling! Right now!" you yell while holding up the unanswered phone with a trembling hand.

Mia looks at you like you're stupid and yells back, "Fucking answer it!"

When you hesitate, she waves her arms dramatically in the air and yells at you again, so with a shaky breath you slide the bar on the bottom of your screen and bring the phone to your ear.

"Hello?"

"Are you home?" Harry asks with no preamble. It's loud wherever he is but you can't place the noise.

"Uh. Yeah. Why?" Your eyes find Mia, who is holding her breath from across the room.

"I'm outside. Can you— can I talk to you?" His voice cracks and now the pieces click. The noise you're hearing is the rain.

"You're outside?" you squeak. In a heartbeat, you're both on your feet and racing to the window. Mia gasps when she spots the sleek Mercedes parked at the curb, but the shocking part is Harry: he's standing in the pouring rain, wearing the same suit he wore to work and holding a massive bouquet of bright pink peonies that look limp from the torrential downpour.

He's looking up at your window already and grins when he spots you. Even though his clothes are ruined, his smile is huge.

"Come down, Sunshine. Damn buzzer's broken," he pleads. You can see his mouth moving half a second before you hear him in the phone. Your heart is lodged in your throat and you feel so unsteady from the rush of adrenaline that you can hardly move, yet you nod and tell him you'll be right down before silently hanging up.

Slowly, you turn to look at Mia, your jaw hung open in disbelief. She shrieks and pushes your shoulder.

"Fucking go! You wanted Ryan Gosling in the rain, well now you got it!" She's jumping up and down as you uselessly spin around the apartment to find a pair of boots.

"I'm in my pajamas," you protest as you tug one rain boot on. "And my hair is still wet."

"It's fucking raining, who cares? GO!"

You stumble out of the apartment and race down the stairs after deciding the elevator would take too long. The small lobby is empty but there's a traffic cone maintenance sometimes uses to reserve parking spots, so you snatch it up and waddle to the front door. You kick it open and use the cone to keep the door ajar before turning to face him.

He's exactly where he was a minute ago: on the sidewalk, absolutely soaked and holding flowers while people dodge him walking past. They don't give either of you a second glance, they just hold their umbrellas close and ignore the crazy looking rich man in the rain and the even crazier looking woman wearing her mismatched pajamas and bright yellow rain boots.

You take a step forward, and then another, letting the rain envelope you until you're standing right in front of him, gazing up into his deep brown eyes.

You're both grinning like fools. You know how it must look yet neither of you care.

"Did you need something?" you ask with a teasing glint in your eye. Harry's smile widens.

"Yeah. I forgot to tell you something before you left," he says. Rivulets of rainwater drip down from his soaked hair and wind through his greying beard. It drips off his chin and the tip of his nose and you step a little closer.

"Yeah? What is it?" You sink your teeth into your bottom lip but it doesn't erase the grin from your face.

Harry scans your face, examines every imperfection and detail, then without a hint of hesitation he says, "I would love to take you out this weekend. We can do anything you want to do. Just— please. Please give me a chance."

A broken sob rips loose from your chest when you hear the words. You thought he'd given up. You thought you had ruined your chances by waiting too long, but you were wrong. He's here, standing in the pouring rain, begging for you. You.

Your face crumples. Harry quickly drops the destroyed peonies and moves to cup your jaw with both hands. He searches your tear filled eyes while every emotion in the book runs through you, waiting patiently for a response but a little uncertainty grows with each passing second until you finally whimper, "Okay."

Rain mixes with the tears on your cheeks when he pulls your face up for a kiss. His lips sear desperately over yours and it feels like the first gasp of fresh air after being submerged underwater for far too long. It breathes life into every cell in your body, filling you with a warm glow you've only ever heard about and never thought was real. Your heart hammers against your chest like it's trying to leap into his arms and you press yourself closer.

Above you, Mia is slapping her palms excitedly against the window, but neither of you pay her any mind. You're too lost in the feel of his lips against yours, the quiet strength behind each slow drop of his jaw as he gently makes room for his tongue. Your hands grapple for the front of his suit, fingers curling tightly around the fabric to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground, but when you squeeze and feel a gush of rainwater between your knuckles, you're reminded that you're standing in the middle of a storm on the sidewalk.

It's pretty romantic, but turns out even you have your limits.

"You're soaking wet," you giggle against his mouth. He grins and shakes his head, chasing your lips.

"I don't care."

Before he can lure you into another kiss, you take a step backwards and grab his hand, pulling him with you.

"C'mon. I have some of your dry cleaning upstairs."

He arches a wet eyebrow at you but follows you into the building.

"You wouldn't happen to have an in-unit laundry, would you?" he asks as he looks down at his suit. You shake your head, drops of rainwater flying from the your hair as the elevator door opens.

"What do you think this is? The buzzer doesn't even work. Besides, you can't put those clothes in a dryer, you'll ruin them."

Harry laughs and wraps his arms around you after you tap the button for your floor. "They're already ruined, Sunshine."

You tilt your chin up with a smile so wide that it hurts your cheeks. "Was it worth it? Ruining your clothes?"

Harry groans a little as his eyes drift down to your mouth. "Hell yes, it's worth it."

After you drag him into your apartment, the both of you dripping wet while Mia leans smugly against the kitchen counter, you tell him to change in your bathroom while you scurry around your room to try to look halfway decent.

It's still pouring rain by the time you each dry off. Without even asking, Mia scoops cheesy pasta into a fresh bowl and shoves it into Harry's hands.

"We're watching Jeopardy!. Come on."

"This doesn't count as our first date," he warns when he sits down on the couch between you and Mia. You grin and scoot closer as he picks up his spoon for his first bite while Mia presses play on the remote.

"Mm. This is good. What is it?"

"Pathetic girl pasta," Mia says easily.

Harry looks at you curiously but you just shrug.

He stays while it continues to rain with you curled into his side. His arm circles around your shoulders so comfortably, like it's always meant to be there. His other hand eventually finds your knee and when you glance at him, he's not even paying attention. He's looking at the television, grinning about something he just heard, yet his hands sought you out on their own. He's so warm and still smells so good despite all the rain that it has your eyelids growing heavy and your head dipping to rest on his shoulder. He and Mia argue over the answers to the next game show that comes on and you smile to yourself as they bicker.

This is what you've always wanted. This is safe. This is love.

When the rain finally stops, Mia excuses herself to give you some privacy, but not before telling Harry over her shoulder that he 'owes her one'.

By now, his shoes are mostly dry. He confirms as such when he slips them back on and you hand him a garbage bag filled with his ruined suit. He sets it by the door so he can gently cup your face and pull you in for a kiss. It's soft and slow and makes your knees wobbly. He doesn't rush it, same as before. You get the sense Harry likes to take his time and you really hope he applies that philosophy elsewhere.

"Can I take you out tomorrow?" he mumbles. He's barely broken the kiss. His lips still brush against yours when he speaks, as if talking isn't worth denying himself what he truly craves.

"I'd like that," you murmur back. You feel him smile before pressing another gentle kiss against your lips.

"I've waited a long time to hear you say that."

"You have no idea," you tease before melting into another kiss.

Eventually he tears himself away and picks up his bag with the promise to call you tomorrow.

"Anything in particular you want to do or should it be a surprise?" he asks from your hallway. He's lingering against your doorframe with a goofy smile that has your heart doing flips.

You pretend to think about it before you say, "I think I'd like to stay in."

Harry smirks. "Miss my cooking that much, huh?"

"Sure. Let's call it that," you say coyly before stretching up on your tiptoes for one more kiss. "Now go before you get towed."

He walks backwards down the hall, grinning at you with his messy hair that dried awkwardly and his mismatched clothes from his dry cleaning you forgot to drop off earlier in the week. And when you finally fall asleep that night, hours after Harry left and the excitement subsides, you feel like that piece of you from this morning no longer feels dark. In fact, it's brimming with hope and anticipation for what's to come.

---

What does one wear to their first date with the man they've been pining after for literal years who also happens to be their boss for two more weeks?

Mia tells you not to overthink it but also don't wear something you'd normally wear to work, so you find a dress you bought two years ago shoved in the back of your closet. It's a little too tight to wear to work and you feel too old to wear something like that to the bar, but dinner at Harry's apartment seems appropriate. As you size yourself up in the mirror, you feel pretty good. But when you turn to look at your ass, your eyes widen a bit.

Yeah, this is definitely not the type of dress you want to wear just walking around. Fortunately, Lou is supposed to pick you up around seven, when it's already dark.

But what if you end up staying the night?

Your heart skips a beat and you try not to think too much about that part, but you do toss an extra pair of clothes into your tote bag. Just in case.

Okay, and maybe you dab a little bit of perfume on your inner thighs, too.

Mia didn't harass you too much before you left. She must have been feeling pretty proud of herself already. But she did manage to find that discarded condom in your "first aid kit" and pressed it into your palm with a mischievous wink.

"I better not see you until tomorrow," she says, making your cheeks burn as you gather your things and head downstairs.

Lou is waiting in his usual spot at the curb. His hands are clasped at his waist and when you step outside, he quickly turns to open the door.

"You look nice tonight, Miss," he says, curiosity lacing his voice.

"Oh! Uh, t-thanks," you stammer as you slide into the backseat. Of course Lou doesn't know you're meeting Harry for a date. Why would he? Yet as he quietly drives the familiar route to Harry's building, his eyes keep shifting back to you in the review mirror. And when he pulls up to open your door, he gives you a soft smile and says, "I was wonderin' when you two were gonna take the plunge."

You grin despite the embarrassment flooding your bloodstream and step out onto the sidewalk.

"Have a good evening," he says to you before closing the door and hopping back into the driver's seat.

The ride up in the elevator to Harry's penthouse is surreal. It's something you've done a million times yet you can feel the shift in the air. It's is so different, but somehow still the same.

When the doors slide open you're met with several things at once: the sound of plates clattering gently in the kitchen, the soft sound of a female singer crooning at a low volume throughout the whole house audio system, the beautiful glow of the fire flickering in the fireplace, and the scent of something heavenly being cooked in the oven.

Tentatively, you step into his apartment on shaky legs. You drop your tote bag in its usual spot at the kitchen island as you watch Harry stir something on the stove. His back is to you and he's humming to himself, seemingly unaware of your arrival. You smile dreamily and lean against the counter while he picks up a spoon to taste whatever is in the pot. He looks good, too. He chose to wear a black sweater and black slacks. He's always looked good in black, you've thought so a hundred times.

When he swivels around to reach for his spice rack, he stops short in surprise at the sight of you. At first his lips part, then they pull into a smirk when it's clear he caught you checking out the broadness of his shoulders and the way his ass looked in those pants.

"Hey, didn't hear you come in," he says before dusting his hands on a dish towel.

"I only got here a second ago," you say, heart fluttering as he crosses the room in two long strides to pull you in for a kiss. Any insecurity you have about the newness of this relationship with Harry vanishes when he picks up right where he left off last night. There's no shyness or hesitancy to be found with the way he kisses you and it immediately puts you at ease.

Behind him, the pot boils. You can hear the liquid popping angrily. You giggle and give him a gentle shove on the chest. "Whatever that is, it's gonna burn," you warn. He has that love-drunk look again when he stumbles backwards, a look that briefly turns heated when his eyes rake down your frame, taking in your dress.

He whistles and forces himself to focus on the bubbling pot. "You're gonna kill me with that dress, Sunshine," he teases. But his voice is low and even if it's meant as an innocent joke, it sends a shiver down your spine anyway.

"Mm, that's the plan," you murmur to yourself as you look around the kitchen at what he's already prepped.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, then gasp when you spot a tray of sushi on the counter. "Oh my god! That looks exactly like the sushi from that place in Chicago!"

"That's because it is," he grins. Your jaw drops and you spin around.

"What? How?"

Harry shrugs, clearly pleased he's impressed you already. "I have my ways."

With one eye on the pot of red sauce and the other on you, he watches as you inspect the other items laid out.

"Oh, I love this wine. We had it—"

"During the Christmas party," he finishes for you, "I remember. You said you liked it back then, too."

You're speechless. It's becoming very clear Harry put a lot of thought into this date, something you know is outside the norm for him.

Maybe people really can change, you muse to yourself.

Harry turns the heat down on the stove and reaches for the wine. "Let me pour you a glass," he murmurs in your ear when he stretches around you. You quietly offer your thanks as you continue to nose around his kitchen.

He had already prepped a tossed salad in a wooden bowl with matching utensils, but what caught your eye was the salad dressing. It was in a clear plastic container with no label and curiosity gets the better of you, so you crack the lid and take a sniff.

The scent is recognizable instantly. It's the salad dressing made by the steakhouse two blocks from the office. You've gone there countless times with Harry over the years and you must have vocalized to him at some point how much you love their house made dressing.

Every little aspect of this meal holds some meaning. He listens. He remembers. You're so touched that you actually feel tears springing up, but you manage to blink them away before Harry returns with your wine.

"Cheers," he says, holding your gaze and clinking your glasses together before taking a sip.

You hum your approval when the sharp flavor hits your tongue. Your gaze drifts down to his throat as he swallows and you suddenly realize just how close you're standing.

"Is it as good as you remember?" he asks. You grin and gently place the glass down on the counter.

"Better. Thank you."

Harry sets his glass next to yours with mischief in his eyes when he says, "Have I mentioned you look beautiful tonight?"

You shake your head and stifle a sharp inhale when he lightly drags his knuckles over the bare skin of your arm.

"Well, you do. That's a very nice dress," he says lowly, his gaze dropping to admire the way it fits snugly around each one of your curves.

"Thank you," you say again. You crane your neck up as you lean closer and like an invisible thread, Harry's chin angles down so your mouths are just inches apart. "I wanted to wear something nice for our first date," you tell him as his palm finds the small of your back.

"I'm a lucky man," he murmurs, head tilting lower so your lips practically brush together. You hum and close your eyes when he finally kisses you, sighing into the firmness of his mouth pressed over yours. It's something you'll never tire of now that you know what it feels like to kiss him like this. You hardly want to do anything else. You've waited so long for this that it still feels surreal, like you may wake up any moment to monumental disappointment, but you never do. It's real. He's real.

"Shit," he groans when the timer on the oven rings and he's forced to tear himself away. You giggle as he hurries to turn it off.

"Can I help?" you ask, even though you're mostly useless in the kitchen.

"Nope. You just stay right there and keep looking beautiful, Sunshine," he says while taking out a tray of what appears to be breaded chicken with cheese melted on top.

"You made chicken parm?!" you ask excitedly as Harry moves around the kitchen. He's plating pasta with some red sauce before adding the chicken, all the while grinning ear to ear.

"It's what you get every time I take you out for your birthday."

"I know, it's my favorite," you groan when the smell hits your nostrils.

"I gathered," he chuckles, then juts his chin towards your wine. "Grab those and follow me."

He leads you to his dining room where candles are lit around a beautiful centerpiece of pink peonies.

"Since the other ones got destroyed in the rain," he explains when you lean forward to sniff one.

"Wow," you breathe, "this is... unbelievable, Harry. You didn't need to do all this."

"Yes, I did," he says while pulling out your chair. You murmur your thanks and sit down in front of your plate, mouth already watering. He leans forward and plants a kiss just under your ear with the promise to return, then he disappears back into the kitchen.

It's still so hard to believe this is really happening. Everything is absolutely perfect and beyond anything you thought he was capable of. You look around once more while Harry gathers the salad and sushi from the kitchen. The fireplace still flickers invitingly across the massive room and somewhere in the speakers above you, the music has changed to something soft and instrumental.

"The sushi was meant to be more of an appetizer," he says when he sets everything down, "but I guess time got away from me." He hands you a set of chopsticks with a coy smile. "Need help?"

You laugh, face flushing with heat at the memory of Harry showing you how to use chopsticks in Chicago. "Yes, please," you reply, and try to keep a straight face when he wraps his arms around you and cups your hand. You bite your lip as he manipulates your fingers, just like before, only this time he's muttering directions into your shoulder as he plants kisses in-between sentences.

"I'm starting to think you have an ulterior motive, Mr. Castillo," you whisper when his hand slips from yours the more distracted he grows.

"Me? Never," he quips. "Just making up for lost time."

He finally pulls away to sit down across from you, watching as you flick the white linen napkin across your lap.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asks. He seems perfectly content to watch you taste your food for a few minutes while his remains untouched.

You shake your head and cover your mouth while you chew the piece of sushi he helped you pick up.

"No, this is more than enough. This is more than any man's ever done for me, like, ever," you say after you swallow. The sushi is just as good as you remember, too. "You did too much," you insist after he finally picks up his fork to take a bite of salad.

"I want our dates to be romantic," he tells you, "and I'm beginning to realize that looks differently for everyone."

"Oh?" you ask, quirking your brow.

Harry nods. "Some women think fancy restaurants or vacations are romantic," he says while slowly twirling his pasta, "and others value being seen over materialistic things."

You're impressed but still curious. "Can I ask you something without it coming across as suspicious?" His gaze lands on you and he nods.

"What changed?" you ask bluntly. "I mean, just a couple months ago you were convinced you weren't capable of love, and now—" You look around the apartment, at the thoughtful feast he prepared, at the perfectly detailed setting, then laugh in disbelief. But before you can finish your sentence, he does it for you.

"And now I'm dramatically showing up to your home in the pouring rain?"

Words escape you when you remember how you first felt seeing him standing outside your apartment like that. Your heart does somersaults as you nod, then Harry grins and reaches across the table for your hand.

"I couldn't lose you," he says quietly, "and... you wanted to be swept off your feet. For a while, I thought it was just incompatibility, but then..."

He trails off and you wonder if he's thinking about Lucy—a woman who, by all objective measures, was perfectly compatible, but he still couldn't make things work. He takes a deep breath and gives you a sad smile. "Then I figured out it was me."

You open your mouth to protest but he stops you.

"It's Peter, too," he adds. Hearing his brother's name isn't at all what you expect so you fall quiet. "He's been having some trouble with Charlotte. He came over a couple weeks ago to, I don't know... vent, I guess. While we were talking we realized there might be a deeper reason for our cynical opinions about love." Harry pauses for a moment like he's considering whether or not he should tell you the next part, then—

"I decided to talk to someone about it."

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. "Like, a therapist?"

He nods and you squeeze his hand.

"Oh. That's... that's very mature of you," is all you can think to say. Harry laughs and lets go of your hand to pick up his fork.

"Shocking for me, I know."

"No! I mean— it's impressive to be able to self-reflect like that," you tell him honestly. He shrugs.

"Well, when Peter and I were talking about our failing love lives, we realized there were a lot of parallels. Feels stupid to not have seen it before."

He doesn't elaborate and he doesn't have to. They both received the height surgery, something clearly driven by personal insecurities. He's told you how differently people treated him afterwards and how incredible it felt. There were times you could practically see his chest puff with pride whenever a beautiful woman glanced his way or strangers deferred to him in the street. But those insecurities just festered underneath all this time and manifested in other ways: namely, still not feeling good enough or worthy enough of someone's love.

"I also was willing to try anything to make this work," he adds, making your heart melt.

"Really?"

Harry looks at you like you're crazy. "Of course. This doctor I'm seeing, he spotted it the very first day."

"Spotted what?" you ask before taking another bite of chicken.

"That I've had feelings for you this entire time, I just didn't know what to call it," he tells you. He says it so simply, like it's just a matter of fact, but you're reeling with the knowledge that your love wasn't so unrequited, after all. Harry takes a sip of wine as he contemplates something, then sighs and sets his glass down. "I talked more about you quitting than I did about my breakup with Lucy. I guess I was pretty transparent."

It shouldn't make you feel good, it really shouldn't, but fuck—it kind of does. The idea of Harry being more concerned about you in his therapy sessions than his almost-fiancée had you getting a big head that you try to downplay so you don't come off as insensitive.

"Well, I'm glad you did all this because I really think it'll help, but you know it's never changed how I feel about you, right?"

A little bit of pink tints his cheeks as he rolls his eyes. "Don't get all cheesy on me now," he says.

You laugh and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "I'll do my best to keep it to a minimum."

Once you're finished eating, Harry stands to clear your plates as you thank him for what feels like the millionth time, but when you rise to gather some plates to help, he immediately insists you take your freshly poured wine to the sitting room while he cleans up.

"Remind me to thank Eleanor for teaching you that recipe next time I see her," you grin when he eventually joins you carrying two small plates.

"She didn't teach me that one, I learned it all on my own," he says. And although he doesn't explicitly say it, you get the feeling he learned it just for you.

When he sets the plates down and you see what's on top, you giggle and lean forward to inspect them closer. "Are these the cupcakes from that place you showed me?"

"The very same," he says while sitting down next to you and reaching for his. "I told you they're the best in the city."

"They are," you agree as you pick up yours, then laugh when he taps your cupcakes together as if you're toasting before taking a bite.

"Mm," you hum as the sugar hits your tongue. The icing practically melts from how smooth and buttery it is, balancing perfectly with the light and airy cake, just as you remember. Before you can take another bite, Harry stops you with a laugh.

"Hold on," he chuckles while setting his plate down, then gently cups your face and drags his thumb along your cheek, scooping up some smeared frosting from the corner of your mouth. He pulls his hand back a fraction to show you with a goofy smile on his face. You get the sense he has some snarky remark on the tip of his tongue based on his expression alone, but before he can speak you wrap your lips around his thumb, licking the icing off with a satisfied hum.

Words fail him in that moment. You can see it by the way his mouth opens and closes in surprise, but then his eyes grow dark and a slow smirk stretches across his face.

"Good?" His voice is huskier than before and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod.

"Mhm."

His hand finds your cheek again and he pulls you closer. "I want a taste," he says right before your mouths collide. You moan under the firm press of his lips, jaw dropping to allow space for his tongue to swipe lazily against yours. There's a dull ache forming between your legs, one that's been barely concealed under the surface for the last twenty-four hours. One that's been growing for six long years. One that's begging for relief.

Wordlessly, Harry takes the plate from your hand and blindly sets it on the couch an arms length away, never once breaking the kiss. You take it as an invitation to toss your leg across his lap so you can straddle him and instantly his hands find your waist with a deep groan that has you feeling dizzy.

You begin to roll your hips over his lap, whimpering into his mouth when you feel him start to harden. His hands slide down to the tops of your thighs and settle right at the hem of your dress for a moment before giving you a squeeze and gliding his palms back up. The tight fabric of your dress moves easily upwards until it's bunched up around your waist, completely exposing your lower half.

Harry tears himself away so he can look down with heavy-lidded eyes. When he sees the barely-there black panties you chose for the occasion, a soft curse slips past his swollen lips.

"It's gonna be hard not to think about this on Monday," he groans, big hands greedily stretching wide across your ass. Your lips drag down his neck with a smile.

"And if I said I've already been thinking about this at work, what then?" you tease with the tip of your tongue tracing the shell of his ear. Harry's grip tightens then he roughly spreads the roundness of your ass, punctuated by a playful slap on one cheek that makes you yelp.

"Then I'd say you're a filthy girl," he growls before his mouth finds yours once again.

The way he touches you sets your nerve-endings alight. Every brush of his lips is electric, every squeeze from his hands heart-stopping. He kisses you like he's prepared to spend hours seared to your mouth: he's in no rush, just like you suspected, just like you hoped. You slowly grind down on his lap while he makes no move to take things further. He just lets you take what you want while his tongue leisurely explores your mouth.

You don't pay much mind to his hands. They're gently massaging your ass and occasionally slide to the crease at your hips to pull you down harder so you can feel his cock straining against the confines of his pants. You're too focused on his mouth and how good it feels to grind against him, but then at some point two of his fingers hook around the top of your panties and they tug upwards. A wet gasp shakes loose from your throat when the soaked fabric wedges perfectly against your clit, then he does it again. Every time you circle your hips down, his wrist snaps up, pulling your underwear and creating mind-numbingly delicious friction that has your legs shaking in seconds.

The sounds pouring from your lips are obscene. If you had any sense left, you'd feel embarrassed, but you don't. It's impossible to focus on anything. You gave up trying to kiss him but he doesn't mind—he's content sucking marks onto your throat while you lose yourself to the pleasure mounting low in your belly.

"Fu-uck—keep doing that," you pant. Harry smirks against your neck then looks up.

"Yeah? You like that, baby?"

You whine an affirmative through your clenched teeth.

"You gonna come just from this?" he goads. Your brows pinch together tightly as you gasp. Hearing him talk like this for the first time does unspeakable things to you.

"Ha-Harry—" you stammer as you grapple at his shoulders. He just nods smugly, one hand still wrapped around your panties and the other clutching your ass, both helping you slide up and down in his lap.

"It's okay, you can," he murmurs, "go ahead and come for me."

How did this happen so fast? Just ten minutes ago you were sipping your wine in front of the fire, admiring the stunning view from his penthouse while he tidied up in the kitchen, and now you're falling apart, burying your face against his neck to muffle your cries as your orgasm washes through your body.

"That feels better, doesn't it?" he whispers in your ear while you struggle to catch your breath. Your chest is pounding and your skin feels like it's on fire but, yeah, you feel better.

"Wha—" You swallow and take a deep breath before trying again. "What did you just do to me?"

Harry chuckles and slides his hand from between your legs. "I haven't even gotten started yet, Sunshine."

---

In the back of your mind, as Harry leads you down the hallway towards his bedroom, that little devil on your shoulder speaks.

How many women had this view? How many women thought they were special? That they had what it took to lock him down?

But you really are special... right? Harry told you in not so many words. He couldn't lose you. He's going to therapy to make himself better. He wants to be good for you.

When you arrive in his dimly lit but perfectly kept bedroom, he turns to you with adoration in his eyes and you smile before he kisses you—of course you're special. Of course you're different. Harry wouldn't treat you like those other girls, you just need to get out of your head. You've seen too much and your own insecurities are now flaring up, but you know him. You know him better than anybody. This isn't just another casual fling.

"I need you," he mumbles against your lips. His hands drift down your sides, over your back. They cup your cheek and tilt your chin up so he can gain better access while walking you backwards towards his bed.

When your legs bump against the mattress, you melt. You sink into the sheets and he follows, pushing you up and covering you with his body while his tongue still tangles with yours. You moan and card your fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in such a way that it makes him groan, then you feel his fingers at your back, hunting for the zipper on your dress. You arch your spine to help and a moment later, the fabric loosens around your torso and his palms are pushing the straps down your shoulders.

The cool air prickles your skin when he shoves the dress down to the floor, but his hands are on you in an instant. He palms your chest and pinches your nipple between two fingers before breaking away from your mouth to greedily suck on your neglected breast. You have to bite back a moan—the wet warmth from his tongue is intoxicating. You want it everywhere. Every inch of your skin. You want him so badly, it hurts.

"I've never needed someone the way I need you," he continues, the words getting lost in the valley of your breasts. His eyes are closed when you look down, like he's lost in the feel of you. Your fingers trail up his arms and you frown when you realize you're nearly naked—he's wearing far too many clothes.

"Harry—"

"You mean so much to me," he's saying, and you realize he's shuffling down the bed. His mouth drags down your stomach and you clench when his exhale fans over your sensitive skin. "Will you let me show you? Hm? Will you let me show you how much you mean to me?"

You don't answer right away. Through the haze, you read between the lines. He cares about you, you mean so much to him, but he doesn't say the words you want to hear. It's asking for too much too fast but you're still struggling—what if you end up just like the rest? What if you allow him into your heart just to have him shatter it when he can't give himself fully to you?

Harry senses your hesitation and glances up. You're worrying your bottom lip and your focus is elsewhere. He pauses at your hips and sits back on his heels.

"What did I do?" he asks. Your eyes dart to his and you shake your head.

"N-Nothing. Sorry."

But Harry's a smart man. He figures it out a moment later and his expression softens.

"I just need a little bit of time," he says softly. Your breath stalls. He swallows nervously before continuing. "This is new to me but I'm trying. I—I feel it..." He touches his chest, right over his heart. Then he chuckles but there's no humor behind it. "I just can't say the fucking words. I want to, but—"

"It's okay," you tell him, pushing yourself off the mattress so you can cup his face. "It's okay. You don't have to."

"I want to," he repeats. His dark eyes look watery now as they bore into you. "I'm just so fucking scared," he whispers with a tremble in his voice, and when one stray tear trickles down his cheek, you lunge forward to capture his lips with yours.

"It's okay," you tell him again and again. You pepper him with kisses until he leans you back onto the soft bedding. He strokes your hair and makes a soft noise when he pulls away to look down at you.

"Can I show you, instead?"

You nod and he sears his mouth over yours for one more heated kiss before he shifts south. Your hips lift and his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging them down, down, down until they crumple to the floor.

"Oh, she's pretty," he murmurs, sending a rush of heat directly to your face. You cover your eyes and giggle.

"Talk about cheesy," you grin, but then his thumbs part your lips and then his mouth is on you, stealing your laughter and replacing it with a sharp gasp.

"Oh, shit," you breathe, hands falling from your face to grip the sheets. Each lick is slow but firm, being sure to build you up properly. His hands curl around your trembling thighs to hold them open while he works. Much to your delight, he's so much more attentive than you anticipated. He takes his time, determined to make this about you and do exactly as he promised—show you how much he loves you, even if he can't say the words just yet.

Arousal drips down the back of your thighs but with a moan, Harry tears himself away from your center so he can messily lick up each drop. It's filthy and raw and has your spine curling off the bed. His beard is prickly and rough against your inner thighs but combined with the softness of his tongue, it's heaven.

"Feels so good," you moan with your eyes squeezed shut. He's licking slow, thick stripes through your cunt, then gives your clit a little circle with the tip of his tongue before he dives back down. He's too good at this. Your cheeks feel like they're on fire and it's difficult to breathe but you never ask him to stop, you'd rather pass out.

"So wet for me," he mumbles around messy kisses between your legs. "You taste so fucking good, baby, I can't get enough." Just as you're about to formulate some snarky remark, his mouth covers your pussy and his tongue darts between your lips, prodding gently at your opening, and all thoughts vacate your brain immediately.

His name flies out of your mouth and one hand reaches down to grab his hair when his tongue pushes past your entrance. He groans when your fingers tug harshly on his loose curls but it just makes him eat at you harder. He pulls you closer so there's no chance at wiggling away and devours you—alternating between sucking on your clit, nipping at your thighs, and heavy licks through your pulsating cunt. He's giving you just enough time to breathe but never letting that tension in your belly stop growing.

The heat is building up fast and there's no stopping it. You roll your hips against his face, panting for air while begging him for more.

You aren't even sure what you're asking, but he does. He knows exactly what you need. Harry drags his tongue up, pressing it flat against your clit, then a moment later one thick finger slides inside, stretching your walls just enough so as to not push you too far but still gives you the relief you need. You sigh and rock your hips faster, fucking yourself on his middle finger while his tongue plays with your clit. He's pulling another orgasm out of you like it's fucking nothing, meanwhile the skill at which he's tearing you apart has your head spinning.

"Harry, I'm—oh," you gasp when he teases you with his sharp teeth grazing over your mound. "Oh, f-fuck, I'm—right there, keep doing—please—"

You're not making any sense. You're babbling, but he still understands. He reads you so easily in a way you didn't think possible. He can feel your muscles tense with every curl of his finger and he can hear the way your breath stutters as you climb higher and higher. You're so close—he can tell from the way you're soaking his hand and squeezing the sides of his head with your thighs. You just need a little more to push you over the edge.

Harry looks up at you from his place between your legs. His mouth is still suctioned over your clit, drawing firm flat circles with his tongue, but the corners of his mouth still pull up when he slides a second finger inside. Your face contorts before your back arches off the bed and you practically scream his name, then a moment later your release is flooding his hand and beard.

The noise he makes is one you want etched into your brain forever. It's a rough sound filled with lust and appreciation, as if coming all over his face was more a gift for him than for you. He reads your body and keeps up the gentle pressure with his tongue until your muscles begin to twitch and your voice pitches up with a pained whine, and only then does he regretfully pull away.

"That's it," he coos, watching the way your body relaxes into the bed. Your chest heaves and your eyes close, reveling in the aftershocks with two of his fingers still buried knuckle deep inside of you. He doesn't move them, though. He keeps them still, just something for your slick pussy to cling to while the last of your orgasm rolls through you. Harry's eyes skim over your body—skin shiny with a thin coat of sweat, nipples tight and limbs loose—and his gaze darkens. He did that. He made you feel this good. He made you feel comfortable enough to let go and bear yourself to him. The power rushes to his brain like a bolt of lightning and then he's falling forward to kiss you with his fingers still shoved deep inside your soft cunt.

You moan and lazily kiss him back, breathing in sharp the scent of your release in his beard. When his fingers inadvertently flex, you whimper and spread your legs wider, making him pull back with a smirk.

"You need more?" he asks, moving his fingers again to watch your jaw drop and you eyes glaze over.

"Yeah," you whine as your fingers claw at his shoulders. Whatever shyness was there a few minutes ago is now long gone and you're perfectly comfortable spreading yourself wide for the taking. Your gaze drops to follow your hand as it drags down the front of his sweater. You bite your lip and circle your hips when your fingers come to rest on his belt and then your eyes find his with a coy smile. Harry groans and captures your lips in another heated kiss, arousal dripping heavy in his veins now, but when your palm flattens and slides down to cup his painfully hard length through his pants, his mind goes blank.

"Do you want my cock, pretty girl?" he growls through a lovesick haze. You nod and bite playfully at his scruffy chin. Harry's eyelids flutter and he allows himself to give into your touch for a moment. The way you're stroking him through the fabric feels too fucking good. It's hypnotic. He can't stop his hips from jutting forward with a soft grunt every time you give him a gentle squeeze. You're panting under him in anticipation, like you simply can't wait to know what it feel like to be filled with him, to memorize every vein and ridge, to mold your pussy to fit around the only cock you'll ever need.

His fingers slide out of you and he pushes himself up. You make a pathetic little noise when he stands that makes his cock twitch, so he takes a deep breath before pulling his sweater over his head. He needs to get himself under control or else this is going to end much faster than he'd like.

As he begins to work on his pants, you spring up and shuffle forward on your knees. His heart is hammering in his chest and he's too focused on not tripping over his slacks, but then your soft hands are on his bare chest for the first time and his breath stutters.

"You're so handsome," you murmur, running your palms all across his broad shoulders before sliding further down. His stomach tenses when your fingertips brush his belly. He wants you so badly that it hurts. He needs to get you back on the bed, he needs to pin you into the mattress and fuck the sense out of you. But when his pants hit the floor and your hand disappears down the front of his boxers to circle around the base of his cock, he nearly chokes on air.

"Oh, fu-uck," he moans before tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You grin and press yourself tightly against him, desperate to feel the heat of his skin on your own.

"I want it," you whisper in his ear as you stroke him, up and down, "I want you. I've wanted you for so long—"

"I know, baby," he gasps, "I'll give you anything you want. I'll fuck your pretty little pussy until you can't take any more. Til you can't fucking walk, I promise—"

In a flash you pull your hand from his boxers and drop down onto the bed, the comforter looking like a soft white cloud surrounding an angel as you gaze up at him expectantly.

"Come here," you plead, and he smirks before sinking his knees into the mattress and falling forward, caging you in. His lips find yours while one arm reaches out to his bedside drawer, a motion he's practiced too many times to count as he searches for a condom, but when his fingertips only graze against wood, he freezes.

"Shit," he murmurs against your lips. You frown and pull back to look at him questioningly as he sits up to get a better look in the drawer. His face hardens and he curses again.

"What?" you breathe, and he shakes his head.

"I thought I had..." he trails off and you watch him open another drawer when you realize what he's looking for.

"I have one," you say. His head swivels to you in surprise.

"What?"

You shrug with a playful grin. "Side pocket of my tote bag."

Harry's face floods with relief. He pushes the drawer shut and stands with a soft chuckle. "Came prepared tonight, huh?"

"Shut up," you laugh as he disappears out into the hallway. He returns a moment later holding the condom Mia had forced you to take before leaving.

"This looks familiar," he says with an arched brow. You shrug and prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him slide his boxers down his legs. Your mouth waters when you see him for the first time, all thick and hard, just for you.

"Guess the first aid kit came in handy, after all," you mutter under your breath, entranced. Harry grins as he rolls the condom down his length, letting the wrapper fall somewhere at his feet.

"I would've kicked down every door in this building til I found one," he says, crawling back on top of you, making you giggle. When his nose nudges lightly against yours, you toss your arms around his neck and pull him down for a gentle kiss.

"That would have been quite the sight," you whisper, lips brushing together tenderly as you speak. His forearms bracket the sides of your head, hips settling neatly between yours, and he smiles down at you.

"Should've been doing this years ago," he says, snaking a hand down between your bodies to position himself against your opening. "Now I only get to indulge in the cliché fantasy of fucking my assistant for two more weeks."

"If you don't hurry up, you're not going to be fucking anyone," you warn. Harry laughs, that very same laugh you've grown addicted to for six years, and your smile widens.

"Impatient," he tuts, but he doesn't make you wait. The air stills once his hips shift forward. It's just a couple inches but it seems both of you forget how to breathe. The stretch has your jaw dropping wider and wider the more he gives you, but his eyes stay locked on you—on the heaviness of your eyelids, on the sweat already beading at your temples, on the look of pure relief painted across your face—and he hardly even blinks until he's fully sheathed inside you.

You're spiraling. You feel lightheaded. Overwhelmed doesn't begin to cover it. This man who you've been madly in love with for years is finally yours. He's finally here, offering himself to you, begging you to be patient with him, to give him a chance all while worshiping you from head to toe. It's hard to even remember how the tables turned so quickly but you're not complaining.

The rush of emotions strangles you both. There's a swell in Harry's chest that is indescribable. It's a feeling he's not used to but one that he realizes has been hidden under the surface for too long. You can see it in his eyes—they dart back and forth across your face like he's silently asking for your help. It's too much and not enough, all at once. You cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss, pouring every unspoken word into his mouth. His lips relax against yours and he kisses you back with a deep sigh, finally giving in and accepting what he thought all this time was impossible.

"Shit," he whispers. He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. You can feel his heart hammering in his chest and you swallow down the words that are desperately pushing past your lips.

Harry shudders when your fingers begin to toy loosely with the curls on the back of his head and you smile to yourself.

"No going back now," you murmur. His shoulders jump with a silent laugh.

"I wouldn't want to, anyway," he says before lifting his head. When you open your eyes and look up at him, he seems a little nervous. "Would you?" he asks.

You grin and shake your head. "No."

The tension in his eyes vanish. "Good."

Then he starts to move.

It's slow. His hips drag back before leisurely pushing forward again until your skin is pressed against his. He makes sure to move so that you feel every devastating inch. You can hear how wet you are—sticky arousal from the two orgasms he already gave you is painted between your bodies and he can hear it, too. You can see it in his face when he sinks back inside, pussy happily sucking him back in, because his eyes darken and a deep flush begins to crawl up his neck.

"Do you feel that? Feel what you do to me?" he says lowly before descending upon your neck. A soft moan slips past your lips when he leaves a sharp bite on your pulse point. He's still moving slowly but every thrust is so deep that it leaves you gasping for air all the same. "You make me so fucking hard, Jesus Christ," he rasps before dragging his teeth across your collarbone. You whimper and hitch your legs higher so your knees press against his ribcage. You want to feel him everywhere, as deep as he can go. You want to breathe him in, let him course through your veins, and you want to do the same for him. You want to be so intertwined that it's impossible to break apart. You want everything he's willing to give you—you want it all.

You moan his name and roll your hips as your mouth searches for its mate but Harry is too lost. Already his eyes look glazed over with heat as he kisses your skin, anywhere he can find—your throat, shoulder, then your chin. His arms pull tight around your middle and it's so fucking hot all of the sudden that it's stifling, but in the best possible way. It's exactly what you want: to be utterly consumed by Harry Castillo.

"Ha-harder," you manage to stammer in his ear, but your voice cracks and you're not sure he can hear you over the harsh slap of skin on skin. But then he groans and shifts his weight to rest on his forearms, allowing a tiny bit of oxygen to flow back to your brain. A moment later he gives you what you want—his knees widen, spreading your legs in the process, and starts to fuck you harder. Faster, but not too fast. Just enough to punch the air from your lungs every time he buries himself inside you.

"Oh, shit!" you cry out, back arching off the plush comforter like your body is magnetically drawn to his. It's too good. Better than you ever dreamed. He can read you like a book and knows exactly what you like—he listens to your body so he can give you what you need and all you can think is he's good, he's so so good, how could you ever doubt it?

If you could open your eyes, you'd see the effect you're having on him. They're wild as he stares down at you, completely transfixed with the way you writhe underneath him. Hypnotized from how well you take him. The fucking sounds you make and the way your body moves and adjusts to fit him is breathtaking. And—

"You're so fucking wet," he grunts, "so fucking wet and soft—fuck!"

In the blink of an eye, Harry withdraws from you entirely. Your eyelids snap open in surprise and the pained sound you make nearly rips his heart in two, but he'll fix it. His hands grip your waist and he flips you over. When your stomach hits the mattress, you obediently rise on all fours and it takes everything in him not to come on the spot.

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs when you arch your back and spread your knees. He licks his lips and shuffles forward before pressing into you again. The angle has you both moaning, drowning out the soft instrumental music that still plays somewhere above your heads. Harry draws his hips back, watching in awe when his cock emerges wetter than before.

You whimper when he takes too long and he smirks. "You like that?" he asks, voice deep and rough to match the harsh thrust when he slams back inside of you. You cry out and throw your head back, hair pooling across your shoulders. "Sorry baby, couldn't hear you," he goads before flexing his hips forward once again. Your voice breaks over his name and it does something insane to him. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady so he can rut into you, over and over maintaining the same deep, punishing pace that has your back bowing while you beg for more, more, more.

The angle is so intense that it has your lower belly growing sore. The ache builds in such a way that it feeds the flames stoking deep inside and you just want him to keep going, to keep fucking you until that powder keg erupts.

When you fall onto your forearms, Harry follows. His thick arms bracket yours, his soft stomach presses against your spine and you've never felt so deeply seen by anyone before. His body blankets yours and it feels like home.

"You feel so good," he whispers, breath warm against your ear. "Too good. I—I... I can't stop... everything about you, it's just..."

He trails off, unable to finish his thought. Instead he buries his face in your neck, moaning your name into your skin, hips never once losing rhythm as they snap ruthlessly against your ass.

That heat inside you burns brighter with each second. It's harder to get there after you've already come twice, but somehow whatever Harry is doing is working. The wide stretch of his cock pummeling you from behind is exquisite and borderline painful, but he sees the line where you can't. He knows how much you can take without pushing you too far, so you give in. You let him fuck you whatever way he sees fit as you take it, mouth agape and gasping for breath with each deep plunge of his hips.

Harry groans behind you like he can feel your body giving up control. You writhe and grab at his sheets then begin to rock your hips back in rhythm with his.

"Fuck," you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head. His teeth drag across your shoulder, the sharp sting snapping you back to reality. "Harry," you whine, hearing a soft grunt in your ear in response, "just like tha-at, oh god, p-please—I'm... I'm close—"

Harry rears up and hauls you with him, taking you by surprise. You're on your knees while he pounds into you, but then your thighs start to shake. Your body sinks down a little but his arms wrap around you, pulling your back tight against his sweaty chest.

Your head tilts to the side and your mouths collide in a wet, messy kiss before he suddenly pulls out, muffling your gasp. His hands twist you around and push you back onto the bed and then a moment later he's crawling on top of you, lips seeking out yours when he buries his cock deep once more.

You've never been manhandled in bed this way before and it's awakening something, fanning the flames that are already licking up your spine. He roughly pulls one leg over his shoulder, pinning the other flat into the mattress and you see stars behind your eyelids.

Your head flies back into his pillow when you pant his name. He has the nerve to smirk before dragging his lips down your throat.

"It feels good, huh?" he teases.

"Yes," you sob. The thick head of his cock is nudging against a sensitive spot inside that's leaving you breathless and dumbstruck. Your legs shake and your lip trembles as you claw at his chest.

Harry's gaze drags down your body underneath him, shaking his head in awe at how gorgeous you look all fucked out but still taking his cock.

"Look so pretty like this," he gasps, grinding his hips and watching the way your body twitches from the stimulation. "You're such a good girl. You're my good girl," he rambles as his impending high began to cloud his mind. Everything is growing soft and fuzzy at the edges. "I wanna watch you come for me one more time. Think you can do that for me?"

You whimper and he grinds his hips harder. Your eyes flash open in surprise and a second later his thumb finds your clit. He presses down gently before petting you with quick, firm circles. Harry winces when your nails dig into his chest but he keeps going.

"S-Say it again," you stammer. Harry blinks. He can't remember his own name, let alone what he just said.

"What, baby?"

You curse and strain under him. Your cunt is pulsing, the pleasure is climbing up but you aren't quite there.

"Wha— when you said—shit—" Your eyes squeeze shut and you draw in a ragged breath. It's fucking killing him. He's so fucking hard and he's so close. He groans and his hips still. Your shared desperate pants fill the air and then he asks again, "Say what?"

"Say," you lick your dry lips and force your eyes open. Jesus, you're a mess. You look like an absolute wreck and he did that to you. He's the only one who makes you feel this good, this lost. "Say... say I'm yours."

You sound so meek that it makes him melt. His face softens with a smile, then he starts to move again.

"You're mine," he growls, then your eyes flutter shut with a moan. Harry leans forward to suck on your neck, nearly bending you in half with your leg still tossed over his shoulder. You yelp and cry out something about him being deep, begging him to keep moving. "You're my good girl," he groans louder. Your pussy tightens, stealing his breath for a moment, but he steadies himself before his lips find your ear. "I'm gonna take such good care of you if you let me. I'll give you everything you want, everything you need, 'cause you're all mine, and I take care of what's mine."

The muscles in your stomach pull tight when you shatter around him. Your voice is garbled, hoarse and tired from crying his name, filling his chest with pride. Sweat drips down the sides of his head as he fucks you though it. He murmurs sweet praises in your ear while your pussy flutters around him, quickly drawing his own orgasm to the surface. Seconds later, Harry slams his hips into you with a loud smack and then seizes up. A broken moan rips from his throat as he spills into the condom. You squirm a little, sliding your aching leg off his shoulder to rest on the bed, wishing you could feel the heat of his release leak out of you. When Harry's shoulders relax and he collapses, you lift your trembling arms to hold him close. Your bodies are sticky with sweat. It's so hot, the way you're chests are fused together, but neither of you seem to mind. He buries his face in the side of your neck while he waits for his pulse to settle and you gently card your fingers through his tangled hair with your eyes closed.

"Stay with me?" he mumbles. He means it as a question but it sounds like a plea. You swallow down the tightness in your throat and nod.

Harry makes no attempt to move and you don't, either. The weight of his body pressing you into the bed and the steady thrum of his heart beating with your own is pulling you under.

He tightens his arms around your ribs and sighs. Music is still playing through the sound system but it's so soft that it's just relaxing you further.

You want to say it. You want to say the words that have been on the tip of your tongue for years but you hold back, too afraid of scaring him off when he's already made so much progress. You don't want to push him into something he isn't ready for but fuck, you want to tell him so badly.

But you figure he already knows. How could he not? He must see it in your eyes now when his head lifts to scan your face. His cheeks are flushed and he looks sleepy when he gives you a soft smile, and then his lips find yours once more.

"Your eyes are so beautiful," you whisper. He smirks, one loose curl falling limp against his forehead. The hand in his hair stills as you examine the color of his eyes, a deep chocolate so rich and bold that it pierces your heart.

"What'd I say about being cheesy?" he chuckles as embarrassment tints his cheeks. But you just shake your head.

"Can't help it," you murmur, still unable to look away from the color of his irises. The corner of his mouth twitches. He frees one hand from underneath you to pinch your chin, then leans in for one more kiss.

"I'm gonna move now," he tells you softly. You make a face then take a deep breath, steeling yourself. Harry shifts his hips backwards and slides out of you with a grunt. You gasp at the tightness in your hips and the cool air that cascades over your body when he rolls to your side. Your fingers wiggle, reaching for the sheets. He sits up and tugs them over you both before pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you under the covers. He nuzzles the top of your head when you press your face against his chest and he holds you just like that until your muscles relax and your breath deepens. Only when he's sure you're asleep does he gently remove himself from the bed to clean up in the bathroom, then turns off the lights and music. When he returns and sees the outline of your body through his silk sheets looking so sweet and tired, his chest aches. His feet can't carry him back to you fast enough.

He slips in next to you and your arms reach out for him in your sleep. Quickly, he wraps you back into his hold and he closes his eyes. His pulse slows. His body grows heavy. And he falls asleep with the knowledge that never in his life has it ever felt like this before.

---

The ache in your hips and legs wake you far too early, but you still smile despite the discomfort. It's the kind of ache you want to have. You want to walk around for the rest of the day with a tightness in your belly that reminds you of him.

One eyelid cracks open to look around the dark bedroom. The privacy blinds are down. They're impenetrable to sunlight. You realize it could be five in the morning or noon.

You roll over, arm stretching out and sweeping across the sheets for Harry, but his side is cold. Your eyes snap open now to search for him, then flicker to the bathroom. It's empty.

You frown and sit up, pressing the sheets tightly to your chest with one hand and rubbing your eye with the other. Where the hell is he?

To your right, you notice your phone on the nightstand. It's plugged into a charger next to a glass of still water. You grab both and pull the sheet back over you.

It's not even seven in the morning. Jesus, no wonder you still feel so tired. You drain your glass, set it back on the coaster, and open your phone. Aside from five texts from Mia celebrating the obvious reason you didn't return home last night, you had nothing.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in your chest. This is how all the others felt. Waking up alone, Harry no where to be found now that he got what he wanted. Did he even sleep next to you last night? You can't remember.

You drop your phone in the sheets and bury your face in your palms. This is it, isn't it? He's realized he made a huge mistake and he's distancing himself. He's setting expectations so you don't get your hopes up and think last night meant anything. For all you know he left the building. If you're lucky, maybe he thought to leave a note—

"Morning, Sunshine. Did I wake you?"

Your heart soars and you look up. The lights flicker on and then Harry's entering the room in just his boxers, holding a serving tray with a big plate, two bowls and two mugs, along with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He has a lopsided grin and his hair is a mess and you think he's never looked more perfect than in that moment.

"God, I somehow forgot you wake up insanely early," you grin as he carefully sets the tray down in front of you on the bed. He's made toast, eggs, fruit, yogurt, and coffee for you both.

"And I forgot you like to sleep in." He kisses your cheek before settling on top of the bedding next to you. He fans out the paper under his arm and reaches for his reading glasses next to the bed as you grab a piece of toast.

"Seven is not sleeping in," you remind him around a bite of food. He scoffs and picks up his mug, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

"This'll never work. We're doomed, aren't we?"

You laugh and his smile curves around the rim of his cup.

"Probably. We had fun, though."

Harry's eyes sparkle mischievously when he says, "That we did."

You roll your eyes and tuck the sheet under your arms so both hands are free to take a sip from your own coffee. Beside you, Harry ruffles the newspaper, opens it to the financial section and scans the headlines. You watch him from the corner of your eye, dying a little inside at how domestic he looks in only his underwear and glasses, holding a cup of coffee and reading the paper like this were any other day. You must be looking at him too long because he twists his head and smirks when he catches you admiring his bare chest and soft stomach.

"Good?" he asks, jutting his chin towards the eggs. Your eyes lock and you nod.

"Great. Thank you."

He hums and watches as you pop a piece of strawberry into your mouth. His eyes darken a fraction when you lick your lips, but then he clears his throat and focuses back on the paper. Another few minutes go by in a comfortable silence—you're picking at the food and sipping coffee while Harry reads. His lips move slightly as he does and it makes you want to grab his face and pull him in for a deep kiss, but somehow you refrain.

"Do you want some?" you ask, holding up the bowl of fruit. He looks up, nods, and sets his coffee next to the bed. You're expecting him to take the bowl but to your surprise, he shifts to sit behind you, bringing the paper with him. His chin tucks over your shoulder as he continues to read and you have to bite your lip at how ticklish his beard feels against your neck.

"Grape, please."

You giggle and pluck a grape from the bowl to feed him. He makes a little noise when the fruit bursts in his mouth. His warmth feels so nice across your exposed back, so you lean into him a bit while you rifle through the bowl. His free arm snakes around your waist when you feed him a piece of kiwi and you're pretty sure you've never felt as happy as you are in that moment.

Eventually the fruit runs out but Harry stays where he is. He rests his head on your shoulder while he reads, and when you're full you pick up your phone to scroll. Next to you, Harry's leg is stretched out, partially covered by the sheets. You don't even pay it any mind until he shifts and the blanket falls. As if on instinct, his arm loosens around you to grab it, but then he stops. It takes you a second until you look and see his scars, fully exposed under the soft lights of his bedroom. His fingers hover over the sheets like he wants to hide them and you swear you can feel his chest still, like he's holding his breath. Then, slowly, his hand returns to its home on your waist.

The sheets stay where they are.

His scars remain uncovered.

And he starts to breathe again.

You drag your gaze back to your phone, hiding your smile. After another minute, he speaks.

"What do you want to do today?"

---

A farewell party at the Ritz-Carlton for a lowly assistant might seem extreme to some, but nobody attending bat an eye. Either they're already familiar enough with Harry's generosity or they're too excited to party in a swanky hotel with a top shelf open bar. It doesn't really matter to you and Harry knows that, but he wanted to do something special.

He's barely been able to take his eyes off you all evening. Everywhere you turn, someone is pulling you into some conversation before hugging you and sending you on your way. Meanwhile, he's stuck listening to the most boring men on earth yammer on about some potential client they swear they're going to sign this week. There's not enough tequila in the world to make these men interesting, especially when you're drifting around the ballroom in the most beautiful light pink dress. Everyone else is wearing black or navy, but not you. You wear what you want to wear—what you're comfortable wearing—and it makes you all the more stunning.

"Mind if I steal my brother for a minute, boys?"

Harry tears his eyes away from you when he hears Peter's voice. The three men stammer some combination of an apology and permission before Peter grins and leads Harry away by the elbow.

"Thank Christ," he grumbles before taking another sip from his glass. Peter smirks and turns to his brother once they find a quieter spot.

"You looked like you needed saving."

Harry rolls his eyes before instinctively scanning the crowd for you. "Any longer and I'd need to be resuscitated."

Peter laughs and looks casually around the room. "You seem distracted lately. But in a good way." Harry freezes and glances sideways at him.

At your request, the last two weeks you've kept your relationship a secret. There were certain implications that you didn't want drawn in regards to your leaving and finding a job. You didn't want people to assume Harry pulled strings for you when you worked hard for it, all on your own. He agreed, although it felt impossible to tear his eyes off you the last couple weeks. He probably had the dopiest looking smile on his face during every meeting you attended. So you had to resort to quick, secret kisses and shared looks across the room but honestly, he didn't mind it. It made the tension build up even stronger when you had to restrain yourselves and by the end of the day, neither of you could wait to tear each other apart. And sure, there was that one time in his office when things went too far and you both succumbed to temptation in the middle of the work day. Bending you over his desk when anyone could catch you turned you both on more than you could admit. But how could he not indulge in the fantasy at least once before you go?

Your last two weeks were certainly bittersweet.

"You think so?" Harry finally says with a shrug. "Must be the Chicago merger. Accounting's projecting huge amounts of revenue—"

"It's not that."

Harry sips his tequila and stays quiet. He scans the room again. His lips twitch when he sees you laughing and dancing with Clara, Peter's assistant. You look so happy and beautiful. He loves seeing you this way. He loves everything about you.

"You're in love."

Harry nearly chokes on his drink. He swipes his mouth and turns to Peter with wide eyes. "What?"

"Don't play dumb," he says. Harry looks at him, mouth agape, while he struggles to come up with something to say. Peter eventually sighs and turns towards him, creating more privacy. "It's fine. We don't have to talk about it. But I can just tell."

"Wha—what? How?"

Peter shrugs. "We've been seeing a counselor. Me and Charlotte," he says, scratching his beard and averting his gaze towards the dance floor. "She's been shedding some light on what we spoke about and, anyway... I don't know. The way this doctor talks about falling in love... lately, you look like what she's been describing, is all."

Harry blinks and remains silent. It's a lot to take in all at once and it doesn't help that he's a little tipsy. Fortunately, Peter keeps talking.

"Stuff like acting blissfully happy. Nothing sees to get you down. Putting more effort into your appearance. More agreeable than usual..."

"I don't think I've been—" But Peter cuts him off.

"You told Mom you would take her to lunch at the tennis club this weekend with the biggest smile on your face," he says, "I don't think you've ever done that without Dad threatening you first."

Harry thinks about it for a second, then slowly brings his glass to his lips.

"Alright. Maybe," is all he says.

"Is it Lucy?"

Harry's shoulders stiffen. "No. Absolutely not. She got back with her ex, just like you thought."

Peter waits for his brother to say something else, but Harry is determined to keep quiet. One day soon he hopes to tell him, but he wants to discuss it with you, first. Eventually, Peter pushes off the bar and claps Harry on the shoulder, ready to make his exit.

"I'm happy for you," he says with a hint of sadness.

"How's the counseling going?"

He sighs and lets his arm fall to his side. "Okay. Some progress is being made but not as much as either of us thought. We'll see, I suppose."

Harry nods. "I hope it helps."

With a wistful smile, Peter disappears into the crowd, leaving Harry alone for the first time all evening. With no one to bother him, he leaves his almost empty glass on the bar and walks slowly around the room. His hands slide into his pockets and he smiles when he finds you again. You're talking to someone from legal but your eyes are drifting around the room every chance you get. You're looking for him.

Harry continues to move. His gaze never leaves you, even when people get in the way, he doesn't see them. Not really.

He only sees you.

He pauses when he's on your side of the ballroom, finds a pillar to lean against, and keeps watching. You're nodding and smiling to the young woman in front of you but he can tell your heart isn't in it. You don't want to be there.

Finally, your gaze finds him and your face lights up. His heart skips a beat and his smile widens and suddenly, you're the only two people in the room.

He loves you. Always has, he's pretty sure. How he missed it is beyond him. It's always been you. You're the one he always calls first, always thinks about first. He tells you everything and you accept him, just as he is. Through everybody and everything, you're the only constant. You're the only thing that feels real. The only one he can't live without.

Harry straightens up. Smooths down his tie. Subtly nods towards the door and gives you a wink, then turns to thread his way through the thinning crowd. It's getting late and people are drunk, they shouldn't notice him leave. But Harry's not paying attention as he moves and doesn't notice Peter at the bar on his phone. Peter spots him walking by but doesn't say anything. He just waits. Watches. Then, five minutes later, he grins to himself when you slip by, following Harry's path out the door.

Outside, Harry waits in the back of his car. He asked Lou to pull around the corner and park. Now, Harry's impatiently tapping his fingertips on his leg, waiting for you to appear so he can take you home.

When he hears your heels clicking on the sidewalk through his open window, he stops fiddling with his emerald ring and leans forward. Sure enough, you round the corner holding your small purse and wearing a smile.

"Need a ride?" he asks. You bend down to peer inside with a giggle.

"Does that line work on all the ladies?"

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Hoping it works on this one."

You laugh and reach for the door. He slides over to make room and his arm naturally drapes around your shoulders after you close the door.

You roll the window up, lean against him and sigh. "I'm tired."

"Let's get you home," he murmurs, then nods to Lou in the mirror. "Brooklyn," he says. You pout but you don't have a change of clothes or anything with you to stay at Harry's place.

"How about you come stay the night Sunday?" he offers, kissing the top of your head. "I'd like to drop you off for your first day."

You nod and yawn. "Okay," you reply.

The rest of the ride is quiet. You close your eyes and rest on his shoulder while Harry looks out the window, at the street lights streaking by, at the dark water below the bridge, and he thinks. He thinks about all those signs he missed the last few years and how he wishes he could have seen it sooner. But then he looks down at you when Lou turns onto your street and he smiles—what matters is you have each other now. He pushes the what ifs from his mind and squeezes your hand when Lou slows to a stop in front of your building.

"We're here," he tells you quietly. You stir, yawn, and haul yourself up.

"Thanks, Lou," you say. He winks at you in the mirror as Harry slides out of the backseat, rounds the back of the car, and opens your door. You take his hand and stand, wincing when your aching feet hit the sidewalk. Harry smirks and shuts your door.

"Regretting some of those dance moves?" he asks as he leads you up the steps. You pull out your keys and shake your head.

"Nope. Not at all."

You look up at him then and Harry swears you have stars in your eyes. Something in his chest tightens and his hands lift to cup your face, all on their own. His thumb strokes your cheek and you melt a little before reaching up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss. Neither of you rush it. You let your lips linger together. There's no intent behind it, no lust. Just that little four letter word that hangs in the air above your heads whenever you're together.

You finally pull away first.

"Thanks for the ride," you say before turning to the door. He watches you fit your key into the lock and twist. The snap of metal on metal acts like a switch in his brain. Before you step into the lobby, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. You spin, lips parted in surprise, and blink up at him.

There is no fear. There is no doubt.

Harry smiles.

"I love you."

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare up at him, eyes wide as the words settle over you. He watches you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak.

"Say that again."

"I love you," he repeats without hesitation. In a flash, your eyes fill with tears. Harry chuckles and pinches your chin. "I'll say it as many times as you want, Sunshine," he says. A broken sob slips past your lips. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down, mouths crashing together like you're fighting for air, only breaking the kiss when your trembling lips can't do what you want them to do.

"I love you, too," you tell him fiercely. You press your foreheads together and grab the sides of his face. "I love you," you say again, voice cracking, "I've loved you for so long—"

"I know." Harry cuts you off and gently wipes your wet cheeks with his hand. His throat starts to close up but he pushes on. "I know. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long—"

"It's okay," you whisper, eyelids sliding shut. You roll your forehead over his like you're trying to ground yourself.

"Thank you for waiting for me," he says softly. The emotion in his voice brings a fresh wave of tears to the surface. "Thank you for not giving up on me," he adds, and you laugh a little before craning your neck to look up at him.

"I would have waited forever." You're smiling through your tears. Red rimmed eyes are shining with so much brightness and love. "I've always been yours, Harry."

He kisses you again, slowly, like he's trying to make up for every single kiss he never gave you. His hands cover yours on his face and he smiles before pulling them off and kissing each of your knuckles, one by one.

"See you Sunday?" he murmurs against the back of your hand. He looks up at you through his dark lashes. You're nodding and blinking away the rest of your tears.

"Ye-yeah. Sunday."

He drops your hand and straightens up. "Why don't you bring some extra stuff to keep at my place?"

You swallow and nod again. "That sounds like a plan."

Harry smiles and leans to the side, watching as you push your door open with trembling fingers. You whisper one more farewell before closing the door, and Harry doesn't get back into the car until he sees your light turn on upstairs.

On the drive back to his apartment, he gazes out the window, smiling at the irony of it all.

He used to think love was the most difficult thing in the world. Turned out it's so easy when it's with you.

[cupofzo]

Winter Reed.

[punkshort]

long way down | yellow (extra scene)

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Harry and Peter have a tough talk and Harry has his first session in therapy. (Takes place between ch 6 & 7)

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, pining, self-doubt, mental heath struggles, therapy

WC: 2.5K

A/N: surprise! this is a scene I had in my head that I couldn't quite fit in either chapter but I thought it was important so here it is—enjoy! looking forward to sharing the finale with you all!

Series Masterlist

It's half past one in the morning when Harry's phone rings. He was tossing and turning anyway, unable to sleep properly since you left. Your scent still lingers on the pillow he refuses to wash, but it's growing faint and making him restless.

With a deep sigh, he pushes himself up and reaches for his phone, then frowns when he sees the name.

"Peter? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you," his brother says. Harry can hear his footsteps echoing in the background, like he's in a parking garage. "Mind if I crash at your place tonight?"

Harry pauses. "Uh. Yeah. Of course. Everyth—"

"Great. I'll be there in twenty."

Then the line goes dead.

Harry pulls the phone from his ear and stares down at it for a second before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He flicks on the lights and pulls on his pants before wandering out into the dark, empty apartment, turning on lights as he goes.

He stands in his kitchen, looking around. His fingers fidget at his sides. It's so quiet it almost hurts his ears. His gaze lands on the coffee maker and he takes one step towards it before turning around. Bad idea.

He finds himself in his sitting room next. The ticking of the huge clock on the wall grates his nerves, so Harry finds the remote for the fireplace and turns it on. The whoosh of gas and the crackle of the flames cut through the uncomfortable silence and he relaxes.

Next, he saunters over to the window. He finds his body is naturally drawn to the one facing Brooklyn and he sighs. He rests his forearm on the glass above his head and stares like he's trying to search for you from miles and miles away.

What if he loses you forever? What if he can't be the man you need him to be? He tries not to let his mind go down that path again because it always circles back to the same haunting question: what if he is truly unlovable?

"Jesus, you look like Batman over there. Brooding and staring out over the city."

Harry whips around to find Peter dropping an overnight bag by his couch.

"Hey," he says, sizing his brother up from across the room. Based on the drawn look on his face, Harry asks, "Need a drink?"

"Make it a double."

He nods and heads to the bar to pour a scotch while Peter collapses onto the couch with a groan.

Before he can even ask, Peter speaks.

"That honeymoon phase really doesn't last as long as everyone says."

Harry quirks an eyebrow and hands him the glass. Peter nods appreciatively and takes a long drink.

"Well, maybe it's just growing pains. Living together for the first time and all that."

Peter grunts and stares down at the glass in his lap as Harry sinks into the chair opposite him. A few minutes pass in silence where Peter seems lost in thought, then he finally speaks.

"Why didn't it work out with Lucy?"

The question throws him off guard. Harry straightens up in his chair and clears his throat. He chooses to give his brother the watered down version.

"She wasn't in love with me."

Peter nods slowly.

"I don't think Charlotte's in love with me, either."

She's a good match. She has the same values. She wants the same things. She doesn't have an immature take on marriage.

All the things Peter told Harry once upon a time repeat over and over in his head. It was never explicitly stated but whenever the brothers spoke about Peter's impending nuptials, the word love was never used.

"What makes you think that?" he asks.

"Whenever she says it," Peter begins, "it sounds hollow. And I swear she's only happiest whenever we're around her sister, like she's showing me off or something."

Harry scratches his jaw. "And what about you?" Peter glances up. "Are you in love with her?"

"You've already asked me that."

"And you always give me a shitty answer."

Peter gives his brother a knowing look. "As much as I can be, but you know how it is. I told you. It's not like a movie. It's math. We fit together well. I thought she knew that. I thought she was good with that, but..." He trails off, uncertain.

"I thought she understood what you could offer," Harry says, ignoring the verbiage that obviously came directly from Lucy. Peter sighs and takes another drink.

"I thought so, too. But I think she wants more, and—"

He cuts himself off. Stares blankly out the window.

"And you don't think you can give her more?" Harry finishes for him. Peter's eyes slide shut and nods.

"They always want more," he mutters, defeated. "I thought Char was different."

Harry thinks about it for a minute. He thinks about Lucy, he thinks about her take on love and marriage. How she agreed marriage is a business deal but admitted love needs to be on the table. Then, Harry thinks about you. Everything else in his life feels like a negotiation, but not with you. In fact, you're the only thing in his life that doesn't feel cold and calculated. You feel warm. You feel like light. You feel like more.

"Have you ever wondered why we can't give anyone more?" Harry asks suddenly.

"I don't know," he says softly. Harry purses his lips, deep in thought. "Think we can pin it on Mom and Dad?" Peter grins, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Harry chuckles anyway.

"I don't think it's that easy. But we could blame Dad for the genetics."

Peter laughs and it looks like the tension is finally loosening from his shoulders.

"Grandpa was actually shorter than us, remember?"

Harry shakes his head. "Barely. He wasn't around much, but I've seen the pictures."

He twirls the emerald ring on his finger as quiet fills the apartment once again. Peter stares at the fire, leg bouncing anxiously while the gears in his head churn.

"Do you really think we're the way we are because of the height thing?" he finally asks.

Harry shrugs. "I think that might be part of it, yeah."

The endless teasing when all his friends rocketed through growth spurts in high school while Harry hardly grew an inch always stuck in the back of his mind like glue through everything he did in life. Harmless jokes evolved into something meaner when it left his friend group and had him faking sick more than once so he could avoid school. Taking group photos always sent a streak of panic through him and there was even one dance when he padded the heels of his shoes to make him an inch taller so he didn't look so pathetic in front of the girls. To assume his self confidence issues surrounding his height didn't follow him into adulthood would be stupid.

"I hoped getting the surgery would fix all that," Harry admits, scratching his jaw.

"It solved the immediate problem but didn't erase all those years of feeling like we're not good enough," Peter adds as if he was reading his mind.

"It's easier to reject someone before they can reject you." Harry sounds sad as he gazes out the window, at the dark night sky sparkling by the city below. "So you just never let them in," he continues, "that way, you're always protected."

Peter nods and drains his glass.

"We're more fucked up than I thought," he jokes. Harry smirks. He's not wrong, but identifying the issue and saying it out loud makes his chest feel so much lighter.

"Doesn't mean we can't fix it," Harry says.

"What, like therapy?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Peter falls silent.

"I guess," he mumbles before standing to refill his glass. Peter doesn't sound convinced, but Harry is already scanning his contacts in his mind. Didn't his attorney mention once before he sees a therapist? He makes a mental note to call him in the morning.

After he got Peter set up in the guest bedroom, Harry wanders back to bed. He isn't entirely convinced therapy would be the cure all, but it's worth a shot because if he really was going to prove he could be good for you, he needs to make some positive steps forward.

---

"So, Lucy is your assistant?"

Harry blinks and shakes his head. "No. Lucy is my ex."

Dr. Parsons frowns and looks down at his notepad. Harry liked him the moment they met. He's older than him by maybe ten years and he has an office that feels more like a home: dark cherry wood floors, deep emerald green rugs, cream sofas and a leather chair that looks well worn. His desk is made from real wood that matches the built in bookshelves behind it. Even the floor length curtains look heavy and expensive. The space is welcoming and warm, it immediately put Harry at ease.

"Harry..." Dr. Parsons says, "you told me over the phone you wished to discuss your difficulty with romance, yet you spent almost this entire session talking about your assistant." He looks up at him across the glass coffee table, which housed a small plant, a box of tissues, and two mugs of coffee.

Harry sighs and scratches his beard but doesn't say anything.

Dr. Parsons sets his pen down and laces his fingers together in his lap. "You know what I'm about to say."

"I think she loves me," Harry admits, "but I don't know how I can be what she needs."

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't think I'm capable of love," he answers simply.

"You don't think you're capable, or deserving?"

Harry pauses and Dr. Parsons smiles.

"Would you like to know my opinion? Granted, we only just met—"

"Yes," Harry says quickly.

"I think you've built up your defenses for so many years that you're not able to see the most glaringly obvious fact."

Harry quirks an eyebrow. "Which is...?"

"Which is, you're capable. You're very capable. But you do not think you're deserving."

"No," Harry laughs, "I'm sorry, but—"

"Allow me to elaborate," Dr. Parsons says. Harry grins in disbelief and waves his hands, urging him to continue. "You bought an engagement ring and planned to propose to a woman who broke up with you and admitted she didn't love you." Dr. Parsons pushes his glasses further up his nose. "You didn't bat an eye. You were ready to devote your life to her, yet you shook her hand and sent her on her way. You didn't even bother fighting for her. But you're sitting here across from me right now fighting for someone else."

Harry shrugs and fiddles with his ring.

"You didn't come to therapy to fix yourself for Lucy," he continues.

"No, you're right," Harry says, "I tried very hard to love her. I want to learn how to love, but I'm not convinced I can."

"That's what I'm trying to say," Dr. Parsons replies, leaning forward in his chair. "You shouldn't have to force it. There is nothing to learn, Harry. You already feel it. You just can't see it."

Harry falls quiet, his mind turning over the words.

"You're already in love," Dr. Parsons says quietly. "But there's something holding you back from admitting it. There's something you're not telling me, something that's happened to you in your life to make you feel unworthy."

Harry's mouth moves faster than his brain. "Eight years ago, I had surgery," he says, the words tumbling out. He tells Dr. Parsons everything: he tells him about his insecurities growing up; both with his appearance and his place within his family, about how he and Peter had the surgery done together, and how much better their lives have been since.

"Did Lucy reject you because of this?" he guesses, but Harry shakes his head.

"I suspected it because she broke up with me the night she found the scars, but after we spoke, I don't think—"

"Wait, I'm sorry," Dr. Parsons chuckles. "She found out? You didn't tell her?"

"No."

"And you were ready to marry her without telling her this secret beforehand?"

Harry swallows tightly and nods.

"Are you afraid your assistant will reject you when she finds out?" he asks, scribbling something in his notepad.

"She already knows."

Dr. Parsons pauses mid sentence and looks up at Harry in shock.

"You told her?"

"Yes."

"But you never told Lucy until you had to."

"Yes."

Dr. Parsons gives him an exasperated look.

"Do you hear yourself?"

Harry blinks but doesn't respond, so Dr. Parsons raises one hand, counting off each point he makes on his fingers.

"You're here because you want to learn how to love, but not for the woman you almost proposed to. You shared your most vulnerable secret with another woman you claim you're not in love with. You are clearly more upset about your assistant giving her notice over a serious relationship falling apart. You prioritized your assistant over your ex-girlfriend on three different occasions that you shared with me, and you sit there still convinced you are not capable of being in love."

"I—"

Harry cuts himself off, unsure what to say. If only he knew the half of it. Now that Harry is really looking, the signs were there all along that not only his heart desires you, but also he and Lucy were never meant to be. He imagines if he told the doctor about the night of John's play, he'd have a field day. Even back then, he and Lucy were drifting in different directions.

Dr. Parsons lets him sit with it for a few minutes, patiently waiting for Harry to see the light. Finally, he exhales loudly and drags his gaze up to the doctor.

"What do I do?"

Dr. Parsons grins.

"What does your heart tell you to do?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Christ," he grumbles, "this isn't a movie."

"Why not?"

"Because," Harry laughs, "this is reality! There's certain rules to follow. There's steps—"

"No, there isn't," Dr. Parsons says. "You're overthinking it, Harry. Love isn't black and white, and I think you proved that with Lucy."

"What do you mean?"

"You went through the motions with her. You did and said all the right things. You gave her what she said she wanted. You spent money on her, complimented her, waited the appropriate amount of time, and then bought a ring. You followed the script and it still didn't work."

"Right," Harry says slowly.

"So, following those imaginary steps failed."

Harry doesn't respond.

"You said you think your assistant loves you," Dr. Parsons says, looking down at his notes. Harry nods. "Despite all your perceived faults, despite her knowing who you really are, she still loves you. What are you so scared of?"

Harry's shoulders sag. "I don't know."

The notepad closes and the pen lays across the top.

"Something to think about for our next session. But if you want my professional opinion?" Harry looks up and nods eagerly.

"You need to stop thinking in black and white and start thinking in color."

Harry's gaze slips to the floor as a plan begins to take place. Then, he smiles.

He knows what he has to do.

[thatcorporategirlie]

You're the rule... not the exception

18+ account - minors do not interact

harry castillo x f!reader Word Count: 7K Rating E

Summary: You sell Harry Castillo a one-of-a-kind emerald ring ahead of his brother’s wedding, an event you’ve been invited to attend. While you’re there, a woman in a blue dress seems to catch his attention, and it unsettles you more than you expected.

Warning: reader works in luxury jewelry private sales, some dialogue from the movie (but I played around with it so you'll see its unique to the story), flirting, yearning, language, alcohol use, idiots in love, jealousy (both harry and reader) mutual pining, sexual tension, feelings, insecurity, pet names, dirty talk, praise, possessiveness, graphic mention of oral (f – receiving), some spanking, p in v sex, creampie

A/N: I don’t usually post this late, but trying the approach some people have told me: post and then go to sleep. I’ve been thinking about this emerald ring since the god damn trailer was released. My research confirmed it is valued at more than 300K. Trying not to spoil too much with this story, so I tried to keep my warnings limited. But there’s definitely a "reveal" of sorts.

I believe GIFS were found on @a7estrellas and dividers by @saradika-graphics

Harry Castillo had just won the bid— the vintage Patek Philippe was his. The auction room was still humming with whispers when he turned a corner and bumped into you.

"Ah—sorry!" he said instinctively, catching you by the waist to steady you. Then his eyes locked onto yours, and his face lit up with that slow, knowing smile that always made your stomach flip.

You barely had time to respond before he pulled you into a warm hug. He smelled incredible, as always— that unmistakable scent that was just so him. You didn’t know what cologne he used, but it always lingered in your memory since it was effortlessly magnetic.

You pulled back from the hug, cheeks warming, and gave him a once-over.

"What are you doing here, Harry?"

"Picked up something for Peter," he said, eyes still locked on yours. "Thought I’d surprise him with it on the day of the wedding."

"Let me guess—something understated?" you teased, glancing down at the auction paddle in his hand. The final bid –$155,000–was scrawled across the slip in bold ink.

"How modest," you winked.

Harry rolled his eyes, slipping the auction paddle under his arm. "I can’t believe he’s getting married next weekend. I still need to get my tux altered," he said, running a hand through his hair.

"Are you considering a statement ring for the event?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"I don’t really wear rings," he replied.

You didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, you grabbed his arm and started pulling him toward the elevator.

"Come on," you said, pressing the button.

He groaned playfully but followed. As the doors closed, he leaned against the wall, and his eyes swept over you. "You always have something dangerous in mind," he muttered playfully, grin widening when you giggled.

"You’ll like this. I promise."

You’d been working with the Castillo’s for the last couple of years—Harry, his brother, his parents, even his grandparents. They were old money, the kind that treated jewelry not as decoration but as legacy. You didn’t know much about watches, but you knew a lot about gemstones. You were on the Sotheby’s Private Sales Jewelry team, and you’d overseen countless high-value transactions, placing rare gemstones and one-of-a-kind collectibles into the hands of ultra-high-net-worth clients. Your relationship with the Castillo’s had been built over time, and over the years, you’d navigated estate transitions, marked anniversaries with heirloom-worthy pieces, and other quiet, discreet deals. They trusted you, and you didn’t just know their taste—you anticipated it.

After exiting the elevator, you led Harry through the quiet corridor beyond the public showroom, past the velvet ropes, and into the private sales wing. You reached into your pocket and retrieved a small key to slip it into the lock of a frosted glass door.

The door clicked open, revealing a discreet vestibule where security stood, arms crossed but smiling. "Afternoon," he said, nodding to you both.

"Hello, Marcus," you replied. "Just showing Mr. Castillo something."

Harry gave a polite nod, and Marcus stepped aside to let you through. You gestured toward a leather settee, then crossed to the bar cart.

"Champagne?" you offered.

He respectfully declined.

You then turned to the case at the center of the room, which was locked with a digital keypad. You entered the code, and the lid lifted with a soft click

Inside rested a single, breathtaking piece: an emerald ring.

"One-of-a-kind," you said, lifting it gently, holding it up to the light. "5.10-carat Colombian emerald, set in rich 18k yellow gold with a satin finish."

Harry leaned in, eyes narrowing with interest.

"Colombian emeralds are among the most valuable and coveted gemstones in the world. And this one? This one’s exceptional."

You stepped closer and, without asking, gently slipped the ring onto Harry’s right ring finger. It fit perfectly—like it had been waiting for him. The emerald caught the light, casting a soft green glow across his knuckles, and for a moment, he just stared at it in silence.

Then the questions started.

"What’s the clarity on this?" he asked, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he concentrated on the stone.

"VVS," you said smoothly. "Type II. No eye-visible inclusions. It’s clean—remarkably so."

"What about the color grade? Is it bluish-green or pure green?"

"Pure green," you replied. "Classic Colombian saturation. No gray undertones. It’s exactly what collectors look for."

"And the cut?" he asked, turning his hand slightly.

"Ziggurat. Custom-cut. No one else has this silhouette."

"When did you get this piece?"

"I got it a few weeks ago," you smiled, stepping back just enough to give him more space to admire it properly. "And honestly? You were the first person I thought of."

"Me?" he asked, giving you a smirk that should have been illegal.

"Yeah," you said, cheeks heating again. "There’s something about this piece—it’s bold, but not loud. Refined, but not showy. It’s got presence, but it doesn’t beg for attention. Just like you."

"You’re flattering me," his voice was low. Seductive even.

"I’m being honest."

"I don’t know," he murmured, but you could hear the shift in his tone. He wasn’t dismissing it. You’d seen that look before—the moment when a client stopped browsing and started considering it.

"But you know, Harry, if you’re feeling a bit hesitant, I can always work something out for you. If you’d like, we could arrange a loan for the wedding night—giving you some extra time to decide," you suggested. "I can coordinate with my boss, see if we can extend a bit of flexibility. No pressure."

He looked up at you, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"No, I think I’ll just buy it," he said confidently, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a sleek black card.

"Harry," you said, half-laughing, half-stunned, "we’ve only been in here for five minutes. You must have more questions."

 "I don’t," he shook his head, calm and certain.

"You haven’t asked me how much it costs!"

"Does it matter?" he said, flashing you a grin.

"Not to you, apparently," you mock-gasped, gesturing toward the transaction terminal.

"You said it was one-of-a-kind. That’s all I needed to hear."

"You’re making my job too easy," you murmured, sliding the card through the reader.

"Or maybe just more fun."

Just as the transaction cleared, Harry’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, sighed, and answered with a clipped, "Yeah?"

You could hear the voice on the other end—low, urgent, and unmistakably business. Something about a client growing impatient, and a contract that needed eyes on it before the end of the day.

While he paced slowly, murmuring reassurances and instructions, you retrieved the ring from his finger, cradling it briefly in your palm before placing it into a velvet-lined box. You closed the lid gently, then wrapped the box in tissue and nestled it inside a matte black gift bag with satin ribbon handles. As Harry continued his call, you reached for the receipt—the total printed in bold at the bottom: the number was staggering.

You slipped it into a slim black envelope, embossed with the Sotheby’s crest in gold. It was the kind of envelope that looked like it should contain a handwritten note, not a major fucking financial commitment. You tucked it carefully into the side pocket of the gift bag, angled just so it wouldn’t be the first thing he saw when he opened it. You’d learned to be subtle with these things.

It was strange, really. You sold jewelry every day that cost more than most people’s homes. You’d placed tiaras into the hands of royalty, sourced sapphires for billionaires, and negotiated deals that made headlines. And yet, after years of working here—at one of the world’s most prestigious brokers of fine and decorative art, jewelry, and collectibles—you barely cleared six figures.

You straightened the ribbon handles, smoothing the tissue paper one last time. Harry turned, still mid-conversation, and you handed him the bag. He took it with a nod, murmured a final "I’ll call you back," and hung up.

"See you at the wedding?" he asked, voice softer now, the business tone fading.

You smiled. "Yes, I’ll be there."

When Peter and Charlotte’s invitation had arrived—you’d been pleasantly surprised. Truthfully, you hadn’t expected it. But you had a strong suspicion that their mother had insisted. If anyone in the Castillo family kept you busy, it was her.

Harry lingered for a moment, the bag in one hand. Then, he leaned in—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, smell that maddening cologne again—and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. He pulled back with a wink, then he turned and walked out, leaving you in the quiet room.

Your skin burned where his mouth had touched you, and your heart thudded against your ribs like it was trying to escape. You were composed on the outside—barely—but inside, you were spiraling.

Dizzy.

Unsteady.

Lit up like a fuse.

Oh yeah—you were also madly in love with Harry Castillo.

The espresso martini in your hand was dangerously good—and you were definitely a little drunk. Not sloppy, not messy, just that warm, fizzy kind of drunk that made everything feel a little softer around the edges.

The wedding had been beautiful. Charlotte looked like something out of a dream. Peter had cried when she walked down the aisle, and not just a single tear either. Full-on, heart-in-his-throat emotion. It had made everyone else cry too, including you.

You’d spoken to them both later, during cocktail hour. Charlotte was radiant, her cheeks flushed with joy and champagne. She was wearing that fan-fucking-tastic pair of diamond drop earrings you had sold to her last year.

You’d even had a lovely chat with Harry’s parents.

But Harry? Harry was impossible to get time with.

You’d caught glimpses of him throughout the wedding—giving a toast, laughing with friends, dancing with his goddaughter. He looked devastatingly handsome standing beside his brother, his tux tailored to perfection, and that emerald ring on his finger—God, it looked so fucking sexy on him. But you’d barely exchanged more than a wave. It made sense, you told yourself. He was the best man. He had rounds to make, duties to fulfill, people to charm.

Still, you’d hoped for a moment. Just one.

And then you saw him again.

You’d been halfway across the room, weaving through tables with your drink in hand, when your eyes landed on him. He was sitting at one of the singles tables, talking to a woman. She wore a strapless blue dress. Her hair was long and glossy, with bangs that framed her face. And her eyes—piercing blue, the kind that didn’t blink much. She was laughing at something he said, her hand brushing his arm lightly.

You stopped walking.

And that’s how you found yourself here—perched at the bar, nursing your second espresso martini, trying not to spiral. You were swirling the last sip when a voice cut through.

"Excuse me," a woman said, her tone polite but assertive. "I’m so sorry to bother you, but your necklace is just gorgeous."

You turned, slowly, swiveling in your bar chair to face her. She was pretty in that curated way—pin-straight hair, perfect teeth, and a dress that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

"Thank you," you said warmly, fingers grazing the ruby pendant at your collarbone. "It’s actually on loan from my employer." You extended your hand and gave her your name. "I’m with Sotheby’s. Jewelry division."

Her eyes widened slightly, and she took your hand with a soft, manicured grip. "Nice to meet you."

The deep red dress—bought on impulse after three sleepless nights of debating—hugged your frame like it was made for you. You couldn’t really afford it, so the tags were still tucked inside. The matching ruby earrings were tiny and perfect. Your boss had practically lit up when you told him about the wedding months ago. He saw it instantly—not just as a social event, but as a golden opportunity. You’d be surrounded by some of the wealthiest people in the city, so he encouraged you to select any piece from the vault to wear, knowing it would double as subtle advertising. You chose the necklace with precision: something elegant and rare. A piece that would catch the right eyes without screaming for attention.

"How much is the piece you’re wearing?" she asked, pointing at the necklace.

You glanced down at it, letting your fingers trail over the gold setting. "This one’s valued at around $17,000."

She nodded.

"It’s a classic piece,” you continued, slipping into your sales voice. "It’s 2.5 carat Burmese ruby, flanked by approximately 0.35 carats of diamonds. The color saturation is exceptional, and the clarity is surprisingly high for a stone of this origin."

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of movement on the dance floor. Harry was standing with the woman in the blue dress now, the same one who’d been sitting next to him earlier.

You smiled politely, when the woman in front of you decided to begin a monologue about rubies—how the market had shifted, how synthetic stones were ruining everything, how her jeweler in Paris had recently disappointed her. But your eyes kept drifting past her shoulder, back to the dance floor.

Harry was now dancing with the woman in the blue dress.

The woman kept talking—something about how hard it was to find a good ruby these days. "They’re either too pink or too dark," she was saying, swirling the wine in her glass. "And the ones that are actually worth buying? Impossible to find unless you know someone. Which, clearly, you do."

You offered a well-timed "They’re definitely rare," as she launched into a story about a failed auction bid. But your eyes betrayed you, drifting again toward the dance floor.

The woman in the blue dress—her arms were looped around Harry’s neck now, and he was smiling—really smiling, the kind that made his eyes crinkle and his dimple show. She leaned in to say something, and he laughed, his hand resting lightly on her waist. You felt it like a pinch, sharp and sudden, right beneath your ribs.

The woman beside you was still talking. You had no idea what she’d just said.

You tried to refocus, tried to stay present, but your gaze kept slipping. You were barely holding the thread of the conversation, nodding at the right moments, offering vague affirmations. Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass.

And then—thank God—you heard your name.

"Hey! Is that you?"

You turned, startled, and saw a familiar face. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that same crooked smile you remembered from years ago. You blinked, then broke into a grin.

"I’m so sorry," you said quickly to the woman, already rising from your seat. "That’s an old friend—one moment please."

She smiled politely, mid-sentence, as you excused yourself.

"Oh my God," you said, wrapping the man in a hug. "No way. Landon? What are you doing here?"

"I almost didn’t recognize you," he said, laughing. "It’s been forever. You look amazing."

It had. He was one of the first people you’d met when you moved to the city at some party—one of those guys who was always around, always easy to talk to, always made you laugh. But, then his job had taken him to London—some big international transfer at his firm—and just like that, he was gone. The modern kind of friendship: liking each other’s vacation photos, replying to stories, the occasional "this made me think of you" DM.

"You too," you said, pulling back. You weren’t lying. Landon looked good—better than you remembered, honestly. "Seriously, what are the odds? How do you know the bride and groom?"

"I work with Charlotte's Dad," he said.

Charlotte’s father owned one of the most prestigious architecture firms in the country—actually—in the world. Offices in New York, London, Dubai, Tokyo. The kind of firm that designed museums and luxury hotels. Buildings that made magazine covers and won awards with names you couldn’t pronounce.

"No shit," you said, eyebrows raised. "Are you back in New York?"

"No, just here for the weekend, and then heading to Philly on Monday to see my family before heading back to London."

You caught up for a while, the conversation flowing easily. He told you about the firm’s latest projects—some hotel in Marrakesh—and you filled him in on your recent work, the pieces you’d handled, the clients who made you want to scream or drink or both.

And then the music shifted.

A slow song came on, the kind that made couples instinctively reach for each other. Landon glanced toward the dance floor, then back at you.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, offering his hand.

You hesitated for a beat, then smiled. "Sure."

Landon’s hand found the small of your back, his other hand gently clasping yours, and you let him guide you onto the dance floor with a hesitant smile. You weren’t exactly known for your dancing—never had been—and he seemed to pick up on that instantly. His grip was reassuring. You stumbled slightly on the first turn, your foot catching the edge of his, and your cheeks heated. But Landon just smiled, gave your hand a subtle squeeze, and adjusted his pace to match yours.

What a fucking gentleman.

"Are you heading to the after-party?" he asked softly, voice low enough to make the moment feel intimate amid the distant hum of chatter and clinking glasses.

You tilted your head. "Where is it, again?"

"The Ritz," he replied.

You hesitated, biting your lip slightly.  

A part of you knew you should go—more eyes on the necklace meant potential clients. But honestly? The thought of navigating another crowded room, another round of small talk, was exhausting. The wedding had already drained every ounce of social energy you had. What you really wanted was to go home, peel off the death-trap heels that had been slowly murdering your feet all night, and collapse onto the couch with a blanket and a bowl of cereal, rewatching Girlfriends for the hundredth time. You didn’t need champagne or rooftop selfies.

Landon’s gaze lingered on you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips, but he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted slightly, leaning in just enough so that his voice was almost a whisper. "You should come," he murmured, eyes flicking to your lips for just a second. Had you just imagined that?

Before you could respond, you felt it—that unmistakable pull, like a shift in gravity. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, and your gaze flicked instinctively across the room.

There he was.

Harry.

Leaning against the edge of the bar, his drink untouched in his hand. His eyes were locked on you, unreadable but intense, like he was trying to decipher something he didn’t quite want to see. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t pretending not to look. He was just… watching.

Landon’s hand settled at your waist—respectful, but with just enough pressure to make you aware of it.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line.

You swallowed, slow and deliberate, trying to steady the pulse that had started to thrum just beneath your collarbone.

Landon’s hand then shifted, fingers brushing much lower on your back—still within the bounds of polite, but no longer entirely innocent. It was subtle, the kind of touch that could be passed off as part of the dance, but you felt the difference instantly.

"It should be fun." Landon continued.

You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t lean in either. Landon was charming, sure. But he was also just passing through. You weren’t interested in being anyone’s layover.

But Harry didn’t need to know that.

You let the music carry you through the next few steps, your body moving on autopilot, but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Harry hadn’t moved.

Still at the bar. Still watching.

You felt the heat rising in your chest, and turned back to Landon with a teasing smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"I need my beauty sleep," you said lightly, though your body was still humming from the way Harry hadn’t looked away.

Not once.

You stepped outside into the cool night air, and reached into your clutch and pulled out your emergency cigarette. It was a bad habit you had picked up during your rotational stint for work in Paris, where the late nights and stressful negotiations made nicotine a small comfort. You stuck the cigarette between your fingers, lit it, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals.

Your mind drifted to tomorrow’s to-do list. Groceries still not bought, laundry waiting in a slumped pile, and that return you kept forgetting to drop off. You needed to clean out the fridge, call your Mom back, and maybe—finally—tackle the junk drawer. Sundays always slipped away too fast, swallowed by errands and half-finished chores. As you exhaled, the cigarette felt like a tiny rebellion.

You flicked ash onto the sidewalk, and just as you did, you noticed a figure leaning casually against a sleek limo a few feet away.

It was Harry.

One hand was tucked casually into his pocket, while the other rested on the edge of the open car window, fingers relaxed, the emerald ring bold against his skin. Beside him, his very handsome driver, Javier, caught your eye and gave you a friendly wave before slipping into the front seat. The door closed with a soft click, leaving you and Harry alone.

Harry pushed off from the car, and his voice cut through the quiet, smooth and teasing. "Hi."

You rolled your eyes, a little amused, but you couldn’t help the corner of your mouth curling upward.

"Hi." you replied.

He stepped closer, his tongue swiping his bottom lip. Your mind always went a little fuzzy whenever he was this close.

"Feels like I have not seen you tonight," he remarked softly.

"You’ve been busy," you shrugged, deliberately casual, taking another drag of your cigarette.

Harry’s eyes flicked down to the cigarette in your hand. With a quick motion, he reached out and gently plucked the cigarette from your fingers, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. The emerald on his ring flashed again as he brought the cigarette to his lips. His brow arched in that signature teasing way, and he tsked softly, the sound low and almost playful.

"These are terrible for you," he muttered.

Before you could protest, Harry brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate drag. He exhaled, and for a moment, he seemed to savor the sensation, eyes half-lidded. He lowered the cigarette, flicking it onto the sidewalk with a casual tap of his shoe, the ash scattering onto the concrete.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, voice coming out a lot huskier than normal.

"Maybe."

Harry glanced around, his eyes sweeping the quiet street. He waited a beat longer, watching the entrance. Then, satisfied, his gaze returned to you, darker now, more certain. And then he stepped forward.

You barely had time to react before his hand slid around your waist, pulling you in with fucking urgency. His mouth crashed down onto yours—kissing you in a way that made your knees wobble and thoughts scatter. You responded instinctively, fingers curling into the lapel of his tux, the scent of him—cologne and smoke and something distinctly Harry—wrapping around you like silk. A moan of pleasure escaped you as your tongues moved together, and he answered with a groan of his own.

"Baby," he murmured against your mouth, voice low and wrecked, "god, this dress is driving me insane."

You giggled, breathless, lips brushing his as you pulled back just enough to look around—just in case.

You reached up instinctively, thumb brushing gently across his lower lip, wiping away the faint smudge of lipstick you’d left behind.

You knew it was wrong. Sleeping with a client was the kind of thing that could unravel everything—your reputation, your boundaries, the careful professionalism you’d spent years perfecting. But with Harry, the lines had always been a little blurry.

You felt it the first time you met him, all those years ago. He had this way of looking at you like he already knew you, like he saw past your polished "work" exterior and into the parts of you that you didn’t show anyone. You’d ignored it, of course. Buried it beneath contracts and meetings and the occasional polite email.

But three months ago, everything shifted.

He’d hosted a party at his penthouse, extending you and another colleague an invite. You stayed late, long after the last guest had gone and helped him gather empty glasses. Both of you a little buzzed, a little too comfortable. You’d sat on the edge of his sofa, shoes off, hair falling loose, and he’d handed you a glass of water like it was the most intimate thing in the world. Then came the talking—real talking. About quirks, favorite books, the weird comfort of late-night diners. About the songs that reminded you of home, and the ones he couldn’t listen to anymore. You learned he hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain. He learned you sleep with the window cracked, even in winter. Then came the silence—not awkward, but just…there. His hand brushed your cheek, tentative at first, before he leaned in.

One kiss.

Then another.

And another.

Suddenly, clothes were shed with hurried desperation, and you found yourself whimpering into his neck when he pushed his cock into you, nice and slowly, filling you completely.

You spent the night, but that morning when the sun began to creep through the penthouse windows, you braced yourself. You thought he’d do what men in his position often did. That he’d offer a polite smile, maybe a car service, maybe a vague promise to "catch up soon."

But he didn’t.

Instead, he padded into the room barefoot, hair tousled, holding two mugs of coffee and a crooked smile. "You like sugar, right?" he’d asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The memory faded like smoke, dissolving into the cool night air as you blinked back into the present. Harry was still close, his hand warm at your waist, his breath brushing your cheek.

And then it hit you.

Baby.

He’d called you that again.

He’d been doing it more and more lately—slipping it into conversations. You loved it. God, you loved it. The way it sounded in his voice, low and rough and just for you. It made you feel like you were his. Like this wasn’t just a secret, but something real. Something that mattered.

But then, just as quickly, the warmth twisted.

Because you didn’t know if he called you that to make you feel special… or because it was safer than saying your name. Safer than risking the wrong one. You knew what this was. You were the rule… not the exception. You hated that the thought even crossed your mind. Hated that it had a place in your head at all. But it did. And it lingered, quiet and sharp, even as he leaned in again, brushing his lips against your temple like he could sense the shift in your thoughts.

"Hey," he said softly, thumb grazing your hip. "You okay?"

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah," you lied. "Just a little tired."

He didn’t press. He never did. And maybe that was part of the problem.

You hadn’t defined what this was. Not really. There were no labels, no late-night conversations about what this meant or where it was going.

"Let’s go back to mine," he said, stepping back just enough to reach for the car door.

You hesitated, glancing toward the hotel entrance. "What about the afterparty?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours with quiet insistence. Then he tugged you gently toward the car, guiding you inside with a look that left no room for argument.

"I was never going to go to that," he said, settling beside you, the door closing behind him.

The limo glided through the city and you sat beside Harry in the back seat, the soft leather cool against your skin, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air between you. His hand rested on your thigh, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of your dress. It was sweet—tender, even.

But your mind wouldn’t quiet.

You kept seeing her. The woman he had been dancing with.

You shifted slightly, his thumb pausing for a moment before resuming its gentle rhythm. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your shoulder, murmuring something soft you didn’t quite catch.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward.

"Can Javier actually drop me off at mine?"

Harry’s head turned sharply, brows knitting together as he looked at you. "Wait—what?"

You just sat back, folding your hands in your lap, heart thudding. So, you weren’t surprised when he reached out, taking your chin and turning your face his way.

"What’s going on?"

You didn’t meet his eyes right away.

"Maybe… if I go home, you can invite the girl in the blue dress over," you blurted out, immediately wanting to kill yourself for the verbal vomit.

He let out a chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You felt the shift before he even spoke—the way his hand stilled on your leg, the way his body leaned back just slightly.

"Or maybe, he said, voice still smooth but edged now, "you want to go home so you can invite that guy you were dancing with."

Your eyes widened, caught off guard. His tone wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, clipped. Not angry, exactly—but there was something sharp beneath it.

"He’s just a friend," you said.

"Does he know that?"

"Yes."

Harry didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed locked on yours, unreadable, his fingers withdrawing from your leg. You missed his touch immediately.

"Lucy. She works for Adore," he said finally, voice calm but pointed. "She’s the one who set up Peter and Charlotte. It was just a polite dance. My hand was nowhere near her ass… unlike your friend." He spat out.

You’d heard of Adore. People dropped fifty grand, sometimes more, on the matchmaking service, just for the chance to find ‘the one’.

Your throat went dry. "Are you…" You hesitated. "Are you looking for their services?"

Harry’s eyes didn’t waver. But something flickered in them—something you couldn’t quite name.

"Should I be?" he asked, voice quiet now, almost too soft.

You blinked, trying to read him, but his face was maddeningly blank. "If you’re asking me whether I think you could get curated into someone’s forever," you said, voice tight, "then yeah. You could. Easily."

Harry’s jaw ticked. "That’s not what I asked."

"No," you said, folding your arms. "But it’s what you meant."

"You’re deflecting."

"And you’re fishing," you shot back. "You brought up Adore like you want me to react."

"I brought it up because you asked me who Lucy was."

You took a deep breath and willed yourself not to cry.

"You know what you are, right? You’re the kind of man people don’t believe actually exists. A unicorn."

The anger on his face disappeared, and was replaced with surprise.

"I’m sure there’s something wrong with me."

"No. You're perfect. You're smart. You have ideal income, ideal education, ideal lifestyle. You're good-looking, you have a great body, you're charming. You were born rich, raised rich, you're still rich. You own a penthouse in Tribeca. You don't have a drug habit or a call girl habit. You even know how to cut your hair and how to dress. You have taste. And the worst part is that you’re genuinely the nicest man I’ve ever met. You’re funny. You’re intelligent. You’re charismatic. You’re thoughtful in ways most people don’t even notice. You remember things. You ask questions. You make people feel seen. You are a 10 out of 10 in every category. A complete package." You turned your head toward the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of light and shadow. Your reflection stared back at you.

"…I don’t know what you’re doing here," you said finally. "With someone like me."

"What's someone like you?"

You turned back to look at him.

"Just a girl who works," your voice sounded small and broken, and you hated it. "I was born poor and raised poor. I didn’t go to an Ivy League school. I graduated from a state school that you probably have never heard of. And even though I work, I have debt. Hell, I'm older than the women you could be dating," a laugh slipped out—dry, self-deprecating. It wasn’t bitter, exactly. Just honest. "which means my looks won't last as long, and I have fewer years left to get pregnant. At the end of the day, the math doesn't add up because I'm the girl that you go home with once, and then never call again. But you keep showing up. You keep calling. So, I need to know, Harry—what are you doing with me?"

You hated how vulnerable you were right now. But you needed to know.

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for the first time that night, he looked genuinely frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap, fingers curling into a loose fist.

"Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head. “Is that really how you see yourself?

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off—gently, but firm.

"I’m not looking for the nicest, prettiest, richest girl who likes me back. I’ve met plenty of those. Dated a few. Then he exhaled, slow and uneven. "I’m looking for you… and only you."

He watched the flurry of emotions wash over your face. You suddenly could barely think or breathe, or do anything.

"Harry—"

“But I’ve clearly done a terrible job showing you that,” he admitted, his tone tinged with something close to regret. "I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I know it’s going to be a big deal if you choose to tell your boss about us, and if we go public...” he continued. "I know the impacts are worse for you. The risks. The optics. The whispers. I don’t want to be another complication in your life."

His fingers reached for yours, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he’d be allowed.

"But I keep showing up," he said, echoing your words. "Because I want to be here. With you. Not because of what you look like, or where you went to school, or how much money you make. I want to be with you because you challenge me. You call me out. You make me laugh when I’m trying to be serious. He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. He was nervous; you could hear it in his voice. "You’re the perfect one, not me. You’re brilliant. You don’t show off, but you see everything. You ask questions no one else asks. You connect dots I didn’t even know were there. You’re kind, but you don’t take shit. You’re so fucking beautiful, but you don’t use it as currency. And…you’re honest, even when it’s hard," you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "I—I love you."

The words settled hotly in your stomach. You felt them before you processed them, before your brain could catch up to your heart.

You didn’t let him finish whatever came next.

Leaning in, your hand cupped his jaw, and you pressed your lips against him. His mouth found a rhythm with yours immediately, while your other hand explored the hard planes of his chest. He sucked your bottom lip into his warm mouth, and a moan escaped your lips as he pulled you even closer. He kissed you until your knees were weak and you had to break and gasp for oxygen.

"I love you too," you said, a little breathless.

The grin that spread across his lips was so wide and boyish, it made your chest ache. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose and then reached for your waist and settled you into his lap like you belonged there. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your temple, then the hollow beneath your ear, each one sending a shiver down your spine.

"My perfect girl," he murmured between kisses while a devastatingly desperate noise fell from your lips.

You tilted your head, giving him more access, and he took it—his mouth grazing down your neck, pausing at your collarbone, where he pressed a kiss. His arms wrapped around you, firm and possessive, and his voice dropped dangerously low.

"And if you ever let another man touch you, I swear to god, I won’t be calm. I won’t be as reasonable as I was tonight. I’ll fucking lose it," he grumbled, with no humor in his voice. Just raw intensity.  "You got that?"

"Yes."

"Speak up. I can't hear you." he growled.

"Yes. I’m yours, Harry." you breathed out.

His sweet brown eyes locked onto yours.

"I like hearing you say that."

“What?”

"That you’re mine. Tell me again."

You had to clench your thighs together, hearing his possessive tone.

"I’m yours."

He smiled briefly before his demanding lips met yours again. Like he needed to claim every part of you. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck again, each kiss hotter than the last. The pulse in your clit throbbed, and you needed him so fucking badly, it was unbearable. 

A soft chime sounded, followed by Javier’s voice crackling through the intercom.

"We’ve arrived, Mr. Castillo."

You both froze, breath tangled, lips parted. Thankfully, the privacy divider was still up.

"Still want to go back to yours?" he asked smugly.

You shook your head, a slow smile spreading across your face. "My boyfriend—" Harry's eyes lit up at the word. "just told me he loved me for the first time." You leaned in slowly, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot against his skin. "And I want him to bend me over the nearest surface and prove it."

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

"Fuck." The word poured out of his mouth as he reached for the door handle.

You felt Harry’s hand rub your ass for a brief second before delivering a sharp smack, causing you to cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure as your skin tingled from the contact.

"More," you cried out, eyes squeezing shut as the familiar flame burned bright within your belly.

He delivered another firm smack to your ass, making you moan loudly.

"You think that little shit could make you feel like this?" Harry panted, broad hands squeezing at your ass before he finally guided his stiff cock inside your cunt. You were still dripping wet from the orgasm he pulled out of you earlier. He had bent you over the kitchen counter, eating you out from behind as his tongue flattened against you, holding you open with his hands on your ass while he groaned against you. It had been fucking filthy.

Who the fuck was he talking about? Oh yeah—Landon.

"N-no," you whimpered, fingers tangling into the sheets and pushing back against him. "Only you can make me feel like this." He grunted, increasing the pace and intensity at which he drove into you. Warm lips kissed up your spine before he grabbed your hair in his hand. Suddenly, he pulled you up by your hair, making you gasp, until your back was flush against his chest, and he desperately licked at your mouth from the side. "God, fuck—goddammit, you feel so fucking tight, sweetheart. Feels like I can barely fit sometimes."

"I love you," you said, voice sounding desperate and whiny, but you truly couldn’t care at this moment. You did love him. You didn’t even know how to explain to him how much. It was like trying to describe the color of the sky in a dream— how could you put into words something that lived in your bones?

"Oh fuck—I’m so in love with you, baby. I love you," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to say that." Harry kissed you hard and urgently, his tongue sliding against yours, which had you moaning into his mouth. Then suddenly, he pulled back, breath ragged, eyes locked on yours. His big hand cradled your face like he was afraid you’d vanish.

"How long I’ve wanted you to say it," he whispered.

"Really?" You whispered a little shy, your smile becoming uncontainable. 

"I’ve wanted it so badly it hurt. You saying it… it’s everything," you felt the touch of his fingers against your chin. "Say it again. Say you love me while I make you feel it," he begged, those dark eyes settling over you.

"I love you.:

He pushed you back down on your hands and knees on his silk sheets, to pull out halfway, and then slammed back into you, as you choked on your own gasps.

"Har—" His name died on your tongue. You could feel him deep in you, his heavy cock stretching you open, your eyes falling shut as your eyebrows threaded together in desperation.

"That’s it," he muttered, leaning down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades. "Good girl, this perfect pussy is taking me so well."

Your cunt squeezed around him, his words sending shocks through your nerves. Your hand shot out behind you, reaching for his wrist, nails biting against his skin, urging him on as you chased the thick, filling stretch of his cock. It was always such an intoxicating high. You could hear the sounds of skin slapping against skin, mixed with breathy moans that filled the air. He kept dragging his cock against your walls—it was loud and wet and everything you needed.

"Oh fuck," you wailed, letting out a few more pathetic moans as he pounded into you, the rough caress of the hair on his thighs against the backs of yours making goosebumps form along your skin.

"Keep making those pretty little sounds for me, baby," he commanded, letting out an unrestrained groan.

"Don’t fucking stop—you feel so good. Harry. Please. I need—"

"Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you."

"Right there," you begged as his cock continued to drill into you. You were so fucking close. Your breathing became erratic, and he could feel it. He always knew when your walls were about to clamp down on him.

"That’s it," Harry rasped, bringing two of his thick fingers to circle your swollen, aching clit. "You gonna come for me?"

You nodded frantically. The combination of his thrusts and fingers had you spiraling, your senses overwhelmed, and suddenly white-hot stars exploded behind your eyelids as you came so hard that you barely could see straight. Your cunt pulsated around him while tears leaked out of your eyes as he continued fucking you through it, his strokes becoming even harsher and harder, seeking his own release. The sensation of you constricting tightly around his cock caused his end, and with a loud groan, you felt him pump you full of his come.

You collapsed into his bed, like a marionette with its strings cut, elbows hitting the mattress first, with a soft thud.

"That’s my girl," he whispered as his orgasm subsided. As the moment settled, he pressed slow kisses along your shoulders, holding you close. He watched in a daze as he saw his come drip down your thighs, not caring that it was falling on the sheets, and rolled over onto his back gasping. You were trying to recover yourself. He grabbed your shoulders, pressing his chest to your back, and kissed whatever skin he could reach while running his fingers down your arm.

You reached for his right hand, lacing your fingers with his, your thumb brushing over the emerald ring on his finger. "Getting used to wearing this, huh?" you murmured, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled softly behind you. "I love it."

You smiled, still facing away. "Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm." You felt him shift slightly, then the faint tug of the ring sliding off. A pause. Then he slipped it onto his other hand, his left ring finger. "But I might need to try it here instead. Good practice for the future."

Your heart fluttered. "Practice, huh?"

"Gotta get used to the weight," he said, his voice teasing, though something more serious lingered beneath. "Wouldn’t want to fumble the real thing."

You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel the smile in his words—and the promise tucked inside them.

Secret relationship tropes are my kryptonite!!!

[604to647]

Mr. Know-It-All

2K / Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: Joel thinks he knows everything about you.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls). Joel's POV. A teeny bit of pining (it's actually probably a lot, but you know what they say about the Nile 🤷🏻‍♀️), nicknames, unprotected PiV, cum eating, praise. Set in Jackson anytime because nothing bad ever happens there 👍🏻

A/N: Guys, something weird happened. I watched Fantastic 4 and fell in love with P's Reed (of course), but when I left the theatre, I was overcome with thoughts of... Joel. Joel, who I read but never write. Joel, who I never thought I would be inspired/feel comfortable writing for. Yup, was missing that old man something FIERCE and ended up writing this?!? I don't know what it is but am needing him so 🥺

Gonna post before I lose my nerve 🫣 This is my first and likely only time writing Joel - so if it sucks, please don't tell me 😅🤣 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics tysm!

Joel Miller knows everything about you.

For those less in the know, you appear to be naturally sociable, always ready with a smile and a kind word for most in Jackson, but Joel knows that you prefer the close company of only a few.  More often than not, at meal times you walk past with your tray full, returning all the happy greetings thrown your way until you find an empty out of the way table to sit and eat, sometimes read, by yourself. 

You like the quiet. 

Joel knows this because he does too, and when he slides his own tray onto the table and sits down across from you, he knows you know that your peace faces no danger from him.  Even this understanding that’s led the two of you to share many a meal in comfortable joint solitude remains unspoken; Joel never questions it, his is simply to guard the gentle calm you’ve cultivated for him and you – his deep-set glower enough to discourage those that might consider disturbing it, you.  Your own personal dinnertime Cerberus.

You like to collect things. 

All kinds of things.  You’re like a little dragon with your hoard of trinkets and tchotchkes, but you’re terribly generous with all of it.  Whenever Ellie is assigned some random school project, she heads straight to your house and always leaves with the exact right supplies to craft whatever’s in that imaginative brain of hers.  Whenever there’s some type of community event, trading fair, you show up without fail, bringing more than your expected share of contributions - always giving away more than what you take home in return.  Joel knows you take no offense when he teases you about this; you just give him an adorable shrug and say you have too much stuff at your house anyways.

You do, but that’s not really it; Joel knows you derive joy from other people’s joy.  He likes that.

You’re generous with your praise too.

Those same school projects of Ellie’s, once completed, are shown to you first before anyone else, even before her teachers and certainly before Joel.  You ooo and ahh over all the correct details and reward Ellie’s hard work with the perfect mix of compliments and encouragement - sending his daughter to school with her confidence built high and an extra spring in her step.

When Joel thanks you for the support and kindness you show Ellie, he knows that the sweet look of bemusement you give him is genuine, as if you couldn’t imagine treating her any other way.  He knows you couldn’t.  You’re always seeing the potential in others - willing to patiently nurture the goodness in others with your own.  Is that what you’re doing with him?  Joel would like to think so.

It's that same ability to see past someone’s or something’s grit to the shine beneath that makes you the best damn scavenger in Jackson.  On every supply run, you’re like a bloodhound, sniffing out more supplies than what your team had originally set out to bring back.  “There’s value in anything if you take the time to look, Joel,” you say to him whenever your team returns to town laden down with more than can be comfortably carried.  Joel scoffs, but he’s proud of you.

He finds himself inexplicably relieved when you return from these expeditions, glad to know you’re safe back inside Jackson’s walls; he worries terribly when you’re not.  So much so that he volunteers to go on every supply run you’re assigned to.

At first, Joel wonders if he should keep his distance on these outings, knowing how much you value your space; but your grin, as you tip an armful of things you’ve squirrelled into his waiting hands, lets him know he’s safe.  He packs away everything you bring him, calling you ‘Little Scavenger’ with an affectionate, lopsided grin he knows you don’t see; you reward his self satisfied cleverness with the sincerest of responses: thanking him, nodding how glad you are that he’s here and that you always feel safer on these runs when he comes.  Joel tells you that it’s nothing.  “It’s not nothing,” you say with a smile that could melt the sun, “comfort and security in today’s world?  That’s everything.” 

There you go with that praise again.

Joel also knows you’re not all easy smiles and sunshine, that your sweet demeanour and tranquil air is worked for, earned.  You experienced your own loss and suffering before finding and fighting your way to Jackson, and Joel knows the strength and pureness of heart it takes for you to live each day with the gentleness you do.  He knows because you told yourself him one night at the Tipsy Bison when there was some birthday or anniversary celebration; he had seen you sitting by yourself as usual, but could tell there was more to it that night than your usual preference for solitude.  A melancholy to your expression and tightness in the normally pleasant line of your lovely mouth drew him over, quietly and with no expectations.  You shared with him so openly, raw and brave, that Joel found himself telling you about Sarah; not everything, but enough for you to rest your hand over his and leave it there for the remainder of the evening.  Joel felt the understanding and connection in your touch right down to his bones.

You find each other now on nights like these: joyous, bright occasions for others that cannot help but remind the two of you of what neither of you needs to speak aloud.  Joel never leaves your side on these nights, knowing somehow you find comfort in just having him nearby.  He does too.  So, he stays. 

Sometimes, even after he’s walked you home, he’ll know your mood just by the way you touch his cheek goodnight, from the brush of your delicate fingers over the sharpness of his jaw.  If he knows you need it, he’ll stay even after you’ve gone in.  Some nights he simply just sits on your porch, soaking in the sounds of this miraculous, sleepy town, grateful for every breath of crisp Wyoming air; on others, he fetches his guitar and plays soft, soulful tunes, willing the lullaby notes to float up into your open window.  Joel stays until he knows you’re okay for him to leave.  You never have to tell him when that is, he just knows. 

Yep, Joel Miller knows everything about you.

He also knows that you’re too smart to get involved with a man like him: worn, gruff, closed off.

Joel knows someone in Jackson will eventually catch your eye, and as well that when they do, it will be none of his business.  He also knows it’s not going to be tonight and certainly not with this loudmouthed newcomer who’s been hovering over you all night as you try to eat your dinner in peace.  A jolt of something Joel Miller does not recognize kicks up his heart rate as he debates going over to interrupt, before a different type of uncertainty ultimately roots him to his seat at the bar.  Joel does know when you’ve had enough - true annoyance flashing dangerously in your pretty, expressive eyes before you get up abruptly and leave the dining hall, dinner unfinished.

If Joel was a wiser man, he would admit it’s for more than friendly concern that he knocks on your door, bearing the gift of an extra slice of that garlic bread he knows you like so much, smuggled from the dining hall in a handkerchief you gifted him from one of your supply runs.  He ignores the way his chest swells when your face lights up upon seeing him and his offering; any trace of your previous annoyance evaporated as you laugh something melodic while inviting him in, presenting the cookie from your dinner that you saved because they’re his favourite.  Little Scavenger, he chuckles, scarfing down the dessert - he really should have known. 

Turns out Joel Miller doesn’t know jack shit.

He didn’t know about the devastating sounds you would make when bouncing on his lap the way you are right now, skin glowing and naked curves hypnotizing him as you ride.  Or how pretty you’d look, with your smart mouth agape and panting, uneven breaths curling over that plush bottom lip while your normally bright eyes glaze over all cock drunk and blissed out.

He certainly didn’t know how good your tight, wet cunt would feel choking his cock. 

You don’t like the quiet now, do you?  Nope.  Now Joel knows you like it loud and dirty, with a never-ending string of filth growled into your ear as you’re being split open.

What a good girl you are, taking me so deep.

Look at you, so beautiful gushing all over my lap.

Feels so good, you riding me like you were made for this dick.

Pussy so perfect, never going to leave.

Guess you like getting praise as much as you like to give it, Joel smirks to himself as you clench down at his words, wailing something catastrophic when he finds that sweet spot on your neck he didn’t know about until tonight.  He never knew how much he’d hunger for your endless moaning of his name, devouring and swallowing down every shattering cry you let slip from your pretty mouth straight into his.  The devilish voice of a long forgotten, cockier version of himself tries to convince Joel to be less greedy, to let some of your needy sounds escape and shake your walls, wake your neighbours – for them to know what he knows now.  He grins at the thought, but he can’t stop kissing you.

Joel did not anticipate the way his balls would tighten when he growls against your jaw, “Wanted this for so long, my Pretty Scavenger,” and hears your whimper back, “Me too, baby.” 

Baby.  

Goddamn. 

And how could he have ever known the way his cock would jump at the sight of you taking his fat thumb between those plush, kiss swollen lips of yours, sucking and swirling just the right amount of wet so he could slide and circle over your clit perfectly?  His wildest imagination could never have prepared him for how angelic you look when you come, beautiful body shaking, naked chest heaving in pleasure.  Pure instinct takes over as Joel sucks one of your pert nipples into his mouth, nibbling and flicking to prolong your high until you’re howling from near overstimulation and the hug of your warm pussy proves too much for his aching length.

And fuck, if Joel didn’t know the tang of his own cum could be so sweet; he learns tonight when you transfer the taste from your tongue to his, still giggling at his continued look of awe from watching you use two of your fingers to clean scoop after scoop of his white ropes off your stomach, then licking them clean with an obscene pop of your mouth.

When you climb off of his still fully clothed body, Joel admires the sway of your hips and the bounce of your naked ass as you walk away to get dressed, or so he thinks.  To the man’s surprise, you stop at the foot of your staircase and turn, cheeky grin and mischievous glint in your eyes on full display even as you bashfully angle your enticing curves away from his gaze; your voice teasing, yet shy, “Coming upstairs, Big Boy?”

Pulling up his pants as he stands, Joel ignores the crack of his knees and the crick in his back; loosely doing up his fly when the unforeseen energy burst of a man much younger than he darts his body forward, he booms a pure and loud laugh as you squeal and run up the stairs so he can give chase.

Rounding into your bedroom to find you already there, laid out on your bedspread like some kind of present sent from heaven, Joel marvels for a moment at how mistakened he had been to ever think he already knew everything about this beauty before him.  But when you curl your index finger, beckoning, and his body follows the command of your gesture as if attached by some invisible string, Joel Miller surrenders to an incontrovertible fact that he might as well admit he’s always known: you have him completely wrapped round your finger.

Thank you to @aurorawritestoescape @sawymredfox @milla-frenchy @lanietadelatierrawriter @sunnytuliptime for your kind encouragement and hype! I probably would not have posted this otherwise 😘🥹

[cupofzo]

My Twin Husbands.

[easybbgrl]

Not what you made me

Summary: Joel comes home to find you upset; and comforts you.

CW: MDNI. 18+ only. Ddlg. Use of “Daddy” and “little one.” Brief sex. Cockwarming. Lots of cuddles.

A/N: @evolnoomym I wrote this for you. And @magpiepills and @noxturnalnymph the discord chat was so helpful. This is for you, too. (Lmk if you want the tags removed!)

Word count: 850ish

Joel could hear the music blaring on the walk up to the porch. Expecting you to be dancing in the kitchen, he hurried inside and made his way toward the music; dropping his work boots and gear near the door.

But what greeted him in the kitchen was anything but a dance party.

There you were; stone cold face; tear-stained; and body language fierce. Angry. All but slamming the clean dishes into the cupboards. You weren’t one for big shows of negative emotion, so Joel was concerned. This was so out of character for you.

“Baby?” He tried. Softly.

Your eyes shut tight, and you head fell; signaling that you’d heard.

“Talk to me, honey.”

Words failed you. Stuck in your throat. Trapped in your tornado of emotions. So you dropped the plate onto the counter, and grabbed your phone; heat and anger pouring off your body as you tapped and scrolled, and then slid the phone across the counter to him.

You resumed putting away dishes; turning the sound up for the bridge.

Joel patiently read what you showed him. His big index finger scrolling along with each progressive paragraph. You couldn’t look at him. You knew if you did, the dam would break and the façade would collapse. And it was the only thing holding you together.

But then, Joel turned the phone screen off, and his hands tenderly wrapped around your waist as he turned you to face him.

“Angel, I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Not one bit.” He pulled you close and cupped your cheek.

His tenderness broke you open; your anger splitting into a piercing cry.

You collapsed in his arms, and he held you tight. Grounding you. Comforting you.

“I know that big heart of yours has so much love to give,” he soothed as you cried. “My good girl.”

One hand cradled the nape or your neck; and the other held you against him. His hand soothing it’s way up and down your spine.

The tears and snot streamed from your face; covering Joel’s shirt; making it hard to breathe.

“I just—” you whined.

“I know.”

“And—” your voice choked with emotion. But Joel knew. He always understood you.

“I’m so sorry, babygirl.”

You reach up and cling to him; tugging at his shirt; clawing at his back. The pain consumes you now; the flames engulfing you in searing agony. Your lungs heave and your throat aches as you wail.

“Don’t be strong for me. Keep going. Let it all out. Every last bit.”

Joel whispers; his sweet gravel voice tickling your ear.

He stays there with you. Toe to toe with your feelings. Steady. Your anchor. Until the bellows eventually turn softer; letting the sadness flow out of you.

Then he scoops you up and wraps your legs around his hips, and carries you out to the back porch. The scent of pine and gas station coffee wafts from his clothes. His heart thumps against yours.

The screen door creaked and slapped the frame as he stepped outside. Settling in with you on the overstuffed recliner, Joel aimed your back at the setting sun; knowing the golden light and gentle heat, would sooth you.

“You gave your whole heart; and that’s a beautiful thing. Not everyone knows how to care for something so precious.”

His words sting with truth.

“And some just want the fun and nothing more. But that’s not who you are, is it?”

You shook your head on his shoulder; your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“You’re all in; feet first. My sweet girl.”

A few minutes in, Joel felt the shift in your energy. And of course he knew what to do.

“Does my little one need her Daddy?”

You shivered at his words. That pet name never ceased to melt you right into the floor.

His hands massage your hips in deep, slow strokes. Hoping he can ease your hurt, even a little. Hell, he’d fuck you 24/7 if that’s what it took.

Nodding your head, you lift your butt off his thighs where you straddled him, and he slipped a hand between you to pop open his jeans.

“That’s my girl. Take what you need from your Daddy. It’s all yours.”

“Every drop?” You half squeaked.

Joel held his dick up for you, and eased you down onto it.

“Every one.”

He filled you.

Stretched you taut.

Reminded you to breathe when he hit that spot. And when he bottomed out; he thrust up into you a few times, just the way you like. Kissing your cervix and invading your stomach; making it flip. Butterflies exploding low inside you as he fucked you. Helping shift your brain from pain to pleasure.

“I’m so proud of you. Loving so big and loud. Giving your whole heart. Knowing the risks and loving anyway.”

Joel tucked you back into his embrace; and rocked you slowly. Fucking you with an aching tenderness that healed you. His hands pressing his love for you into your skin as he held you against his chest.

Time passed; just the two of you. A long stretch of sweet quiet, that tied your heart even deeper to his.

And when the sun was down and your tears had dried, you knew, that it would be alright.

[littledes1re]

cw: consenting somnophilia, 18+

oldman!joel fucking and cumming inside your pussy while you’re asleep :(

maybe he had a long day—came home from patrol, worn and tense, only to find his babygirl fast asleep on her stomach, wearing nothing but a sheer babydoll nightgown. no panties. just that sheer little thing. His brain short-circuits, poor old man can’t even think straight while his cock hardens.

so, he eases onto the bed, quiet and deliberate, making sure not to stir you, and spreads your pussy open, inspects your folds and hole. his fingers sliding through your folds when he stills, heart thudding.

you touched yourself. he can tell. you wanted him, even needed him. and now you’re asleep, still aching.

he doesn’t waste time, unzipping his pants and pulling his hardened cock out. with a few strokes around his length he nudges his tip against your wet opening.

joel remembers the first time you asked him to fuck you while you’re asleep. the way you nodded your head eagerly when he asked “y’sure, baby?”

“you made all this mess, baby. now daddy’s gonna clean ya up.” he whispers before pushing into you in one, sudden move.

a low whine leaves your mouth, muffled and still sleeping. “oh, i know.” joel murmurs. “i know, baby. feels so good in your cunt, huh? even while you’re asleep.”

he stays still for a moment, buried deep, forehead pressed to your shoulder. he wants to savor it. wants to be gentle. but then you move, your hips tilt, your body seeking him out in sleep.

that’s when he breaks.

his grip tightens on your waist. his rhythm shifts—slow turns into steady, steady turns into desperate. he starts to fuck you like he needs it, like he’s starving.

“fuck, babygirl,” he groans. “you feel so good. so perfect.”

you moan softly, still asleep, lashes fluttering. he kisses your temple, holds you close, and keeps going—faster now, deeper, chasing that edge he swore he’d resist.

and when you stir awake, not quite awake, not quite dreaming—just floating in warmth and rhythm; your lips part, and a soft “please” slips out before you even know why.

joel’s heart stutters. he leans in, voice rough and reverent. “i got you, baby. daddy’s got you.”

“y’don’t have to beg, babygirl. i’m givin’ you what you need.”

his hand slides over your waist, anchoring you as he thrusts deeper, slower now—like he’s trying to soothe you with every movement. you sigh, body relaxing into him, and he kisses your shoulder like a promise.

“just let go,” he whispers. “let daddy take care of everything.”

you shudder around him, your orgasm rolls over you, soft and releasing. joel feels it—feels your cunt tighten around him, your breath catching.

he groans, low and broken, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “that’s my girl,” he whispers, voice wrecked with awe. “this cunt knows who she belongs to, even in your sleep.”

then, joels rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and he spills inside you while gripping your waist, burying his face in your neck, letting it all go.

he doesn’t pull out. he stays inside you, watching your breath even out as sleep takes you again. with a soft smile, he settles on top of you, still buried deep, and closes his eyes.

[capuccinodoll]

—LUCKY — (one shot) ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (firefighter!joel x f!reader) MDNI!!

my masterlist | read on ao3 | capuccinodollupdates

summary: After a long, stressful week at the station, firefighter Joel Miller turns to the most natural form of stress relief: hitting a bar in search of a one-night stand. And as luck would have it, he finds you. WC: 8.3K

A/N: Quick backstory: a couple weeks ago I met this super hot forty-something firefighter, and that same week I started writing this one-shot. It had to be Joel. It sat in my drafts for weeks until last night, when I finally finished it in a random burst of inspiration, when I definitely should’ve been sleeping (but like, who even sleeps more than three hours these days anyway?) let me know what you think <3

Joel’s first act of rebellion that night was to light a damn cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in years. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. Long day, his back hurt, and his temper had been riding the edge of dangerous for hours. Also, he was fucking horny.

He was still wearing what he’d had on at the station: black work pants, belt digging uncomfortably into his hips, a navy cotton T-shirt and boots that tracked half the parking lot’s mud into the bar. He hadn’t even stopped at home. Knew if he did, he’d lie down, blink, and it’d be morning.

He needed a drink, a break. Stress was eating him alive.

Joel coped with his daily life as best he could. Like the kid who set his bathroom on fire. A twenty-year-old with a tragic case of romantic impulse. Joel and the guys found him curled on the kitchen floor with a burnt towel, melted candles, and a charred tray of pizza slices. The guy wanted ambiance. Candlelight and bathtub acoustics. Maybe a little poetry. He got third-degree burns instead.

Also, Joel was sure he saw a burnt book in the hallway. That was poetic.

Curtains had gone up next. Then came the wine glass, shattered. The kid lived on the third floor. Nearly took out the neighbors. Almost. Well, Joel was probably dramatizing. He did that when he was irritated.

So yeah. Tonight, he ordered a whiskey and lit up, fully aware that the smoke would cling to his fingers for the rest of the night. And he didn't care.

The bar was crowded. Not packed, but full enough to feel like enough. It smelled like beer and cig smoke and wet dirt, thanks to all the muddy boots dragging rain in from the street. His included. The music was too loud to hear the storm tapping on the roof, but he could feel it anyway.

He scanned the room. Nothing caught. Then again, he wasn’t exactly a flame to be drawn to these days.

A blonde in a low-cut top leaned over the bar. A brunette at the pool table bent just the right way in tight jeans. He took a sip of his drink. Watched. Let his eyes rest on her for a couple of seconds.

He was worn the fuck out. And he knew it.

Twenty years ago, this same night would’ve started differently. He’d already be in someone’s backseat, or someone else’s bed, or maybe the goddamn bathroom stall if it came to that. He used to have a good mouth on him. A silver tongue. Knew how to talk, how to touch. And he’d been a lucky bastard once, golden even, for longer than he probably deserved.

Now? Forty-five. Body stiff in some places. Still carrying around a full tank of sex and no place to unload it.

He could’ve stayed home. Could’ve jerked off, taken a hot shower, gone to bed. But the tension in his back said no thanks to that routine. He needed something else. Something more.

He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to flirt anymore. The last time he’d fucked a stranger was years ago, after a night out with the guys from the station — tall redhead, forties, dirty mouth, smelled like vanilla. Her scent had stayed on his shirt, and for a full day after, he kept catching it on his own damn arms.

The last time he’d slept with anyone was eight months ago. Nothing dramatic. Two nights, zero chemistry, and then radio silence.

Now he had nothing. Not even decent porn. He’d spent the past week jerking off in half-hearted silence, scrolling through a sea of videos that didn’t make him feel a goddamn thing.

No. He didn’t want a screen, bad acting and cringey dialogue.

He needed skin. Sweat. Something to sink his teeth into.

So he didn’t overthink it. He got in the truck straight after his long shift and drove to the bar with a plan so simple it felt almost clinical: show up, drink, find someone, fuck, go home.

His eyes drifted back to the blonde. She was watching him now, of course she was. He recognized that look from miles away. She was already imagining how he’d taste. 

Joel stubbed out his cigarette and shifted to stand. And that’s when the bell above the door rang.

You walked in.

Looking slightly lost, you looked like you hadn’t meant to end up here. Hair a little damp from the rain, short black dress clinging to your thighs. You didn’t belong in this place, and that made it worse somehow. Or better.

Joel’s gaze moved down, then back up. He exhaled. Sat back down.

Lifted his whiskey and drank.

“Um, whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

Your voice surprised him. Softer than expected. Especially for someone like you. And by that, he meant you looked like you’d rip a man open.

You sat down on the stool to his left. He turned slightly, watching you.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and sighed as you checked your phone, and Joel noticed your eye makeup was just a little smudged.

You bit your lower lip, distracted.

You looked young. Early thirties, maybe.

Joel wondered —for half a second— if it would be too much, too pathetic, to try anything. But the thought lasted barely a second before he shifted and felt the thick fabric of his pants pressing right in his crotch.

Fuck it.

So, yeah, he was about to say something. Nothing clever, really, just something, when you turned your head and looked straight at him.

“What?”

Joel’s fingers tightened around his glass.

So that’s the tone. That’s who you were. You looked at him with big eyes, long eyelashes. What the hell do you want?

“Tough day?” he asked, smirking before he could stop himself. He lifted his chin toward the drink the bartender had just slid in front of you.

You looked down at it, then back up at him.

“What makes you think that?”

“Intuition,” he said.

You faced forward again, hands wrapped around the glass. Your nails were painted crimson red. He liked that.

You took a slow sip. Nodded.

“Tough week.”

He nodded too. Fair enough.

“Did you walk here?”

You turned to him again. “Let me guess; intuition?”

He tried not to smile but failed halfway. Nodded.

“Your hair’s damp.”

You stared at him then, properly, eyes holding on his face before trailing down, and suddenly he didn’t need any other confirmation. He already knew how the night was going to end.

Not to brag or anything, you know?

You looked away. Sipped again. Looked back.

“Yeah, I walked. Just a few blocks.” A pause. “There was no way I was going back home like this.”

He tilted his head. “Wet?”

You almost laughed, not quite. It was just one of those soft, breathy sounds that didn’t make it out of your mouth, and Joel wanted to catch it with his.

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. But his horny brain was already too hot to care.

You crossed your legs, he didn’t look.

“And what’s a firefighter doing just sitting here drinking?” you asked, eyes flicking to the ashtray. “Smoking, too. Doesn’t that mess with your ability to climb stairs or something?”

He raised his glass. “Hell of a week, I’ll tell you that much.” He took a sip. Set it down again with a thunk. “And I ain’t the kinda man who unwinds with bubble baths and scented candles.”

“Oh, no?” You turned a little toward him, smile all gloss, shiny teeth and mischief. “Scented candles not strong enough for you?”

Joel slid one boot onto the footrest of your stool, settling it between your heels. Your eyes dropped, tracking the motion, but snapped back up to his way too fast.

“I got other preferences,” he said.

“Cigs and whiskey,” you teased, chin tilted up.

“Among other things.”

He sank deep into your eyes, feeling yours pull him under just as hard. A tight, invisible thread. That tickle-in-your-gut kind of feeling. And if he didn’t leave this bar with you tonight, he already knew he’d be thinking about it for a long fucking time.

“Well, that’s a shame,” you said, tracing the rim of his glass with one fingertip. “Something tells me you’ve never actually tried a proper candlelit bath. But cigs and whiskey get the job done, I guess.”

“I’d like to say they do,” he said, voice a little rough now. “But lately they ain’t workin’ much either.”

“No?”

“Not like I want ’em to,” he said, picking up the glass, fingers brushing yours on the way. “And anyway, you’re sittin’ here too, drink in hand. Candles let you down tonight?”

You laughed, soft cheeks rising, eyes going warm.

“And dressed like that, too,” he added, his fingertip grazing yours again, slower.

You tilted your head and bit your lip.

Could’ve looked intentional. Maybe to anyone else it could be, but he knew better. Something about it felt too natural. Like a habit you didn’t notice.

“Got stood up,” you said.

Joel grimaced. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“And you know what’s funny?”

He smiled, already knowing it probably wasn’t going to be funny at all.

“It was our third date,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the big one,” Joel said, nodding. “You reach number three, there’s expectations. You call him?”

You nodded, eyes dropping to the drink in your hand.

“You wanna know what he said?”

You looked up again, and Joel gave you a look that said hit me.

“‘Something came up,’” you said. Then, deadpan: “Which really sucks, ‘cause I was kinda hoping to get laid tonight.”

A surprised, breathy laugh caught in Joel’s chest. The luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

He didn’t usually buy into fate —sounded too cheesy —but right then, with his brain running hot and you in that dress, it felt like the universe had sent you just for him.

“Well,” he said, dipping his voice, “if it makes you feel any better, I’d bet money he’s an idiot.”

His hand shifted a little closer, finger brushing against yours.

“No man with half a brain stands you up,” he said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t. Not even if the whole damn city was on fire.”

You laughed, and it lit you up.

You closed your ankles gently around his boot.

“Such a flirt,” you said. “That line usually work for you?”

“Ain’t heard any complaints.”

You hummed.

“And tell me,” you said, stretching out your other hand, letting your fingers rest on his chest, right over the red and yellow badge stitched into his shirt. “Is the uniform part of the appeal?”

Joel felt it hit him like a goddamn freight train, his eyes locking onto yours like magnets.

Yeah, it had been a long time. No doubt about it.

Because just the light touch of your fingers on his chest had his heart thudding harder, blood pumping faster through his veins, brain getting fuzzier by the second—

and it was only a matter of time before he was half-hard beneath his pants.

And his belt, suddenly, felt like the only thing holding him together.

His fingers gently tightened around your wrist, your hand still resting on his chest, and your breath hitched.

There it was. The sign he’d been waiting for.

Your eyes went brighter, pupils blown wide like deep, dark pools he wanted to drown in.

All. Fucking. Night.

He slipped his thumb under your palm, pressing gently, tracing slow circles against your skin, and your mouth parted, just slightly.

Joel wondered what it’d feel like to slide his fingers between your lips, feel your tongue on his fingertips. And if he let himself drift further, let the thought get a little dirty, a little vulgar, he wondered how it’d feel to have your mouth wrapped tight around his cock, eyes still locked on his like this, all glossy and wide.

Too many thoughts.

But a quick glance around told him no one was watching. Obviously.

The blonde he’d been eyeing earlier was long gone from the bar, and the brunette was still at the pool table, glued to someone else. Everyone else looked too drunk or too damn tired to notice anything at all. And when he looked back at you, your hand—still tangled with his—had drifted down his chest, settling on his thigh.

Joel tightened his grip around yours, thumb still stroking lazy circles on your skin.

He licked his lips. “Tell me, why this bar outta all the others?”

You exhaled through your nose. “I don’t know. It was close.”

“Must be my lucky night, then.”

You smiled, and your hand squeezed his thigh, thumb pressing into the inside, right where it made his brain short-circuit.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

You leaned back just slightly, dragging your hand down the length of his thigh, slow as sin, until you reached his knee.

You squeezed again.

“I’m pretty sure I could use a little of that luck too,” you said.

“Well, I’m sure of that, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I like to share.”

“You like to share?”

“You know what they say about good manners.”

“I know what they say about firefighters,” you murmured, leaning in just a bit, your ankles brushing his foot softly. “But I ain’t never seen it up close.”

Joel smiled sideways, feeling a little dizzy.

“Guess that makes it your lucky night too, then.”

A sweet smile spread across your lips.

“Restrooms?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

But then he caught himself.

Come on, dumbass, get your shit together.

Joel didn’t speak. Just nodded once and jerked his chin over his shoulder.

You let go of his glass to grab your own. Knocked the rest of your whiskey back like a shot, no hesitation, and set the empty glass down.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched you as you turned. Eyes locked, blood hot.

You saw him the second you walked in. A surprise, considering your sour mood.

Didn’t mean to. Weren’t even looking, really. But there he was; tall, broad shoulders, whiskey in hand, salt just starting to thread through his pepper hair.

And just like that, your shitty night cracked open.

Two fucking hours. You’d waited for Ashton at that overpriced restaurant bar, drinking water like a loser, checking your phone every ten minutes only to get stood up, and then a reply only after you texted him first.

Which, in hindsight, made sense. It was the final nail in the coffin of a situation you’d already outgrown.

You’d prepared for tonight. You’d been looking forward to it.

Months had passed since you’d been with anyone, and Ashton boasted he was gentleman enough to wait for the “right moment.”

Fuck the right moment. You just wanted to fuck. And he was a goddamn liar.

Full of shit. “Something came up,” he’d said. And then, on your way out, there he was; smiling like a jackass in someone’s Instagram story. At a party. Holding a beer. Definitely not waiting for anything.

You’d been ready. Perfumed, waxed, exfoliated, moisturized within an inch of your life.

And all for nothing.

All of it, apparently, for yourself.

Until you saw the man at the bar.

And ordered the same drink he was having.

Now, standing beside him, your hand still resting on his knee, you looked at him one last time and let go. Slipped off your stool and walked toward the restrooms. You didn’t look back right away.

You waited until you were almost there. Then, you turned. And he was watching you. Of course he was. Head tilted, eyes tracking you. And just before you pushed the door open, you saw him move, slow, rising from his seat.

Your heart pounded once, then again, faster.

You’d never done this before. You saved your courage for more reasonable things, like doctor’s appointments, awkward phone calls, breaking up with somebody or declining invitations.

The restroom had two stalls. One sink. A worn mirror. A half-full soap dispenser that looked like it’d seen things.

You didn’t care.

You wanted this.

Right now.

You closed the door and caught your reflection: you looked good, really good, actually, considering you’d walked a couple of blocks in the rain. Your hair still a little damp, eye makeup just barely smudged. Your lips still glossy. It was sexy, to be honest.

Three knocks on the door.

Your heart stopped. 

You fixed your hair in the mirror, and then walked to the door, cracked it open, just enough to see him standing there. He looked taller standing up.

He stepped inside in a second, closing the door behind him. You heard the lock click, but all you could see were his eyes fixed on yours.

“Tell me your name,” he said, moving forward until your thighs pressed against the cold sink. He rested his palms on either side, not touching you.

From this new angle he was even closer, and you felt wrapped up in him, in his scent: deep, sexy cologne, whiskey with a hint of smoke. Something you’d never noticed before, or particularly liked, but now couldn’t get enough of.

You said your name with a smile. “And yours?” you asked a second after, sliding your hands up his chest until your fingertips brushed the hot skin at his neck beneath his shirt.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated, your lips barely brushing his.

You smiled, or tried to, but didn’t get far—his mouth crashed onto yours, stealing your breath and pulling you tight against him.

Joel’s hands squeezed your hips, fingers digging into your ass as he hauled you closer, his belt biting into your stomach. He made low, guttural sounds in his throat as your hands slid down his chest, one pressing against his stomach, the other slipping even lower, past his belt.

You adjusted your palm and gave the bulge in his pants a gentle squeeze. Just to see. Just out of curiosity.

Joel broke the kiss with a moan, breath hot and shaky against your wet lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart, gettin’ luckier by the second.”

“You’re desperate for this, aren’t you?” you whispered against his mouth, squeezing a little harder. “Knew it the second I saw you, undressing me with your eyes. I could feel your heart pounding under my hand.”

Joel smiled, then leaned in to steal a kiss. Quick, soft, gone too fast.

“And now?” he murmured, thrusting his hips forward, deepening the pressure of your hand against his crotch. “You feel it beatin' now, too?”

You squeezed again, a moan rumbling in your chest as you leaned in and dragged your tongue across his lips.

Softer than you expected.

Joel let one hand slip from your hip and cupped your jaw, pulling you in, kissing you just as you were about to taste him again.

His tongue met yours, and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss, full of controlled desperation.

Because yes, he was desperate. So were you. But he kissed you like he didn’t want to devour you too fast.

God knew Joel Miller appreciated a proper meal, and he took his damn time savoring it.

You slid both hands up to his neck and pulled him closer, closer, until his whole body was pressed up against yours. Your legs parted around him, and he lifted you onto the sink with both hands, setting you right at the edge.

Your body was melted into his, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your stomach. Legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in the back of his neck and his hair, mouth full of him; you were coming apart right on top of him.

Your dress had ridden up past your hips, and the porcelain beneath you was cold against your ass. But Joel’s hands were warm, dragging heat over every inch of skin they touched. Gripping, kneading, getting you warm as they went.

You pulled away from his lips, leaning back, your head tipping until your neck was fully exposed to him. And Joel wasted no time; his mouth found your skin, teeth and tongue at your throat like some goddamn vampire, biting gently at your pulse point. And then—

A sudden chill kissed your chest, your nipples tightening instantly.

You looked down.

He’d tugged down the top of your dress, one strap slipping off your arm without grace.

One breast bare, the other still half-covered.

Joel cupped it with his hand, fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, both of you watching it happen, breath catching, uneven.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he murmured against your jaw, rough, a little shaky as he kept touching you. “Soft… beautiful… almost feels like a shame to eat you up.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back, your hand stroking the warm skin at the back of his neck.

“You’re not gonna back out, are you?”

Joel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you. A crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“Baby,” he said, smug, “I never leave a plate unfinished.”

Saying that, he slid his hand down your stomach and rested it on your thigh, easing your legs open just a little more.

He pressed his palm, fingers angled down, against your underwear, dragging them slowly up and down with the lightest pressure. Just enough to make your whole body tremble.

“Look at this,” he muttered, grinning. “Already soaked.”

You rocked your hips forward, chasing the contact, and he pushed his hand in closer, fingers circling your clit through the damp fabric, drawing moans straight from your chest.

Your head fell back with a gasp.

“Fuck, Joel, yes,” you whispered, eyes shut, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Right there, right there.”

He kissed your neck, his tongue leaving a wet trail up along your jaw until he reached your ear—then, he softly bit your earlobe.

A gasp slipped from your lips. He let out a breathy laugh.

“You like that?” he whispered, almost surprised, voice barely there—meant only for you.

He bit again. You shivered, your hips grinding harder against his fingers.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he murmured, hot breath spilling over your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty, so desperate, so wet.” His voice dipped lower. “Dragged me into the restroom just to get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You nodded, eyes shut, breath catching.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, his hand moving rougher. “ Tell me. Say it.”

You opened your eyes, lids heavy, and looked at him, hoping the hunger in your stare would swallow him whole.

You exhaled, shaky. “Your—your tongue.”

Joel stilled. His hand stopped.

His mouth found your neck again, and his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you hard against him as your mind spun like a goddamn carousel.

“Your mouth,” you murmured, clutching at him. “Joel—oh my God.”

He laughed against your skin, satisfied, then pulled back. His hands slid down to the inside of your thighs, and without looking away, he started to open you up, inch by inch.

His eyes were shining, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide; lips flushed, cheeks hot and glowing.

Then, the doorknob rattled.

Someone tried to get in.

Three knocks hit the door.

“Occupied,” Joel called, eyes never leaving yours, his hands still gripping your thighs as he dropped to a crouch.

Whoever was outside said something, but you didn’t hear it. Couldn’t. Your focus was locked on the man between your legs.

Joel hooked his fingers into your panties and dragged them to the side.

A breath caught on his lips.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glued to you. 

And instinctively, you rolled your hips forward, offering more, opening for him.

Joel started kissing the insides of your thighs, inching higher with every breath. But the tension was killing you, you needed him over you, right now. Right this second.

Your hand found his hair, fingers tangling in it just tight enough to make a low laugh rumble from his chest.

And then he moved closer, and closer, and—

“Oh my… God,” you gasped, head thrown back, mouth open.

Joel was gentle, tender. His mouth felt soft against you; tongue licking slow, lips wrapping around your bud, sucking softly, releasing with a wet, needy sound: music to your ears.

He moaned against you, sending vibrations through every nerve ending, and you gripped his hair tighter. That seemed to ignite something, because he plunged deeper, faster, sucking harder, with desperate intensity.

You knew you were soaked, felt it slick between your thighs. And when you glanced down, Joel’s mouth and nose were glistening too.

He pulled back for a moment, fingers spreading you open, tracing circles over your clit.

“Look at you, so goddamn beautiful and sweet,” he murmured, then kissed the inside of your thigh quickly, his stubble tickling you.

Without warning, his mouth closed over you again, hungry and relentless. 

Holy fuck, you could come just from the sight of it.

Joel had your clit wrapped in his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicked inside his mouth and over your wet heat.

You couldn’t hold back any longer.

Fisting his hair, head thrown back, a breathy sigh tore through you, and a moan escaped—too loud, too raw—from deep in your throat.

Your hips moved on their own, riding the waves as Joel kept the pace, dragging you over the edge nonstop.

You were trembling, jaw clenched, when his mouth finally pulled away with a soft, satisfied plop.

He touched you one last time, just to kiss your clit like he was sealing a job well done.

No, no... Perfectly done. You had just come harder than you ever had in your life.

The man was talented. You almost climbed off the sink to give him a round of applause, but a dozen other ways to thank him were already lining up in your head.

God bless firefighters. Always reliable service.

When he kissed you, you were still half-dizzy, but you wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

His mouth tasted like you. His tongue was soft in yours, even though now you knew exactly what it was capable of.

You pulled away, trailing your mouth down his jaw with soft kisses until you reached his neck.

“That was fucking incredible,” you murmured, a smile audible in your voice.

He laughed deep and low, vibrating right under your lips.

“My pleasure,” he said, smug as hell.

You leaned back, grinning, eyes locked on his as your hand slid down to his belt. Fingers trembling but quick, undoing the black leather buckle.

Once undone, you pulled down the zipper of his pants and without breaking eye contact, your hand slipped under his boxers. 

Your eyes fluttered as your hand brushed against bare skin, wrapping around his thick, pulsing length.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand stroked him gently, heart pounding at how swollen and hard he was. And when you looked down, just in time to see him slide free from his boxers, a breath caught in your throat.

His dick was big. Long and wide, the soft hair above framing it like a crown. The mushroom-shaped head was round and swollen, pink and leaking. Veins stood out, thick, pulsing, and suddenly, your mouth watered.

Joel seemed composed, at least from a distance. And you say this because up close, you could see how hard he was breathing, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

You didn’t want to make him wait any longer—you didn’t want to wait any longer either— so you pressed your hand gently against him, urging him to step back. And with a quick leap, you slid off the sink and dropped to your knees.

Looking up, you caught how his hand immediately tangled in your hair, fingers gripping your scalp. 

You placed one hand on his thigh, the other at his base, thumb gently pressing and caressing his balls. You knew he liked it, because a soft sigh slipped past his lips the moment you did.

Without a word, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue over the head, slow, until your lips wrapped around him.

Joel gasped, tightening his grip on your hair. You smiled up at him.

He smirked back, that crooked grin lighting up his face.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?”

Suddenly, you decided to wipe that smug smile right off his face.

Your tongue traced the length of him, sliding all the way down to the base, while your hand started pumping him steady and your mouth wrapped around his scrotum, lips sucking and tasting that perfect, salty flavor.

Joel groaned, leaning forward, one hand braced on the sink, eyes squeezed shut and, for once, no damn smile.

You licked back up to the head again, hand sliding down to the base to stroke as your mouth took as much as it could, lips tight and wet, tongue working every inch it could reach.

“Oh, shit, fuck,” Joel gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at you, fingers gently massaging your cheek.

Wet sounds slipped from your mouth and throat as you took him deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until your nose nearly touched his base, completely filled, no room left in your mouth.

Joel moaned, a broken, fragile sound, then tugged your hair softly, pulling you back slowly.

You took a breath as he released you, fingers brushing over your damp chin. You were drooling, thick drops slipping from your lips.

You leaned forward and flicked your tongue out, but before you could take him back into your mouth, Joel grabbed your shoulders, impatience clear in his grip.

“Joel,” you whined, hands resting on his arms, eyes glazed and cock-drunk.

“Sweetheart, don’t get me wrong,” he said, fingers brushing your cheek, needy. “But if you stay on your knees any longer, this’s gonna end way different than how I wanna end it.”

You nodded, understanding. Pff, you were so kind.

You wiped the back of your hand over your mouth, then cupped his face with both hands, pulling him in for a fierce, hungry kiss.

Suddenly, there were knocks on the door.

“Occupied!” Joel shouted again, leaving your mouth.

You chuckled low and clenched his shirt in your fists while his hands slid to your hips, kneading and gripping the skin there.

He bent down and planted a kiss between your neck and shoulder. Then, in one smooth move, he lifted you back onto the sink.

You leaned back, palms pressed against the cold porcelain behind you, while he slipped a black package with tiny white letters from his back pocket.

He popped it open with a quick tear at the corner and popped it in his mouth.

So that’s how it was... this man carried a bareskin raw in his pocket. Look at him. 

You smiled to yourself and brought your hand to your mouth, quickly licking your fingers as you watched him roll on the condom, the thin latex hugging him perfectly.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers teasing impatiently while he positioned himself at your entrance. But you stopped touching yourself the moment you felt him start to slide in, your hand immediately gripping his tanned, strong arm; a vein traced along his bicep, disappearing under his shirt.

You shifted your hips just slightly, and Joel eased himself in, slow and steady.

Inch by inch, his face stayed controlled, but his eyes gave him away. You were completely mesmerized, watching him—watching his reaction as he slid inside you, feeling yourself stretch around him with every second. A slow, delicious burn spreading through your whole body.

With just one hip push, Joel pressed deep, fully inside you.

A gasp escaped your lips, your body overwhelmed by the perfect fullness, the delicious weight of him.

“Fuck,” you threw your head back, breathing calm but heavy.

“Look at it,” Joel managed to say, rough.

You obeyed, eyes dropping right to where your bodies met.

“Look at it; fittin’ like a glove,” he added.

His hands slid up to your waist, gripping tight to keep you steady while you adjusted to him. Joel took the moment to lean forward and bury his mouth in your chest. His tongue flicked lively and wet, and damn, it was almost too much.

Your hand traveled up his arm to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Joel—Joel, move,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Move.”

He let go of your nipple with a wet, filthy sound and tightened his grip on your waist. His eyes locked on yours while he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in one smooth thrust. Then again. And again. And again.

He started moving against you, his hard, heavy cock sliding between your legs, and the heat inside you flared instantly.

And if before you were melting, now you were straight-up dissolving. Joel was fucking you with that fucked-and-broken look in his eyes, and your heart was pounding like a drum. Your body was burning, nearly feverish, and your hands clung to him however they could; gripping his clothes, his neck, his hair, anything within reach.

And he let you hold on, pressing his body against yours, gasping as he gave it all; his mouth trailing kisses down your neck, your shoulders, biting here and there, leaving wet marks on your hot skin, making your head spin.

His thrusts were rougher now, faster too, and so were the sounds spilling from his chest. You were probably making all sorts of noises yourself, but you couldn’t focus on anything except his, because they were fucking delicious.

Joel pulled out of you slowly, eyes glued to where your bodies parted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick. “Look at the mess you made.” He looked up at you, a drunk smile tugging at his lips. “You always this messy?”

You looked down, your mouth falling open.

A mess. A fucking mess. His length was coated with your slick, completely drenched and shining.

The image was so obscene it dragged a moan straight from your throat, just in time for Joel to slam back into you with one deep, hard thrust.

He picked up the rhythm again, hot skin against yours, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

Then... more knocks.

“Dude, c’mon!” someone shouted from the other side. “Get the fuck out already!”

Joel stilled.

“Fuckin’ perverts,” the guy muttered, still banging on the door.

You both let out soft, breathless laughs, and just as quickly, Joel began pulling out.

“No,” you whispered in protest, hands pressing flat against his chest. “Joel…”

“My truck’s out front,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants, belt clinking as he fastened it. His voice was low and final.

You nodded fast, obeying without question. He helped you down from the sink, and your shaky legs hit the ground.

You adjusted your dress as best you could, tugging it down while checking your reflection. You washed your hands, smoothed down a damp strand of hair, and made sure your gloss was still sort of intact.

Joel did the same — no rush, no panic. He washed his hands, ran a quick hand through his hair, and that was it. His face gave nothing away, except maybe the heat still lingering in his eyes, or the huge hard-on he was carrying but, right... anyway.

He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Walked toward the door, and right after opening it, he murmured a polite “excuse us” you barely heard, mostly because all your focus was trapped in the sticky, warm feeling between your thighs.

You stepped out of the restroom in silence, passing through a few nosy stares. Joel didn’t flinch. Or maybe he just didn’t care. And your legs were still a little shaky, your thighs damp.

You squeezed his hand tightly.

Joel pushed the door open.

And outside… it was still raining.

In a hurry, he led you by the hand across the lot, and you got a little wet on the way. No pun intended.

His truck was parked near the back; black, relatively new...

Wait, like, seriously? Who gave a shit about the make and model right now? Your legs were shaking, and all you could focus on was the weight of Joel’s hand wrapped around yours.

He clicked the alarm off, opened the door, and helped you up, gripping your thigh as you climbed in.

You watched him walk around the front, rain catching in the shine of his hair, his broad chest rising as he pulled open the driver’s side door and got in.

The second it shut behind him, he looked at you.

Silent.

A smile crept across your lips and his, too. And then you both laughed, because Jesus, it was all so fucking ridiculous.

Joel reached over and squeezed your thigh, right near where you were aching for him. He leaned in, and you cupped his face with both hands, kissing him like two teenagers sneaking around behind someone’s back.

His hand moved higher, then around, grabbing a handful of your ass while yours slid down to palm the bulge in his jeans again.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and leaned back with a breath.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking forward as he shoved the key in the ignition. “Too many people. And traffic.”

You didn’t complain. Didn’t even say a word. You just watched him start the engine, eyes focused on the road ahead, trying to see past the streaks of rain while the wipers swung wildly back and forth.

“Where are we going?” you asked, already sliding down into his lap.

Joel shifted his hips upward, maybe instinct or need, and you had his belt undone and fly open before he could even answer.

“Someplace quieter,” he said, voice tight, breath catching in his throat.

You freed his cock from his jeans and took him into your mouth without hesitation. Still thick. Still hard. Still yours—if only for tonight.

Your mouth was wet within seconds, and so was he, your lips gliding up and down while soft moans hummed in your chest. You could hear his breathing shift, get heavier, rougher.

You looked up at him, hand stroking him as your mouth worked. He looked laser-focused on the road, the red and white lights of traffic bouncing in his eyes, fractured through the rain on the windshield.

“Keep doin’ that,” he muttered, glancing down at you for just a second like it might fucking kill him to look away for more.

You obeyed without question, hand stroking him before your lips wrapped around the tip again, sucking with just enough pressure to pull a groan out of him; one he clearly tried to bite back, for whatever stubborn reason.

Joel drove a little longer, tension coiled tight in his body, until the truck rolled to a stop. The engine cut out, and he let his head fall back against the seat.

His hands tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, such a good fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed, finally giving into it, hips twitching as he bumped the back of your throat a couple of times. “Keep doin’ that.”

But then he pulled you off him, hand firm under your jaw.

“Backseat,” he said, rough and urgent.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped between the front seats, catching a quick smack from him on your ass as you did. It made you grin.

Joel followed, slower with the limited space, but the second he was back there with you, he dropped onto the seat and grabbed your hips like it was instinct, pulling you right into his lap.

His hands fisted the hem of your dress and dragged it up your body, stripping it off without ceremony and tossing it carelessly into the front seat.

Suddenly, you were bare; completely exposed, save for your panties, which Joel had no intention of letting stay on. He slipped them down and off you in one swift, practiced motion that probably deserved some kind of medal.

Straddling him, you glanced around the truck. You were parked in an empty lot, and even if someone was out there, it didn’t matter. The rain was coming down hard, drumming over the roof and windows, cloaking you both in sound and shadow.

Nature’s way of saying go ahead.

The cool air inside the truck kissed your skin and raised goosebumps along every inch of you. Your nipples tightened as you settled over Joel, heat clashing deliciously with the chill.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, barely above a breath.

You smiled, cheeks somehow blushing even more than they already were.

“Thanks. You too.”

Joel grinned, his thumb pressing into your hip.

“Thanks, sweetheart. You gettin’ shy on me now?”

You stifled a laugh, shook your head.

His hands gripped your waist while your arms draped over his shoulders. Glancing down, you saw his cock, thick and ready lying hard against his stomach, and you rocked forward, back, again, your slick dragging over him and pulling a sharp gasp from his throat.

Still grinding, your fingers toyed with the hem of his T-shirt. Joel, always sharp, always tuned in, pulled it off in one swift motion and tossed it forward, somewhere near where your dress had landed.

You sighed as you looked at him, your hands roaming his bare chest, caressing and kneading the golden skin while your hips kept moving and his hands squeezed you tighter.

He threw his head back, and wasting no time you kissed the curve of his neck, making him moan while his hands slid up your bare back, squeezing and stroking as he pulled you closer against him.

The feel of his bare chest pressed to yours and his hard length rubbing against you was too much, too fast. Your clit brushed his tip, and a gasp escaped your lips as your hips quickened, the friction intensifying.

Joel’s hands dropped hard and fast onto your ass—two sharp slaps echoing inside the truck. And then, he stopped you immediately, his grip firm, holding you still.

Your mouth left his neck as you pulled back slightly, hands still resting on his shoulders. You looked into his eyes just as he lowered his gaze and his hand to grip his cock, positioning it beneath you.

You held your breath for a moment, feeling him settle at your entrance, and then Joel placed his hands firmly on your hips.

Slowly, you began to lower yourself. Inch by inch, until he was fully inside, and a soft sigh escaped your lips.

You pressed your forehead to his while Joel’s hands roamed everywhere; your ass, your thighs, your back, caressing every inch of exposed skin he could.

Your hand gripped his jaw, tilting his face up, and you kissed him as you started to move.

Up, down. Up, down.

You could feel him stretching you just right with every thrust, and soft, broken little sounds slipped from your lips, only to die against his.

Joel was panting, making those low, rough noises like he was trying not to, but couldn’t help it; and God, it drove you wild.

His hands clutched at your ass, guiding you faster, and you leaned back, grabbing onto the frontseat headrest next to you for balance.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice wrecked, thicker now. One hand slid down to your clit as his hips pushed up into you. “You feel so fuckin' good, I can’t—shit—”

You threw your head back, and Joel lost it.

His movements turned rougher, faster; his cock driving in and out, burying deep with every thrust. Your legs were trembling from the tension coiled tight inside you.

Then his hands clamped down on your waist, and with a sudden, forceful motion, he grabbed you and dropped you flat on the seat, on your back.

He moved fast, adjusting his position, hiking your legs up until your knees were pressed on either side of your head, and then he was inside you again, all at once.

Joel leaned forward, his full weight pressing down on the backs of your thighs, keeping you pinned right there as he fucked into you hard.

Your chest rose and fell in time with each thrust, every breath and sound synced with the rhythm of him. Your hands were reaching for anything; his hair, his face, his neck, desperate to touch whatever you could. So he brought his face down to yours and kissed you, his wet lips trembling, parted and hungry.

Your moans were falling apart now—shattered, messy sounds— as Joel hit every soft angle, brushing every nerve inside you. You were helpless, bent in half beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Joel,” you whispered, over and over, barely a sound between cries. “Joel…”

And something in him broke. His thrusts turned rougher, deeper. His groans dropped lower, turned primal. The truck rocked beneath you both, creaking wildly with the force, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t gonna stop—not even if the entire city was burning.

The look on your face was undoing him. You were wrecked; utterly open for him, given over, gone. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

And you felt just like he’d imagined.

No, fuck, better.

Clenching around him, slick and tight and pulling him in like you were made for him. Perfect. Every damn angle.

You were close. And so was he.

He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think about anything else... the weather, maybe? No, the scented candle kid. No. Fuck, wathever. He was squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to hold on just a little longer—to be good for you.

Then he brought his hand down, fingers trembling as they found your swollen clit.

You stopped breathing. No sound, no breath, just stillness.

He had you right where he wanted you.

Joel kept working his fingers, fucking into you like there was no tomorrow until suddenly, your whole body trembled. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your eyes squeezing shut tight as the orgasm hit you hard.

He didn’t stop.

“Oh my—fucking—Joel—Joel—don’t stop—oh my—baby—” The words tumbled out of you in a rush, frantic and breathless, as your climax tore through you.

Joel buried his face beside yours, cheek pressed to your knee, still moving, still inside.

“Oh, shit,” he managed, the words raw, cracking in his throat—

And then it hit him.

The orgasm slammed into him like a wave, dragging him under. He groaned deep, broken, guttural sounds spilling from him as he came, undone and breathless, lost in you completely.

On the way home, your legs were still shaking.

Never in your life—never in all your fucking years alive—had you felt anything like that.

And you didn’t know if it was just Joel, or if it was the rush of fucking a stranger you’d only just met. You had no idea. But your body was still riding the aftershocks, even an hour later, as he drove toward your neighborhood.

An hour later because… well, after it was over, the two of you had just collapsed in the backseat.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. Not talking. Just existing.

And then Joel turned his head and asked if you were hungry. So he drove to a fast food place, ordered burgers and fries at the drive-thru, and you ate in the parking lot while he told you about the fire he’d worked earlier that day.

Which, now, made his hatred of scented candles make a lot more sense.

To be fair, Joel seemed like a good man. More than good, actually.

And it wasn’t just because of how well he’d fucked you or the way he’d helped you clean up afterward, or how sweetly he’d asked “What d’you want to eat, sweetheart? Burgers? Fries? Tenders? Sprite or Coke?”

No, it was something else. Inherent. Built in.

But it was too late in the night for that kind of analysis. And something inside you twisted at the thought of even trying, anyway.

Food finished and truck parked just outside the park, Joel turned to look at you.

“I can drop you closer, y’know. For real.”

“No need, seriously.” You waved him off, already reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” he said, his hand landing gently on your thigh. “It’s late. I mean it.”

“I live in that building,” you pointed out through the open window, but there were several behind you, and Joel had no clue which one you meant. “It’s not far. What, you wanna move a couple more feet?” You smiled.

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

“All right,” he said, pulling his hand back and watching as you pushed the door open.

Something in him told him to stop you. To say something else. Ask you a question. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you stepped out and shut the door behind you.

You leaned in through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride, stranger,” you said, smiling. “And take that however you want.”

Joel let out a breathy laugh, and you turned away, still smiling.

He watched you walk a few steps, and then—

“Wait,” he called, leaning across to the passenger-side window.

You turned around.

“Give me your number.”

You smiled again, like you were actually thinking about it for a second.

“I already have yours, remember?”

Joel frowned, confused.

“3-1-1. Fire department.” You recited it with a little shrug.

Before he could respond, you turned around again and walked away.

For a few seconds, you were still close enough. He could’ve said something. Anything. Stopped you. Called your name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you crossed the street and disappeared between the buildings.

And that night, Joel couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The nights that followed, he didn’t either.

divider by @/enchanthings

tags: @stylesispunk @vanishintoyoubby @onlythehobi

[moonlight-prose]

👻 Clark Kent falling for a journalist in Gotham

a/n: i've already got this dynamic going in a clark series i'm writing so i shoved this into there. it can be veiwed as an au of said fic (simply cause i just kept the same vibe). but also i love the idea of getting to write them spending halloween together.

warnings: none, fluff + romance, clark is head over heels in love, halloween in gotham, flirting.

October 31st.

The streets are crawling with people crowding in from every side, suffocating the air from your lungs and filling it back up with the stench of stale cigarettes and shitty vapes. You could barely see through the throng of costumes, wave after wave of shouting civilians plotting their next adventure.

Half of them were wasted, the other half still drained bottles dry as they tripped over sidewalks and discarded bags of candy. And you loathed it all. The overwhelming heat of far too many people out on the streets. The way your skin crawled at the sight of fake blood decorating limbs and painted faces.

Sweat clung to the nape of your neck, the leather trench doing the most in trapping your body heat. But you refused to leave it at home. His scent remained faint on the collar—a reminnder of where you left and where you'd eventually return.

"Move out of the way," someone muttered, ramming an elbow into your side.

Gasping at the sharp splinter of pain, your feet went right and the stability you normally depended on in your combat boots disappeared entirely. You fell without grace. Clutching for anything you could grab onto as a way to stop from shattering a bone. But a set of hands hit your back, shifting your weight back into a somewhat upright position.

"I didn't know Gotham got so wild on Halloween."

A low soft chuckle forced the hair on your arms to stand, chills pulsing rapidly down your spine as recognition dawned over your racing mind. You knew that voice. Remembered it as if it were your own—having listened to it time and time again months ago.

"Clark," you breathed, spinning to face the man who had a grin that nearly cracked his face in two.

A journalist. That was his costume. If the tie and suit pants were anything to go by—his glasses askew on his face. He resembled a man who flew across two cities to come find you in the overwhelming mass of people running to and fro looking for trouble. You'd know that by the texts he sent you.

Had to help Lois and Jimmy fix an article. Will be leaving soon.

Thirty minutes later: Would it be lame to dress as Superman?

One hour later: Have you eaten dinner?

Getting out of Metropolis was a feat in itself; you couldn't blame him if he never arrived. Especially considering you attempting to leave Gotham only came once in a blue moon with the rate of crime. Someone had to be around to report it truthfully and that role more often than not landed directly in your lap.

"We match," he stated, pointing to the pen clipped to your pocket. The knife—gifted by Bruce of all people—was stowed in the opposite pocket. "Well almost."

"Not all of us are indestructable Blue," you smiled.

"Don't remind me." A man whooped behind him, shoving into his back, forcing him to take a step forward. "How do you get around here on Halloween?"

"Carefully."

"So what does a reporter from Gotham do on this day?"

"Oh we stop by parties and trick or treat and-"

An arm slipped around your waist maneuvering you out of the way as five gangly teenagers barreled down the street. The space was familiar, his chest pressed to yours and chin tipped down to catch your gaze with a smile. Your heart fluttered, breath escaping when he leaned down close to hear you speak above the crowd.

Fingers curled tight around your hip—your digging into the front of his coat. “Your traditions sound a lot more fun than mine.”

“Well you know us Gotham people.”

The twist in your stomach spread to shaky fingertips when his mouth brushed yours. Soft, languid in his movements. You barely had a chance to taste the pastry off his tongue before he retreated, cupping your cheek as you reached up to chase what you’d been longing for.

“So what do you really do?” His eyes sparkled, practically giddy at the yearning cracking sharp across your features.

“There’s been a murder in an empty warehouse. I’ve been called to report it.”

His brows threaded together, face growing dark. “Don’t tell me you do this every year.”

“Never said Gotham’s traditions were wholesome,” you shrugged. “It’s a recurring theme. Halloween and everything. Worst night of the year for people like us.”

People like us.

Journalists, strangers just trying to get home, families out and about, innocent kids hopping from party to party, and him. The one doing as much good as he could scrape out of his weary form. Donning mask and cape and brutal unbridled rage.

“Let’s go beat him to it then,” Clark replied with a grin, tangling his fingers with yours to drag you close through the raucous people around.

Halloween—perhaps you didn’t hate it as much as you thought you did.