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pedges-world · 16 hours ago

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Reblogging some posts for my continued celebration of Pride. Celebrating our Bi-Babies like Oberyn, who is fantastically intimidating in the best way possible. Happy to share him with as many as he likes...

little dove

summary: your first attendance of a huge feast is bothersome, alone and inexperienced as you are. until the eyes of a certain prince won't stop following you.

pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader

word count: 4.5k

warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; virginity/innocence kink; implied age gap (oberyn is in his early 40s, reader early 20s); fingering; unprotected p in v; creampie; some biting

a/n: another fic from last summer, hope you enjoy! ; headers & dividers by @/saradika-graphics

follow @palioomfics & turn on notifs for future updates

• masterlist •

Oberyn had been watching her all night already, his dark eyes following the shape of her wherever she went. Between the bustle of the people, her bright orange glowing dress like the sun, rising and settling as she appeared and disappeared, standing around like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

It was adorable, a smirk gracing his features as he watched her wring her hands, smiling sheepishly when someone approached her.

So innocent.

He could see the nervousness on her face from where he sat, the uncertainty, clearly not used to people approaching her.

He could see the heavy rise and fall of her chest, exposed by the deep cut of her garments.

Taking another sip of his wine, Oberyn stood, deciding now was his time.

The festivities had been going on for a while, and even though he had planned on celebrating with a group of people in his bedchambers later, she had thrown those plans into the wind the second he set sight on her.

Something just intrigued him, maybe it was the innocence she seemed to harbour, maybe it was her beauty.

Whatever it was, he had to know more, waiving away another woman that approached him with a polite smile, then walking over to the mysterious woman.

She looked around nervously, playing with the rings on her hands as people passed by her, some stopping to talk to her.

Feeling incredibly out of place at this feast, her first big one, she didn't quite know what to do. Her parents were somewhere, as were her siblings.

The lords trying to speak to her made her feel uneasy, knowing she was supposed to find a possible suitor at some point, but wanting nothing more than to flee this place.

In fact, she was thinking about just leaving, when she was approached again.

Tall, dark haired and handsome. The Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell.

She had seen him at his table, stealing a glance every once in a while and looking away when his dark eyes caught hers.

And now he stood in front of her, flashing her a wide smile.

“My Prince.” She said, curtsying as well as she could, perhaps a little clumsily.

Out of everything she had expected to happen today, she did not expect for him to approach her.

“Do you intend to sulk in the shadows all night, my dove?”

She blinked up at him, once again playing with the rings on her fingers.

“I have not been sulking.” A frown graced her face, a slight tremble in her voice. His presence was intimidating, but different from the other people who had approached her. “I have been observing.”

Oberyn chuckled, taking a small step closer to her, watching her step back just a little in return. So close to her, he could practically feel the nervosity radiating off of her, trying to hold eye contact before they moved away again, looking at anything but him.

“Observing by turning down all lords and ladies who approach you?” He said, watching her fingers stop for just a moment, as if she had been caught, before fiddling with her rings again. “I must admit, I have been watching you for a while - you are the only lady not dancing, not talking to anyone. Just standing in your corner, sometimes moving to follow the servants for a drink or something to eat.”

She stayed quiet. Had she been that noticeable? Just by standing around, hoping for a saving grace?

“I assume this to be your first attendance at a feast this big, am I correct, my dove?”

That nickname.

It made her feel warm, a different kind of warmth than the Dornish weather. Running through her in an unfamiliar fashion, her veins like molten metal, a strange feeling moving up her spine..

“Yes, my Prince.” She said, nodding, but not looking at him.

Oberyn noticed how she became more nervous, smirking at the display in front of him.

“My parents have kept me from them for long, I was only ever allowed to attend small ones.” She continued, sighing. “It is quite overwhelming. I am inexperienced in these kinds of things.”

Her words made him inhale sharply through his nose, still smiling.

If she was inexperienced in this, what else was she inexperienced in?

He had wanted her before, but now the desire for her burned even brighter. Oberyn wanted to show her the things her parents have undoubtedly sheltered her from.

To keep their daughter pure for a potential suitor.

“I understand, my dove. Would you perhaps allow me to accompany you to a place more quiet?”

Usually, he did not beat around the bush when it came to a potential partner for the night.

But it was different with her. If he was blunt he would simply chase her away.

She didn’t look at him, thinking about his question.

All the other men and women that had asked before had made her feel uneasy. Unsure why they wanted to whisk her away, promising a better night someplace else.

But the Prince of Dorne? He made her feel different. A heat and a pressure in her abdomen that she never felt before.

She knew of the rumours, that he took many partners, for whatever they did. Yet, as he stood in front of her, charming smile and good looks, she felt herself drawn to him.

Oberyn reached out, placing a finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “I asked you a question, my dove.”

His fingers on her chin made her still, just looking up at him with her big eyes, lips slightly parted. The touch made that pressure worse, breath hitching in her throat.

“My Prince, I’m-” She stumbled over her words, unsure what to answer.

He just chuckled, a sigh leaving him. “You are quite easily flustered, my dove. Come with me, please.”

Holding out his arm for her to take, he hoped she would. Such an innocent, pretty thing. There was something so endearing about the way she was behaving.

She swallowed hard, looking from his face to his arm, hesitating for a moment. Something drew her to him, and after another moment, she hooked her arm into his with a nervous smile.

Oberyn walked her away from the feast, the noises dying down behind them as they walked the long corridors.

“What did the other lords and ladies ask of you, my dove?”

She sighed, glad to be away from the bustle in the halls, but feeling uncertain now, a throbbing at the apex of her thighs distracting her.

“They wished to take me away for some fun. I’m unsure what they meant exactly.” She didn’t look at him, too nervous to meet his dark, piercing eyes.

It was intimidating, she had never been in the presence of a man other than her father or her brothers alone. She knew how to behave, for the most part, but nonetheless was it a little scary.

Oberyn smirked, looking down to her, seeing how she only stared at the floor or ahead of them.

“You did not know what they were implying?” He asked, a bit amused but genuinely curious. “My little dove, you must be younger than I thought or your parents simply were too careless with your education.”

She remained quiet, her cheeks growing hot.

A sense of shame washed over her, that he thought she was too young. It was as if her friends were with her, giggling and whispering because of something she didn’t understand.

And when she asked, they never explained, finding it too amusing to laugh and belittle her.

There was something she was missing out on, and she hated not knowing what.

“My dove, you do not have to be ashamed.” He said, his other hand coming to gently rest on hers. “If you wish, I could show you.”

He had been right about the assumptions of her being a virgin, too innocent for her own good.

Walking next to her, he felt something else besides the desire for her, a need to protect.

As if he was the only one allowed to show her, that anyone else would simply take advantage of this fact.

Now her eyes met his, brows furrowed.

“Show me?” She echoed his words. “How? What exactly?”

Oberyn just smiled, eyes leaving hers to look at the guards standing by the door of his chambers.

He stopped, not too far away from the door, looking back at her.

“Do you wish for me to show you, my dove?” He asked, brushing back a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. “If not, I understand.”

She should be wary. Despite him being the Prince of Dorne, she should think about this. But she was curious, so curious about what this thing was that she had been missing out on.

And there was still that feeling inside of her.

“Yes, my Prince.” She said with a small nod. “I am curious, please.”

He chuckled, his knuckles brushing over her cheek. “Please, call me Oberyn, my dove.”

Moving along, the guards allowed them to enter, the heavy door falling shut behind them. Oberyn let go of her arm, walking over to a table to pour himself some wine, then offering her a cup.

She took it with a small nod, taking in his quarters. They were richly decorated, the bed massive.

Just how she would imagine it, if she had ever spent time on that before meeting him.

Taking a sip of her wine, Oberyn laid a hand on her waist with a gentle smile, pulling her closer to him.

“Most people stare when they first come here.” He said, his hand wandering up and down her side. “Don’t be nervous, little dove.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. That was easier said than done, the heat inside her becoming unbearable at this point.

His hand on her side felt like it was burning her, even through the thin fabric of her gown. Like it was hot coals placed on her.

“Have you ever been kissed, my dove?” He asked suddenly, eyes searching hers. Pulling her just a little closer to him.

She shook her head no, slowly. Heart beating in her throat, he was so close to her.

She could feel the warmth of him, twirling the cup of wine in her hand.

“Would you allow me to?”

There was some hesitation inside her, her hands stilling. Should she allow him to? She wanted to, somehow.

Often had she imagined what it felt like, kissing someone.

Her answer came in the form of a nod, her head barely moving.

Oberyn smiled, his hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“Oh, my little dove.”

Despite his growing desire, he moved gently, bending down to place his lips onto hers. The small gasp that left her made him chuckle, his other hand coming to rest on her hip and pull her hips flush against his.

She stiffened beneath his touch, liking the way his lips felt on hers, surprisingly soft, while his beard and moustache tickled her skin. Holding onto her cup tightly, she closed her eyes, humming when he deepened the kiss and she tried to match his movements, clumsy and inexperienced.

When he parted from her, she chased after him, opening her eyes when she couldn’t. Oberyn laughed at that, staying close to her, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

She looked adorable, the way she greedily breathed in air, lips slightly parted. Still too nervous, too stiff.

“What do you think, my dove?” He asked, leaning closer again so their noses were almost touching. “Would you like for me to show you more? There is quite an array of things I could assist you with.”

His fingers curled into her hip, and when she nodded, he only smiled wider.

“I promise to be gentle, my dove. A beauty such as you needs to be handled with care.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t matter, because as soon as he kissed her again, more eager this time, her mind went blank.

His hand briefly left her hip to take the cup from her hands, placing it on the table next to them, before it was back, pulling her against his chest and making her gasp.

Letting his tongue glide against hers at the opportunity, Oberyn heard her muffled moan, relishing in the sweet sound.

The way she tried to kiss him back was delightful, so tender and new, trying to keep up with him.

Slowly he manoeuvred her back towards the bed, having to hold onto her waist as her steps became unsure, stumbling backwards once, her cheeks glowing even hotter.

The throbbing only became more intense, and when they reached the bed and he gently pushed her to sit at the foot of it, she squeezed her thighs together, looking for relief.

There was a wetness now that felt foreign to her.

Oberyn noticed, amused at the display.

“Are you aching, my dove?” He asked, his hands coming to the belt tied around his waist.

Aching.

It did hurt, but in a different way. Not like a bruise or a cut.

She nodded. “A little. My Prince- Oberyn, what- I don’t understand what is happening.”

Poor thing. Her parents had done a horrible job to prepare their daughter.

To leave her in the dark at such an age.

She watched him undo his belt, letting it fall to the floor before motioning for her to move further back to the middle of the bed.

“You’re aroused, my dove. You feel the need for cock.” He explained, shedding his robe, then crawling over her. “Have you seen a cock before, little dove?”

Her mouth went dry as she watched him undress, now only clad in a dark orange tunic and his breeches.

Aroused.

Of course. But was she really aroused by him? In need of his cock?

She nodded, and she could see a flash of surprise grace his features.

“In the bathhouses, yes.” She tried to hold his gaze, now hovering over her and letting his hand glide down her side. “From afar.”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then her neck, hearing the breathy moan spill from her lips, feeling her back arch slightly.

“In the bathhouses…” He repeated in a whisper, still some amusement in his voice. “Yet you don’t know a thing about this… about desire and fucking.”

The word felt vulgar, so close to her ear.

And she felt embarrassed again. That she didn’t know more, that she didn’t understand she was aroused just by him being near her, by him kissing her, by him hovering over her.

“Do you want me to show you, my dove? The thrill of desire?” He asked, still mouthing along her neck, gently, just feeling her as she squirmed, her own hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. “How to fuck?”

Her breath hitched in her throat when he sucked at the junction of her neck and shoulder, a throaty moan leaving her.

“I- I do not know, Oberyn.” She stammered, fingers digging into his shoulders. The throbbing and the pressure were distracting her, just needing relief. “It hurts, it really hurts.”

His hand moved lower, down her side and to her thigh, gathering her skirts before it dipped below them.

“I can help you, my dove.” His hand wandered between her thighs, finding her dripping already, a soft sound escaping him at the feeling. “Oh, my dove. Wet and gushing like a waterfall and I have barely touched you.”

He sounded pitying almost, his fingers slipping between her folds, raising his head to watch her face when he found her clit.

A hiss left her, looking at him with wide eyes at the foreign feeling. It felt good, strange but good.

“Have you never touched yourself before? Brought yourself to the peak of pleasure?” He asked, drawing slow circles into her clit, with featherlight touches.

She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes open, her legs opening further.

“Never, I didn’t know-”

“You poor thing.” He cooed, kissing her.

When his fingers left her again, she whined in protest, one of her hands reaching out to grab his wrist.

She didn’t even really know what was happening, simply that his touch felt good and that she wanted more.

Needed more.

The burning sensation inside her was so consuming and overwhelming while also hurting her.

“Oberyn, please, continue.” She said, guiding his hand back down but he escaped her grasp.

“Do you know anything about this, my dove? About fucking, the feeling of something stretching you open? Feeling somebody’s naked skin against yours?”

Stretching her open? It sounded painful, she couldn’t imagine how anything could do that, and where.

But she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to embarrass herself further.

She shook her head again. “No, I don’t.”

He chuckled, his hand coming up to tug one of the straps of her gown down her shoulder, then further down her arm, exposing her breast.

“My little dove, so innocent, so pure.” A sigh left him, watching her face as he touched her breast, just lightly brushing over the hardened nipple. Nothing could have prepared him for just how much her innocence spurred him on. “I will take care of you, just allow me to do so.”

“Please, please, Oberyn.” She whined, desperate. His hand felt good on her, back arching off the bed and into his touch, her head thrown back as she closed her eyes.

This was what she had missed out on, something so good and intense. If only he could touch her again.

Slowly Oberyn undressed her, slipping the garment down her body and kissing each inch of newly uncovered skin. Taking in how she whined and moaned, took in a sharp breath or hissed at the sensation.

She felt exposed, once he sat back and pulled the gown down her legs, his dark eyes raking over her naked form as she laid before him, resisting the urge to cover herself.

So sweet and pure. And he would be the one to ruin her, to taint her beautiful body.

Thank the Gods it was him and not someone else.

“So pretty.” He said, a hand gliding up and down her thigh, the other working open his tunic. “My little dove, all for me to enjoy. I shall show you the heights of pleasure.”

She watched as he shed the garment, exposing his toned torso, the muscles under his skin moving. She was mesmerized, despite having seen this so many times at the bathhouses, when she came to find her siblings or her parents.

His hands moved down to his breeches, opening them just as slowly as he had done with the rest of his clothing.

“It seems as if my little dove has found something she likes.” He chuckled, shedding the last piece of clothing, kneeling between her spread legs, just as exposed as she was.

Cock heavy and throbbing, her eyes were fixed on it.

It was bigger than what she had seen before. But she didn’t know if she should mind that.

“Don’t be scared, my dove.” Oberyn said, moving to hover over her again, one hand on her thigh, his cock brushing against her stomach. “I’ll prepare you to take me.”

“Take me?” She asked, gasping when his hand found that sweet spot again, applying more pressure this time and leaving her breathless.

He hummed against her neck, kissing and sucking on her skin, taking in her sweet sounds.

So adorable, needing to be taught. Not knowing what pleasures awaited her.

His hand moved lower and he felt how she stiffened when one finger pressed against her hole.

“Don’t be scared…” He repeated, slowly pushing a single digit in, groaning when he felt her squeeze around him, her nails digging into his shoulders with a whine.

It felt strange, his thick finger inside of her, moving in and out slowly. Yet it also felt good, her hips rolling on their own, legs opening wider.

“Oberyn-” She moaned, voice breaking, the pressure inside her easing just a little.

His mouth found hers again, continuing to move his finger slowly, his cock twitching at the thought of burying himself inside her soon.

“Tell me how it feels, little dove. You might be ready for another finger soon.”

She whined, concentrating on the foreign feeling, the stretch when he pushed a second finger in.

“It feels good, my Prince- Oberyn.” She breathed, her mind feeling as if it was floating on a cloud, hissing when he scissored his fingers inside of her. “It hurts a little, but it feels good.”

He chuckled, kissing her cheek and down to her jaw, then down her neck again.

“My dove, you feel splendid, gripping my fingers so tight with your sweet cunt.”

Something inside her built, blood hot like molten metal as it rushed through her, building her higher and higher until he took his fingers from her again.

A noise of protest died in her throat, his teeth softly sinking into her shoulder.

He grinned at that, lifting his head to look at her, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep hum.

“Finer than any wine.” Oberyn said, positioning himself so his cock was lined up with her. “My dove, I promise to be gentle. It may sting nonetheless.”

She nodded, drowsy and wanting nothing more than this ache to end. He said his cock would help, and so she wished for nothing more than him to enter her where his fingers just had been.

“Please, help me relieve this ache.” She said, feeling him against her, so much thicker than his fingers.

Oberyn watched as he entered her, grunting at how tight she still was, seeing her eyes squeeze shut and take a sharp breath.

It stung, he hadn’t lied about that, his lips finding hers as he pushed in further, muffling her whimpers while he buried inch after inch inside of her.

All the way until he was fully sheathed inside of her, hips flush against hers, one of his hands coming to rest on her thigh, squeezing it gently.

“It hurts, Oberyn.” She breathed when he broke from her, looking back at him, his lips on her cheek again.

“I know, my dove. You will feel better soon, don’t you worry.”

It was so new, the sensation of being filled, of him inside of her and stretching her out just as he had said.

Overwhelming, someone being so close to her, inside of her, his hot skin against hers, his soft lips on her cheeks.

The pain slowly fading into a need, the throbbing returning, as did the pressure.

Her hips moving on their own, making him chuckle, the sound vibrating against her chest.

“Are you sure you wish to continue already, my dove?” He asked, kissing a spot just below her ear that sent a shiver through her. “I cannot stop myself if we do, your cunt is simply too tight and inviting.”

She nodded, whispering a silent please.

So he slowly pulled back, setting a lazy rhythm of shallow thrusts, her dragged out moans like music to his ears, a little symphony written just for him as he drove back into her over and over again.

“You feel perfect, my dove, what an honour to teach you about the pleasures of the flesh.” Oberyn groaned, his hands grabbing her legs and wrapping them around his hips, making her whimper loudly. “You won’t find a nicer cunt than that of this little virgin dove.”

She let him move, rolling her hips, trying to meet his thrusts, that something inside her building again, becoming stronger this time.

If this really was what she had been missing out on, what she had been ridiculed for, she never wanted it to stop now that she had it.

The feeling pleasant as the ache became less and less present.

Oberyn had to hold back to not just drive into her with his entire force, losing himself in how good she felt, but still wanting this to be something good for her, as much as he desired her.

Already knowing he would seek her out again and again, her innocence far from gone, her sounds so sweet in his ears, her hands so soft as they grabbed at him, trying to find purchase on his body.

“My dove, you are close, I can feel you.” He rasped, his movements becoming sloppier, lips dancing over her skin. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Close to what?” She asked, words catching on her breath, feeling something but unsure if it was what he meant.

Gods, she was so adorable.

“Oh, you will see, my dove.”

His hand moved between them, finding her clit.

And with just a few movements, something snapped inside of her so suddenly and with such force that all breath left her, a strangled noise catching in her chest as her veins burned, the pressure in her abdomen released.

She was trembling, holding him against her tightly as he kept moving, thrusts harsher now.

“There you are, my little dove, isn’t that wonderful? The heights, the peak?”

It was a pretty sight, her face contorted in bliss and pleasure but also so shocked by what was happening to her, by these new feelings.

She could only whine, falling silent when she heard him grunt deeply into her ear, stilling above her.

Spilling himself deep inside of her before rolling off of her, not separating but rolling her with him so she came to rest on top of him.

She felt exhausted suddenly, the euphoric feelings still coursing through her veins.

And he felt solid beneath her body, catching his breath just as she did, his hands carding through her hair.

“Now, my dove, how do you feel?” He asked, watching her face as she rested on him. “Are you satisfied?”

If anyone had told her just a few hours ago that she would land in the bed of the Prince of Dorne, she would have laughed at them.

But now, it seemed quite nice.

She nodded. “I feel exhausted, but I am very grateful for what you showed me.”

A smile stretched her lips wide, he liked it. She seemed to be less nervous.

He chuckled, one hand wandering down to smooth over her back. Normally he would be far from done, already planning another round of pleasure.

But she truly seemed too exhausted by this. After all, she hadn’t even known about any of this until now.

Her eyes drifted shut, but she was still awake, listening to his heartbeat.

“Oh, my dove.” He said quietly, kissing the top of her head. “There is so much more to show you, I am far from done with you.”

She felt warm at the idea, curious what else there was to discover. Her eyes felt too heavy to open them again, slowly drifting off into sleep on top of him.

Oberyn simply smiled, sighing deeply.

Yes, he was far from done.

There was so much to learn, so much to discover.

And he couldn’t wait to see her face once he began to truly teach his little dove.

#oberyn martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell fanfiction #oberyn martell smut #oberyn martell x you #game of thrones #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you

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strawberriesandhotmen · 3 days ago

Text

Do It All Again

a/n: I was looking through my drafts a couple hours ago and found this unfinished gem. I decided to slap an ending on it and gift y'all with some Joel Miller to get you through the weekend 😘 As always, I hope y'all enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

pairing: boyfriend!Joel Miller x fem!reader

CW +18 SMUT: literally just Joel Miller being the munch we all know he is. and swearing. but pretty much just Joel being an insatiable freak

word count: 1.1k

“C’mon, baby.” He complained, tugging discreetly at the hem of your sundress. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear as he leaned in, his fingers teasing the skin of your thigh. “Been needin’ you all day.” You shush him with a furrowed brow, swatting his hand away. “We can’t just leave, Joel. This is your barbeque.” You roll your eyes, crossing your ankles underneath the picnic table the two of you were sat on. He huffed impatiently, the expression on his face similar to a petulant child.

“But I’m hungry.” He grumbled, crossing his arms as his biceps strained against his dark green flannel. “And not for barbeque.” He added in a hushed tone, at least somewhat self-aware. Letting out a groan, you ran a hand down your face, exasperated at his insistence.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want him too; God, did you. But he had planned this barbeque, he was hosting it, and now he wanted to leave. Ridiculous.

“Joel, this is your house.” You paused, and he merely blinked. With a sigh, you added, “There’s nowhere that you can leave to.” A devilish smirk spread across his lips, and you knew you were in trouble. Damn his unrelenting sex drive.

“I never said we had to leave the house.” Your eyes widened at what he was implying, and you lowered your voice further despite the fact that you were the only ones at this particular picnic table.

“You aren’t seriously suggesting that w-”

“Damn right I’m suggesting it.” He cut you off, already interlacing his fingers with yours. Before you could protest, he had already lifted you off of the bench to stand on the grass, ushering you inside the house before you could properly excuse yourselves. Not three seconds later he had you pressed against the wall beside the back door, his lips already attacking your neck.

“Joel,” You breathed, swallowing thickly, “That was rude.” He scoffed dismissively, pulling back to give you a look that said ‘prude’ before capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

You wondered for a moment whether he only kissed you to shut you up; he did that sometimes, you were sure of it, but you couldn’t really complain with his hand up your dress.

Your eyes rolled back as his fingers teased you over your lace panties, pressing just firmly enough to make it hard to be quiet. Your hands gripped his shoulders like you were afraid he would disappear, and your lips parted when his tongue requested it.

“Want you right fuckin’ here.” He growled, bunching up the skirt of your dress around your hips so he could see you properly. His sweet, perfect girl, always smelling like vanilla and feeling like satin. The way your thighs pressed together nearly drove him insane, his mind filled with thoughts of spreading them wide as he made out with that pretty cunt.

And fuck, she was pretty, all pink and wet, never failing to be the best thing he ever fucking tasted. He never stopped thinking about it, about tasting you, making you come all over his face until you couldn’t take it anymore. He wouldn’t quit until you quite literally refused him, until your thighs trembled uncontrollably with the intensity of your highs.

His momma always taught him to finish his meals, so, respectfully, he didn’t care if your legs were shaking.

A soft, anticipating little moan left your parted lips as you looked down to find him on his knees for you, his lips sucking at the sliver of exposed skin just above your panties. His calloused fingers dug into your hips to hold you in place as his teeth latched onto the waistband, dragging them down to your ankles as he held eye contact with you.

And shit, you thought; how the hell did I get so lucky?

“Can’t wait to taste this fuckin’ perfect pussy, baby. Always cryin’ for me.” A gasp left you as he nipped at your inner thigh, coaxing your legs open just enough.

“Joel,” You forced out, “Anyone could walk in.” It was hard to be reasonable with Joel Miller on his knees before you, but the risk of embarrassment outwon him just slightly.

“Shut that cute mouth and let me have this, baby.” Your lips had never closed so fast. The moment his lips connected with your soaking folds, the mere suggestion of protesting such pleasure flew out the metaphorical window.

Joel pressed his face against your cunt like it was his last meal, like he would give anything just to spend the rest of his years planted firmly between your plush thighs as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm from you. His hands had moved from your dress to grip your thighs, the skirt of it draped artfully over his head like a sculpture.

The wet, lewd sounds that floated from below your waist to your ears made your cunt flutter around his tongue, drawing a pathetic moan from him as he reveled in your responsiveness.

“Taste so good, baby. Not lettin’ you leave until I’ve had my fill.” His husky words sent a tangible shiver down your spine, your back arching more aggressively off the wall with each flick of his tongue over your clit. If not for his hands on your thighs, you were sure you would have collapsed multiple tongue-thrusts ago.

Your hands snaked under your skirt to curl into his mussed hair, tugging harshly as his ministrations grew faster. Not that Joel minded; quite the opposite, in fact. He’d let you pull a clump out if it meant he was making you feel that good.

Joel lived for your pleasure, was literally created for it, it seemed. He knew every method, every sensitive spot that unraveled you in every possible scenario. He didn’t even have to use his fingers at times like this, for example, to shatter that tightly pulled cord and make you come all over his tongue.

Speaking of which, the knot that had appeared in your stomach moments ago was growing to an unmanageable size, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep it together much longer.

“J-Joel, m’close, honey. M’gonna-” You cut yourself off with a high pitched noise as his teeth tugged at your swollen clit, tongue slipped deeper inside your pussy as he groaned at your taste.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel you come undone for me, baby.” It was like his words were secret magic, an ancient spell who’s language altered with the ages. Because at his order, you shattered, fingers curling into his hair even tighter as your orgasm washed over you in waves.

Joel didn’t even let you come down for a minute; no, he simply continued, his only goal at this time to drive you over that edge.

Over, and over, and over, until, ideally, he would be ‘forced’ to carry you to bed and do it all again.

370 notes · View notes

gothicpaperback · 20 hours ago

Text

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

<<<PART NINE | MASTERLIST| PART ELEVEN COMING SOON >>>

wc: 4,2k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

chapter smut warnings: oral (F receiving), mentions of penetration, sexual fantasy, dirty talk.

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

I'm trying very hard not to be frustrated right now, but I am. I was so ready to give into Joel, my hormones kicked into overdrive.

And now I'm here on the couch in my pyjamas listening to the rain pattering down on the roof. Seems between the pipes and the weather the world is determined to keep me wet.

I try watching television but it's so boring I give up and go on my phone. I'm scrolling when I decide to go to Sarah's Instagram. She's always posting cool stuff.

But today is different. Today is an old photo of Joel. He can't be more than twenty five, arms muscled, body slimmer. He's still got that boyish look to his hair. He's sitting on a picnic blanket near a lake.

He's wearing sunglasses and a huge smile as he faces the camera. A tiny Sarah is holding onto his fingers, using them to take a step forward.

#throwbackthursday To the best Dad then and the best Dad now. I miss you lots!

I smile, eyes filling just a bit. I look at the photo for a long time thinking about how perfect a father Joel is. How natural fatherhood looks on him.

How he was always the perfect choice.

I must have fallen asleep shortly after because I wake to the sound of banging on the front door.

The rain still hammers down on the roof as I pad towards the door. I open it, eyes blinking when I see Joel standing on the other side.

Water drips down the end of his nose, his face shiny with rain. His shirt clings to him, similar to the one he was wearing in that Instagram photo.

His eyes however are exposed and they are fiery. They burn into mine as he steps closer to me.

"Joel, we can do this another t-"

He doesn't even give me a chance to speak. He lunges across the threshold, grabbing my face and pulling me in for a scorching kiss.

And fuck can Joel kiss.

Plump mouth, the tip of his tongue wetting my upper lip before devouring me. I cling to his soaked t-shirt, body pressed against his so tightly I can feel his erection pushing into my belly.

He pulls back when I whimper, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. I can see my awed face staring back at me.

"We said no kissing," I say breathlessly even as my mouth chases his.

"Fuck the rules."

He crouches a moment to tuck one arm under my knees and the other around my back in a bridal carry, hefting me into his hold and kicking the front door closed.

"I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells me as he carries me to the bedroom. "Gonna put a baby in you."

Joel Miller and his filthy mouth where did you come from? My eyes are saucers and I'm trembling but not from cold, from anticipation-

-And then the doorbell rings.

I wake up from my dream, drool at the corner of my mouth, eyes itchy. I rub at them, glancing at my digital clock.

11:55 pm.

The doorbell rings again and I glance out my bedroom window to see the sky is clear, The neighbour is quiet save for the cicadas heard in the distance.

I stumble to the front door, yawning widely.

"Were you asleep?"

Joel has changed into a Miller Brothers hoodie and a pair of grey sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination. He also smells faintly of...

"Are you wearing cologne?"

His cheeks flush when he gives a half-hearted shrug, avoiding my eyes. "Spilled some on me when I was brushing my teeth."

Sure, Joel.

Still the thought delights me; that he went to an effort. It makes me cringe that I'm dressed in my ratty Bugs Bunny sleep shirt and that my hair is a mess.

"You still wanna do this?" He asks me, eyes searching.

The dream I just had comes back to me and I have to press my thighs together tightly. "Yeah."

We enter my bedroom both holding our breath, the moment charged. suddenly I am affronted with what we're about to do when we see my bed. It all becomes real.

I made it with fresh sheets this morning, made it and plumped the pillows. I wanted it to be as nice as possible. But now it looks intimidating.

Joel is standing stiffly beside me, dark eyes scanning the room. Only a bedside lamp is on, casting a sensual glow over the room.

He breathes slowly, hands twitching at his sides and I realize I need to make the first move.

I crawl to the centre of the bed, tugging the sleep shirt down my hips when it rides up, feeling self conscious.

"Make yourself comfortable," I say awkwardly motioning next to me on top of the mattress.

Joel looks around the room, surveying it before he nods. With my breath held. I watch as he peels the Miller brothers hoodie from his body and drops it onto the chair by my mirror. .

He's not a fitness model and he's not in his twenties anymore but Joel Miller is incredibly hot. Strong arms with biceps made not in a gym but on a work site. Broad chest, gold in the low light. His stomach is a bit soft, but still defined enough for my mouth to go dry.

He gives me a look, brow raised. Keep going?

I nod back. Yes please.

The moment feels weirdly tense as he walks to the other side of the bed, so I busy myself fluffing one of the pillows.

"Everything okay with Tommy?" I ask.

He makes a face. "Can we not talk about my brother right now? Doesn't really get me in the mood."

I cringe. "Yes. Of course. Shit."

He's at the side of the bed now with a tiny smirk at my flustered reaction. I watch him settle onto the mattress, observing the dip of it, his knees brushing mine as he comes to sit next to me, long legs folded.

It's so real so close so intimate.

He stares at me, the kind of bold open stare the steals the breath from my lungs and forces me to look away.

"Sorry there's no phone for you to peruse," I laugh breathlessly, attempting to lighten the mood. "Mine is on the couch so if you need material you have to use yours."

"Don't need it."

He replies so quickly I'm not sure I heard him correctly.

"I'm not offended if that's what you're worried about," I scoff. "I'm under no delusional. I'm sure your fantasy woman doesn't have knotted hair, wearing a bugs Bunny T-shirt for sex."

He leans back on his hands, playfully cocking his head.

"You don't know my fantasies."

I know he's joking by the twinkle in his eyes but that doesn't stop my voice from coming out a little shaky.

"I'm pretty sure men like stilettos and strappy lingerie. Whipped cream and silk-'

"-or blue sundresses."

My eyes go wide when he stops and his cheekbones go pink. Is he referring to my phone background? The one of me and a blue sundress at Lake Travis?

No. It can't be.

But it is. I know it is because the energy in the room has shifted.

Joel's eyes are on me now and I know he knows that I know. There's no pretenses now, only honesty. Joel swallows.

"What if I told you I used the background of your phone that first time?"

I laugh, breathy, nervous. “I'd call you a liar.”

His chin juts lightly, a silent dare for me to accuse him of lying again. I have a niggle of suspicion, like he's trying to fuck with me. My curiosity weighs out however.

"What else?"

"Huh?"

"What else did you look at that day?" I ask him, weirdly intrigued. "I was curious about the sort of stuff you watch but you wiped the history."

"Didn't wipe anythin'."

"There was nothing in the search history," I explain. "It's okay if you wiped it Joel, I just wanted to know what a guy like you watches to get off."

My face is burning as I admit this, but fuck it. We're about to have sex and I've been curious since the day it happened.

"I told you. I didn't wipe anythin'." His eyes are weirdly intense. "Didn't need anythin' else."

My pulse ticks, my nipples harden under my shirt as I remember his grunts that afternoon.

Bossy thing. F-fucking take it then.

Be good. C'mon be good for me tonight and take it.

Yeah show me. Show me how much you want it, darlin'.

He was saying that about me? There's no fucking way. I stare at him in suspicion. He''s screwing with me. That's the only plausible explanation.

"Shut the fuck up, Miller," I laugh, rolling my eyes and shoving his chest gently.

But he's not looking away from me. His eyes are swimming over my face, stuck on my lips before rising to my eyes once more.

“I watched that other video too. The one of you touchin' yourself in bed.”

I feel my jaw hinge open, eyes wide. No way. No way he did. This doesn't feel like a joke, this feels very very real. But it can't be real right? This is Joel Miller, frenemy, neighbour.

There’s a tiny red flush climbing up his neck as he takes in my muted reaction. He watches my face bracing for the fallout.

“Are you upset?"

I should be but I'm not. I’m a little embarrassed, sure. But mostly I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how Joel watched me touch myself for the camera, the memory of his grunts and groans.

So fucking good

Keep going darlin', just like that, you know just what I need.

The thought does something strange to my spine. Even though he's beside me in bed this admission feels more intimate than anything.

I finally shake my head slowly, eye contact not breaking. No. I'm not upset. I am confused though.

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

I watch him suck in a sharp breath, like he's trying to gather up the courage. He licks his lips and leans in slightly.

“If you’d seen what I saw, you’d bring it up too.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

What is happening? How is Joel Miller, annoying neighbour, boring but dependable dad, block captain menace suddenly so suave that he has my stomach doing flips?

All I can do is swallow thickly as my brain buffers. Joel seems emboldened by my response, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

He leans even closer, knuckles pressing into the mattress, brushing against my thigh. My body breaks into goosebumps at his touch.

"I couldn't look away from your body arching and those sweet little faces you made when you were gettin' close."

His voice is pure honeyed sex. It drips between my legs and my ears.

I'm convinced he can hear my heart pounding a staccato in my chest. It's so loud that I feel like it's the only thing I can hear aside from his voice.

His face moves so close I can see the light that dances with the dark of his iris. His eyes are beautiful. I can feel the warm air of his breath buffet my parted lips. I exhale shakily as Joel moves his mouth to my ear, lower lip catching my earlobe.

"I wanted to know what faces you'd make if it was my hand between your legs instead."

My heart literally skips a beat. I think I mutter something that may be his name or it might be gibberish.

Whatever it is Joel grins gently against my ear at the response and keeps going. I stare down at his knuckles braced against the mattress, the coiled tension in his biceps, the thick outline of an erection beneath his sweatpants.

"What if I wanted you to touch yourself like that again?" Joel murmurs all syrupy and low. "What if I want you to pretend I'm the guy you're making the video for?"

Oh God oh God.

Joel Miller is a dirty talking professional. And here I am just sitting with my mouth dropped open like an idiot. But it's just so unexpectedly sexy. And his suggestion is intimidating actually. The thought of performing in front of Joel makes me nervous.

"M-maybe next time."

Joel's smile is subtle but there. "Okay. Next time."

Why does my belly flip at the thought of there being a next time?

His hand brushes my arm before pulling back. He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something, like he’s afraid if he blinks I’ll change my mind.

“You can go ahead, I won't break,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, sounding relieved at the permission. "I know."

His hand grazes my arm, up to my shoulder, fingers trailing slowly down again like he’s learning the shape of me through memory.

He reaches out again and his touch is gentle, reverent even, as he guides me down to the mattress. The backs of my thighs press into the mattress. The cotton sheets are cool against my skin.

He lays alongside me on his side, one arm propping his head up and he just looks at me. A look of consideration, of interest, of lust.

"I was doing some reading of my own this week," Joel says and I feel his hand is coming to slide along the front of my thighs. It's gentle and teasing.

"What d-did you read?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. But all I can do is stare at his fingers brushing against my bare skin.

"That we should be doing this daily, five days up to ovulation plus the day," he murmurs. "That i should be filling you up that entire week."

Filling me up? Why is that hot to me right now? What the fuck is wrong with me? When I look over his eyes are on me, dark and shiny.

"You want that?" Joel murmurs, thumbs tracing little circles on the soft skin of my inner thigh. "You want me to fuck you for a week straight next time?"

Yes.

"If you're not busy, sure."

He grins, his chuckle warm. I like that it makes his face light up when he does that. That it makes me smile in response. His face lowers to mine and he brushes the side of his nose against my cheek, and something in me stutters.

I feel the weight of him, the heat of his body as he leans in closer, and still, he moves slowly, taking his time. He’s close now. I can hear his breathing, quiet but uneven against my ear, like he’s holding it back.

When his mouth finally does meet the skin beneath my jaw I gasp out loud and it embarrasses me. He doesn’t comment. Just kisses me there again, softer this time, slower. He's technically not breaking the no kissing rule but intimate all the same.

I should push him off, should wrench out of his touch and yet my head tilts to give him better access. I'm getting hazy on why I can't just give into Joel completely, why i shouldn't press my mouth to his.

I feel his teeth scrape against my jugular, the warmth of his tongue coming to lap when his teeth move off.

He's taking his time, working me into both a frenzy of desire and a puddle of lust. But he didn't need to.

I've been wet since I saw him.

My fingers drift to his chest without thinking, needing to feel something grounded, something solid. And I can feel

His heart is beating rapidly too, a steady throb beneath his ribs. He breathes out through his nose, lips brushing the base of my throat. His stubble scrapes lightly, and I arch without meaning to.

Still, he doesn’t move faster. His hands stay gentle, mapping over my ribs, the dip of my waist, the soft curve of my stomach.

There’s no teasing, no smugness in it. This is Joel gentle, this is Joel authentic. This is the Joel that made me ask him for his help in the first place.

"Wait, one thing."

When he suddenly jerks back I could cry. I want to strangle him for breaking this glorious momentum. My voice comes out in a hard snap.

"What?!"

"Do you always call men, Daddy?" Joel asks, grimacing a little. "Gotta say if you pull that out that'll get me softer than taffy on a hot summer day."

"Fuck no," I say with a groan and a laugh. "This guy asked me to do it on video for him and I did it. I hated it and never sent it, I was too mortified."

"So he never saw it?"

"No one has."

"Except me."

My eyes find his trained on my face.

"Except you."

I watch his lower lip stick out in thought, fingers skirting the neckline of my shirt. He asks the next part casually. "Who was the guy? Ben?"

"Joel we're trying to fuck right now, can we chat about my bad tinder dates after?"

He gives me a breathless chuckle before nodding. "Yeah, we can do that."

His hand trails lower, skimming over the curve of my hip with aching slowness. Each pass of his fingers feels deliberate, like he’s memorizing, not just touching.

The momentum isn't lost, just derailed momentarily because I am already back to arching my back and whimpering.

I suck in a breath as his touch begins brushing the sensitive dip where skin grows thinner and nerves more alert. There’s a delay, a pause that makes me clench the sheet beneath me.

When he reaches the edge of my underwear he pauses. Just rests his hand there, warm and still. Not pushing. Not asking, but waiting with his eyes on my face.

"Heard it helps if the woman cums first," Joel drops at my cheek.

The hush between us deepens, thick and expectant. My breath catches, and I know he feels it.

"Oh yeah?" I ask, trying to be casual. "Should we try it?"

Joel grins, teeth gleaming in the low light of the moon out my window. "Couldn't hurt."

The air between us is warm and quiet, except for the faint creak of the mattress beneath me and the soft rasp of Joel's breath which is slower now, more deliberate.

His fingertips trail down with aching patience, skimming along the elastic of my underwear, stopping just shy of slipping beneath.

The pads of his fingers are rough from years of work, but somehow that makes it better, like the contrast against the softness of my skin sharpens everything.

A faint sound escapes me, embarrassingly small and needy and I can feel him focus Like this is work to him. Intent, purposeful work.

It is work, I remind myself. Joel is not my boyfriend. He's not my husband. He's a man who has agreed to get me pregnant and that's it. He's a man trying to do a job.

His fingers are exploring, teasing, taking his time like he's memorizing the way I respond. I feel them slipping beneath my panties, forefinger sliding up my drooling slit. His touch makes me break out into shivers everywhere.

Like when he breaches me for the first time, with his second and third finger, slowly sinking them into me before working them to the knuckle. He doesn't look away as I breath out a huff of surprise, biting my lower lip to keep from gasping.

The air smells like him now, like fresh laundry, a faint trace of soap and something deeper, more human. When he leans in closer, I can smell my own skin mixed with his.

"Bet you sound so pretty when you cum," he rasps against my ear. "Just as pretty as you look right now whimperin' up at me."

I'm feral. I'm desperate. I'm so wet I can't stand it, the sound of my slick cunt almost vulgar in the quiet room as he fucks me with those thick digits.

His fingers are getting me so close and I know the second I cum I want to feel him inside me. I don't want to wait because I can't be patient like him.

I reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fumbling with untying them and shoving them down over his hips. I begin smiling when I feel him slide them off so quickly he grunts, kicking them to the side of the bed, his fingers never slowing inside me.

His breath is warm against my collarbone. And I think he might be unravelling as fast as me because he starts groaning louder.

"You know how hard you make me?" He mutters against my jaw. "How fucking hard it was not to moan your name when I knew you were out there on the other side of the door all those times?"

He's making soft little groans every time I keen which is driving me even more insane.

"Thought about fucking you in that sundress," Joel continues, fingers moving in and out of my slippery cunt faster and faster. "Thought about how you'd moan my name while you rode my cock."

Is it true?

Does it matter?

Nope. It doesn't.

He could be lying through his teeth but I really don't give a shit. Between his voice and his fingers and the filthy things he's saying I'm already so close.

"I think about you when I touch myself," I whine, unable to stop saying it. It's there in my head, burning.

His fingers pick up the pace and I can feel his wet breath at my temple. "Tell me what you think about."

"How you'd look going down on me," I keen, neck falling back. "How you'd tell me to cum."

"Jesus," Joel groans and his fingers curl in me, tapping and rubbing that inner wall that's making my thighs quake as his thumb plays with my slippery clit.

"Joel-" I choke out, eyes slamming shut. "I'm... I'm so close."

"Yeah? Good. But first I need those eyes," he whispers through pants. "I want you looking at the man who's making you cum."

My eyes flutter open just in time to whine softly when I see Joel's fucked out expression, the hair damp at the temples, the half smirk of approval that quickly morphs into a pained look when my eyes roll back in my head.

"Be loud, darlin'. Lemme hear how good it feels."

My climax rises before I’m ready, slow at first, then all at once, tightening in my belly, coiling low and hot until I'm letting out broken cries.

"Joel! Joel...I... Fuck don't stop!"

Joel doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps going, steady and sure, like he knows what I need before I do and I think he does because... Because...

My fingers clutch the sheets, Joel murmurs my name, urging me to cum on his fingers and then I'm gone.

I can hear his strangled groan as my thighs snap together, trapping his big hand between my thighs as I ride his fingers to completion. Tension snaps, and everything in my lower body spills over. It's warm wave after wave pulling me under.

And then... Soothing silence.

For a moment, I can’t think, can’t move. I just feel him there beside me, grounding me, his palm still resting against my thigh like he’s anchoring me to the world before he pulls back.

I’m still catching my breath, chest rising and falling in shallow waves, when I reach for him.

I'm delirious with want, desperate to feel his cock in me. I can't wait to have him bury himself deeply, his body caging mine.

I don’t open my eyes yet, I just stretch a hand toward where he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, expecting him to shift closer, to move over me and to finish what we started.

“Joel,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from everything he just pulled out of me. My body is loose now, open and unguarded. “Joel, come here.”

There’s a beat of silence, a thick pause and then the faint rustle of fabric. I open my eyes just in time to see Joel turning away, tugging his sweatpants and shirt back on with jerky hands.

His back is to me, his head bowed.

I blink, confused. "Hey, wait, what happened?”

He hesitates. His shoulders lift with a deep breath, like he's trying to calm something down.

I sit up slowly, a chill beginning to creep in. “Joel are you okay?”

He won’t look at me.

"We shouldn't have done all that... Extra stuff. I wasn’t trying to-” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face.

What the fuck is he talking about? What the hell happened? His posture is stiff, like he’s ruined something.

“Joel,” I start gently, trying to ease the tension winding through the room. “just tell me what's wrong. Please."

He finally glances over his shoulder, and his expression cuts me. His jaw is tight, and there’s something raw in his eyes that makes me flinch.

I try to speak again, but he’s already moving. Already stepping into his shoes, already reaching for his jacket. His body is still flushed, his hair a mess and he looks like he wants to disappear.

“Joel, please," I start, sitting forward.

“I need to go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

And before I can stop him or say anything that might make him stay the front door opens and closes with a soft, final click, and I’m alone again.

126 notes · View notes

berryispunk · 3 days ago

Text

Midnight Miles

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: phone sex, dirty talk, male masturbation, praise (Frankie deserves that too), semi established relationship, pwp and little bit of feelings

summary: A late-night phone call turns into something hotter and far more intimate than expected, leaving Frankie aching for you in more ways than one.

notes: Maybe it's becoming a tradition that I write some filth for Frankie Friday at this point 😉

word count: 1,5 k

Nights away from home stretch endlessly without you. Frankie used to think he was fine on his own—used to fall asleep in silence without missing a thing. But then you came along, and now he feels half-alive without the weight of you beside him. It hadn’t been that long, really. Just a few months. But somehow, you’d carved yourself into him like you'd always been there. Whether he's up in the air or stuck in another shitty layover motel, you're all he thinks about.

Tonight, the bed is too small, the springs too loud, the walls too thin. He groans as he sinks into the mattress, feeling like some lovesick teenager again—his body restless, already aching in all the familiar ways.

He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes until color blooms behind his lids, and then—like you could feel it across the distance—his phone buzzes.

Your name lights up the screen and he answers immediately.

“Hey, baby,” you purr, voice thick with mischief and warmth. All honey and God, it hits him right in the gut.

“How’s the motel? Haunted yet?”

He chuckles, eyes drifting over the ugly wallpaper, the flickering lamp. “Nah, not this one. But I wouldn’t mind if it was. At least then I wouldn’t be alone.”

You go soft for a second, just long enough for it to squeeze at his chest. “You okay?”

He should lie. He should play it cool. But all he can think about is the way you sound when you’re under him—breathless, whimpering his name as you hook your legs around his waist, begging for more, taking him deeper. Don’t stop, Frankie—

He runs a hand down his face, guilt and desire tangling together as the heat in him rises.

“I just… miss you,” he says, voice low.

You hum, a quiet laugh curling at the edges. “Me or my pussy?”

He huffs a breath, the corner of his mouth tipping into that lopsided smile you always say makes your knees weak. “Both. But right now?” He shifts against the mattress, already too hard to hide it. “Probably more the second.”

“Oh?” you say sweetly. “That’s good. I’m not wearing panties.”

He freezes. Swallows hard. “What?”

“Just your shirt you left here. No panties,” you add, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“Fuck…” he exhales, his cock already straining against the thin cotton of his boxers.

You wait, letting the tension settle, then ask in a near-whisper, “Tell me, Morales… what would you do if I were there right now?”

He drags in a breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’d start with your neck,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Kiss you soft. Slow. All the way down to those perfect tits—palming them, sucking your nipples until you're whining for more. Then down over that soft belly. I’d kiss your hips, make you wait just a second longer before I finally spread those pretty legs and taste you. Kissing your silky thighs, take my time until my mouth’s on your cunt.”

He pauses, breath catching.

“You already wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Mhm-hm,” you hum, breathless and teasing.

“Tell me, mi amor,” he urges, voice strained.

“I’m so wet, Frankie,” you purr, like a temptation.

He can’t take it anymore. Shoves his boxers down, his cock already flushed and leaking.

“You touching yourself?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe and it nearly undoes him.

He wraps a hand around himself, slow at first, just to feel the weight, the burn, the pressure. His chest rises and falls like he’s running. And still, your voice echoes in his ear, the only thing grounding him. His hand moves slowly at first, thumb dragging through the slick bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. He spreads it around the head with a low, broken sound in his throat that almost sounds like a sob but rougher, guttural.

"Shit…" he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb sweeps again, teasing himself like he imagines you would. It’s too much and not enough. His cock twitches in his grip, and he hisses when it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through his spine.

"You’re so sensitive tonight, baby," you murmur, voice thick and coaxing, like you know exactly what he’s doing. “Is that for me?”

“All for you,” he moans. “Only ever you.”

“Let me hear you stroke it, Frankie,” you whisper. “Slow, yeah? Grip it tight. Just like I would.”

He lets out a shaky breath and does what you say as his hand tightens, dragging along the length of him slow and steady, up and down. The slick sounds echo too loud in the quiet motel room, his breath catching with each pass over the flushed, weeping head.

“Fuck, I miss your mouth,” he says hoarsely. “Miss the way you look at me all innocent while you’re takin’ me in… God, the way you moan with your lips wrapped around me…”

You hum, wicked and warm. “You whimper for me like that in person, too. You remember?”

A sound tears from his throat—high, needy, half gasp, half fuck yes—and his hips jerk into his hand before he can stop himself. His mind’s working overtime now, filling in the blanks with memories of you on your knees, eyes wide and greedy.

“God—don’t say that,” he pleads, but it’s all for show. You know better.

“You sounded so pretty last time I sucked you off, baby,” you purr, breath catching like you’re just as worked up. “All those little noises you tried to hold back. And then when you begged me not to stop…”

You pause, inhale slow and shaky, like you’re playing it back in your head.

“My favorite sound in the world.”

Frankie whimpers—honest to God whimpers—and bites down on his knuckle to keep the motel walls from hearing just how badly you’ve unraveled him.

“Fuck, mi amor… please…”

“Please what, Frankie?” you whisper, voice all silk and sin. “Say it. What do you need?”

“I—” He grips his cock tighter, stroking faster now, chasing the high that’s already breathing down his neck. “Need you to keep talkin’. Tell me what to do. I need your voice—I need you.”

You fall quiet for just a second, and he can hear your breath catch—just once

“Stroke it faster, baby,” you murmur. “Imagine I’m sitting on top of you, dragging my hips against yours. You’d be so deep inside me. I’d ride you slowly, just how you like it. Make you watch me fall apart on your cock.”

He groans, raw and guttural, his neck flushed, his chest rising in quick, shallow breaths. “I’m gonna—mierda, I’m close.”

“I know,” you whisper, breathless now. “I can hear it. You gonna come for me, Frankie?”

“Yes, yes—I’m gonna—shit, baby, I’m gonna—” His voice fractures, sharp and unguarded, and then he moans deep, drawn-out and filthy, your name tangled into it like a prayer.

The orgasm hits hard, crashing over him and stealing the air from his lungs. He spills into his hand, hot and messy, hips stuttering, his whole body trembling like he’s been struck by lightning and left gasping in the aftermath.

You’re quiet, still catching your breath on the other end—soft, sated, and real.

“Good boy,” you whisper, tender and smug and all his.

Frankie groans, dragging a hand through his hair, chest still rising and falling. “Made a mess of myself,” he mutters, voice thick. “In every sense of the word.”

You snicker breathless but not cruel. “Wish I could see it, you’re so pretty when you come,” you say softly, voice all velvet.

“Jesus,” he laughs, half in awe, half in disbelief. “Didn’t think anyone would ever say that to me.”

“What a shame,” you murmur. “Because it’s true.”

He reaches for tissues from the nightstand, cleaning himself up with a quiet sigh, eyes still pink around the edges. Everything feels raw, but in that good way. The kind that makes you feel alive.

“You good ?” you ask gently. It’s usually his line, he’s the one checking in.

“Yeah,” he says, honest. “Better than I was a few minutes ago.”

“Only a few more days,” you whisper. “And then you’re home. And I swear, we’re not leaving my bed for three days straight.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, tossing the tissue into the bin across the room without even looking—and landing it.

You go quiet for a moment, and when you speak again, your voice is softer, almost uncertain. Like you're afraid to say too much. “I miss you too.”

It lands in his chest like an arrow, but not a painful one. Just deep.

He exhales slowly, eyes tracing the cracked motel ceiling. “Counting down the hours. Be good for me, yeah? I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” you say, and he can hear the faint creak of your bed as you settle in deeper. He’d give anything to be beside you, pulling you close, bury his face against your neck and breathe you in until the world stops spinning.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice soft and gravelly, the one he saves just for you.

“Goodnight, handsome. Dream of me,” you yawn.

“Always.”

He ends the call, sets the phone down beside him, and stares above.

The ache’s still there but it’s quieter now. More like a low hum under his skin.

Like love, or something dangerously close to it.

thanks for reading 💌

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#pwp fics #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #francisco morales #triple frontier #berryfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #smut with feelings #x reader smut #frankie morales smut #pedro pascal fandom #🧢#pedro pascal characters #female reader #smut

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simpingforjoel · 2 days ago

Text

I love these two idiots in love from the bottom of my simple simp heart ❤️🥹

AND the Harry in this fic is an absolute menace in the best way!!!!

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 4: No More Secrets

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Chapter Summary: Returning to NYC, heartbroken and jobless, you decide: no more secrets or tears and no more Harry. But he's a 40-year-old boy determined to find you in the city to make things right. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 8,5k, depression, dirty talk, fluffy, and angst... authors note: I'm in midterms and planned to publish the chapter on Monday, but I received so many requests asks from you guys and that I couldn't let you down. Thank you!

When the jet touched down at the airport, the sun was rising over New York City, casting a warm glow over the city. A tight knot formed in your chest as memories flooded in—thinking about the last time you left, whom you were with, and why you weren't returning with him this time. Stepping back into this beautiful city made you sigh. You knew that everything was about to change, which was good in some ways—you wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not anymore. However, it was also painful because you returned with a broken heart that would take time to heal.

Then there was the fact that starting tomorrow, you wouldn’t be working at Jack's place anymore—you’d be unemployed. During the flight, you barely said a word since he was glued to his laptop the whole time, always hustling. He was nice about it, though, treating you like a special guest instead of just a former employee. He made sure you had food and even set up a private spot in the back of the jet for you to sleep.

Once you both arrived at the Upper East Side, he mentioned you could stick around for a few more days if you wanted. You turned him down, saying it was all good because you had somewhere to go, and you really didn’t want to deal with Melanie’s face. Back in your room, you immediately started packing. The other maid girls came over, upset to see you go and wanting to talk to Jack on your behalf, but you stopped them, saying it was best for everyone and you knew it was the right call.

As you removed your dress and jewelry, tears began to well up, but you promised yourself you wouldn’t cry. When you touched your right ear, you realized you had lost one of your earrings; it must have fallen out. Your mind was racing with so many thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed it was gone. A sense of panic washed over you as you thought, “I hope I didn’t drop it while running through the streets of Paris.”

You tossed the dress, jewelry, and heels—everything Harry had bought you—into a bag and pulled out the suitcase from the wardrobe that you hadn’t opened in three years. Your job never really gave you a chance to take a vacation. Even if it did, where would you go with such a tight budget? The closest thing to a holiday you had was last summer when the Johnson family took a trip to Miami from NYC. During their absence, you begged your cousin Zoe, who was working as a seasonal waitress at a hotel in Clearwater, Florida, to let you tag along. You had a great time for three days until you got caught swimming during work hours and were kicked out. You had used a small handbag back then, but now you needed the suitcase you brought from Atlanta—your trusty old friend. It held not just your clothes but also your hopes and dreams, and it had been your companion while you explored New York.

You slipped into some comfy clothes: blue jeans and a black blouse with open sleeves. With your hair in a ponytail and sneakers on, you were ready to head southeast to Brooklyn. As you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you sighed. It felt like three years ago when you were putting on these clothes, but this time, your hopes and dreams were overshadowed by heartbreak and regrets. Still, you weren’t the same girl you were back then. You felt determined and closer to your dreams, no matter what. You promised yourself you wouldn't be one of those girls crying over a guy. You’d been standing on your own two feet all this time, and that’s how it was going to stay. You zipped up your suitcase, set it on its wheels, and took a last look at the room before grabbing the handle and heading out. When you opened your door, you saw Danilo and all the other maids and staff from the mansion gathered in the hallway. You hugged and said goodbye to each of them when you heard Jack’s loud voice coming from down the corridor.

“Jack is really angry, so no one wants to get close to the main hall,” one of the girls explained.

You shivered at the thought of running into Melanie and her mom; meeting them was the last thing you wanted.

“I’ll head out before they spot me,” you said, glancing back at the staff one last time. They all looked at you with sad eyes. “I promise I’ll come visit again,” you added with a smile.

“Make sure you do!” they urged you.

“Oh, Cara mia, I’m going to miss you,” Danilo said.

“Me too,” you replied and gave him a tight hug.

They waved as the lift doors closed, and you waved back. The soft beep of the elevator reminded you it was time to go. As you walked toward the exit, Garry, Jack’s driver, noticed you and your suitcase. He stopped wiping the rearview mirror and came over.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

“No, I’m good. I just want to take a walk. By the way, did you happen to find any earrings in the car?”

“Earrings? Nope, haven’t seen any,” he said.

You let out a sigh, feeling a bit worried. “Is there any chance you could call the jet pilot or someone from the crew? It’s pretty important.”

“Sure thing, I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Thanks a bunch, Garry,” you said.

“Anytime, girl. If you need a driver, you know how to reach me,” he replied with a wink.

“That’s really nice of you. Thanks! Take care.”

“You too!” he said.

As you started walking down the street, you waved back at him. At first, your steps felt a bit unsure, but they quickly picked up pace as the mansion faded from sight behind you.

The tires let out a sharp squeal as the sleek black Mercedes glided to a stop beside Jack's car, which he parked erratically, and slammed the door a little too hard before hurrying to the front door of the mansion. Garry was still busy wiping down the car, surprised to see him, but he continued his work.

Harry, out of breath, impatiently rang the bell repeatedly and pounded on the door. “Jack! Open up, dammit!” he shouted, glancing toward the windows. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked around anxiously. A moment later, Jack appeared in the doorway, puzzled. “Harry? What in God's name?”

“Where is she? Is she in there? I need to talk to her,” Harry said, desperation clear in his voice.

Jack squinted at him, very calm in contrast to him, “Who? Who are you talking about?”

He had to be kidding.

Harry exhaled a deep breath of frustration.

Damn it, he didn’t even know your real name.

“You're banging on my door for a maid whose name you don’t even know?” Jack remarked with disbelief.

“I’m not leaving until I see her,” Harry shot back, determined.

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time because the others just told me she left the house.”

Harry's heart clenched. “What do you mean she left? Where did she go? Did you kick her out?”

“I can't have anyone in my house who goes behind my back, including my own daughter. I'm sending her away, too. Besides, it’s not your business. Why do you care?”

Harry didn't have a clear answer to that; he just knew he couldn't let you go. He had to find you.

“Look, just let her go; it's for the best. You know that I'm right,” Jack said dismissively.

“No, I don’t,” Harry muttered stubbornly. “Tell me where she went. You must know where she is.”

“How would I know?” he lied. Just then, his phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take this. I’ll wait for you at my house some other time, but now is not the right time,” Jack said, closing the door.

Harry frowned and cursed under his breath.

Garry, who had seen the whole thing, cautiously walked over to Harry, making sure Jack didn’t see him. “She left like ten minutes ago and walked down the street,” he said quietly, pointing in the direction you headed. “That way,” he whispered.

Harry shot him a quick look, then followed the direction he was pointing with a nod. “Thanks,” he said, feeling a rush of hope and excitement. He jumped back into his car, fired it up, and hit the gas. The tires screeched even louder this time as the car shot onto the road. But of course, traffic was not on Harry's side. He usually didn’t drive himself in the busy streets of New York, but this was an emergency. He kept looking around as he drove, searching for any sign of you.

“Damn it, where are you?” he kept muttering.

He drove past Central Park, zigzagging through traffic, but still no sign of you. It felt like trying to dig a well with a needle. Not the greatest driver to begin with, he was so busy looking around that he didn’t see a garbage can in front of him. When he finally spotted it, he slammed on the brakes, but there was a slight bump anyway.

"Shit!" He growled.

A nearby cop came over and motioned for him to pull over. There was no real damage to the car—just a busted headlight and a small dent in the bumper—but he was pretty sure he’d get a ticket for hitting public property.

He didn't care about the ticket; he was frustrated and slammed down hard on the steering wheel. “Fuck! How am I supposed to find you now?” he growled to himself.

The old, rusty building stood in stark contrast to the large, luxurious one you had left on the Upper East Side just a few hours earlier, but for some reason, it felt warmer, even cozier. You took a deep breath before knocking on the door, practicing a bright smile until Zoe opened it.

“Whoa! Jesus Christ! Is that really you?” she said, bursting with excitement as she jumped into your arms.

You laughed and hugged her with one arm. “Yep, it’s me, Zoe. I’m back.”

Zoe pulled back, her expression shifting to a frown as she glanced at your suitcase and then back at you.

"Will you have me as your flatmate for a while? Just like old times?"

“Are you kidding me? Come on in!” she said, motioning for you to enter as she closed the door behind you.

“Sorry, I couldn’t call you. My phone’s off because…” you mumbled as you stepped inside.

'Because I really didn't want to answer the calls from that charming millionaire who had kicked me out the moment he found out the truth about me,' you thought to yourself.

“Oh wow, sounds like a lot has happened, right?” she said, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. “And I guess it’s not exactly rainbows and butterflies?”

“Kind of,” you replied.

“Come on, sit down. Spill everything,” she urged.

You flopped down on the couch, grabbing one of the cushions. “It’s a long story, and I’m not even sure where to start,” you said lazily.

She peeked into your bag before placing it on the table. “Start with this,” she said, holding up a diamond necklace she pulled from your bag, her eyes wide with surprise.

As the days dragged on, it wasn’t easy for either you or Harry. You were both dealing with your own stuff, but somehow, it felt like you were struggling with the same things. Now unemployed, you immediately began searching for a new job. You had applied to several cleaning companies, including your former employer, but hadn't heard back from any of them yet. The generous severance pay that Jack had given you was not enough to open a small bakery and pursue your dreams—at least not in NYC, maybe in Atlanta, which sounded like "Nah." So you had no choice but to find work; the bills needed to be paid, and you didn’t want to burden Zoe. As a waitress, she already worked nearly 8 to 10 hours a day, and by the time she got home in the evening, she was exhausted.

It was one of those nights when she worked late again. When she finally got home, she was taken aback by the scene—though she really shouldn’t have been, given that she had an unemployed, depressed roommate. You were sprawled out in front of the TV, devouring a cream pastry you had made, totally lost in the show. You were deeply connecting with the character’s drama.

“He’s going to leave you, you idiot; all guys are the same,” you muttered at the screen.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, you’re back, didn’t see you there,” you said.

“Seriously, what is all this?” she asked, eyeing the mess: clothes and pastries everywhere, and the kitchen a total disaster. “You sure you’re a housekeeper?”

“An unemployed housekeeper,” you shot back.

“Right,” she said, putting her bag on the table a bit awkwardly. “Alright girl, that’s it.”

You just blinked at her while still chewing on your pastry. She walked over, snatched it from your hand, turned off the TV, and yanked you up by the arm.

“Are you planning to kick me out? I promise I’ll cover the rent with some of my severance pay.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “And how are you going to chase your dreams then? Come on, get up. Let’s move.”

“So you’re not kickin’ me out?”

“What are you? A stray kitten or something?”

The word “kitten” hit a nerve and brought up something you didn’t want to deal with, tightening your chest. You made a face.

“Then what?”

“It’s time for an intervention,” she said, nudging you into the bathroom. It was small but okay, and when you stood in front of the mirror, Zoe adjusted you to face it.

“Look at yourself. You haven’t combed your hair in two days,” she said, running her fingers through it. “Your eyes look sunken from crying and lack of sleep.” You blinked in disbelief at the dark circles under your eyes— what the heck? Embarrassed, you quickly licked the corner of your lip to get the pastry cream off.

“Where’s the strong girl I used to know? This isn’t her at all. This is a total stranger—someone who’s given up, someone who’s lost the fight,” she said, looking seriously at your reflection. “You've let yourself go, and it’s starting to worry me. Babe, you need to pull yourself together.”

She was right, of course.

“Look, I’ll be inside, and when you come out, I want you to look refreshed, okay?”

You nodded at your reflection, and she nodded back. “Good. I’ll give you some time. Shake it off and get it together. I’ll be waiting,” she said, giving you a supportive pat on the back.

That’s when you realized how bad you had let things get. Had you really looked like that for days? It was awful. You felt completely lost.

But no, you hadn't lost the battle, you were just getting started. You threw off the clothes that felt like they were sticking to you - you hadn't left the house in three days, so you'd been wearing them all the time. You stripped completely naked and turned on the shower. It took a while to heat up - old pipes, old flat. While you waited, you brushed your teeth and splashed cold water over your face.

As the hot water started streaming, you jumped in and let out a sigh—it was just what you needed. You washed yourself off, hoping to scrub away the worries clouding your mind at the same time.

When you looked in the mirror again after your refreshing shower, you smiled for the first time in days.

You felt different and rejuvenated.

You also felt silly for spending your days in misery.

Keeping your smile natural, you walked into the living room.

“That’s my girl!” Zoe cheered.

You rushed over and gave her a hug. “Thanks, Zoe. You’re such a great friend.”

“So are you. How are you feeling?”

It was a question she’d never asked before, probably because the answer was hard to face every day. After thinking for a bit, you replied, “I’m feeling hopeful, ambitious, and determined.”

"That’s exactly what you need."

“Right?” you said, smiling. “I’ll call Danilo and let him know I’m going to the hotel tomorrow to take the chef's assistant gig, at least until I land something better.”

"Awesome! We can get rid of these pastries," Zoe said, still snacking on one.

You crossed your arms and shot her a playful look.

"I mean, they’re amazing, and you’re really talented, but you’ve wiped out our flour and sugar stash. Plus, you need to bake somewhere other than home."

You glanced at the tray of pastries on the table. "Should we share some with the neighbors?"

Zoe’s eyes lit up. "Neighbors? That’s a great idea!"

She grabbed a plate from the kitchen and piled it high with the pastries you whipped up. You raised an eyebrow as she adjusted her dress in the mirror before bouncing out the door.

"I think we’ve got a cute neighbor," you said with a smirk.

She laughed. "Oh, it's one of the guys down the hall, John. He’s a waiter too and super hot—tall, buff, and those blue eyes!"

You raised your eyebrows with a big grin. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush, huh?”

"Let's say his eyes are blue like the Atlantic, and I'm going down like the Titanic."

“Wooohooo!” you whistled, and you both burst into laughter.

"Wish me luck!" she said she walked out.

Once you headed to your room to get dressed, you took off the towel wrapped around you and pulled out some fresh underwear from the drawer. As you put them on, your eyes landed on the bag sitting on your nightstand. You had almost forgotten about it, having intentionally ignored its presence.

Then you grabbed your phone, which you had stuffed away in the sock drawer, and turned it on. You figured it was time to confront what you’d been avoiding, especially since you’d been feeling good now. As soon as the phone lit up, tons of notifications popped up. You had used Zoe’s number for job applications, but that felt pointless now. You’d need to change that as soon as you found a new job.

Feeling uneasy, you swiped through the notifications without looking. You already knew who they were from, and you didn’t want to care. At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself.

But deep down, you knew you’d take a peek.

There were missed calls and texts from Oliver and then from Harry.

So, he got himself a new phone.

That was a relief.

You could've called Oliver, but texting felt like the safer bet.

"Can we meet tomorrow? It’ll only take a few minutes. I have something to return."

Next, you called Danilo to see if his offer was still stood. While you were waiting for his reply, Oliver hit you up with a text.

"Sure. Where?"

Danilo called back just in time to tell you that the hotel chef was totally chill about it and is expecting you tomorrow. He mentioned, with a hint of smugness, that the chef is one of his best buddies. Plus, he owed him a favor as they're both Italian.

Since the hotel is in Manhattan, you set up a meeting with Oliver at a bar there during rush hour. You should’ve just handed over the bag and cut ties with him for good, but something kept bothering you: the missing earring.

You had no clue how much it was worth, and that freaked you out—probably more than your whole bank account. To Harry, it might be a sneeze, but you still needed to pay him back, even if it meant giving up all your severance pay.

You really hoped it wasn’t worth that much.

Otherwise, you were fucked.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Almost five days."

“Fucking hell.”

Oliver and Harry's close friend Maria exchanged worried glances as they looked at him. Harry's daily routine was a bit different from yours. Every morning, he got up and continued to work with a renewed sense of ambition, but he preferred working from home. This was manageable in the beginning, but as the meetings piled up, it became overwhelming.

Maria was not only one of his business partners but also an old friend. No matter how hard she tried to cope in his absence, she couldn’t manage without his support. She was already navigating life as a mother going through a divorce, and Harry's situation only complicated things further. Years ago, Maria’s husband and Harry had started a business together, working tirelessly to build it up. Despite facing challenges along the way, they always found a way to overcome them.

Maria and Harry's friendship dated back to their childhood. She knew him wel. She knew he had always had relationships with women, especially after achieving millionaire status and becoming a successful businessman. He was the kind of man who was passionate in love, compassionate, and willing to make sacrifices when he found someone special. However, things had not gone well with his last relationship, and the fallout affected him deeply. Now, he found himself in this troubled state for the second time.

Harry maintained his routine despite Oliver's pleas for days. He would wake up early, check his phone, go to work, and then drive around in front of Jack's house in the afternoons. But it all felt futile; there was no trace of you. It was as if you had vanished—like a fairy tale, just like Cinderella.

Oliver tried reaching out to the dating agency, but it didn’t go anywhere. He talked to Jack again. He was convinced he was hiding something, but the guy was tight-lipped. No one could provide any information about your whereabouts. All Oliver had was your name and your resume, and there was no current address listed. He felt a sense of failure, worried for Harry for the first time in a long time.

That’s why he froze when he saw the message on his phone that evening. He stared at it in disbelief, having saved your name as Melanie on his phone. Now, knowing your real name, he changed it back and considered how to respond to the message—whether to tell Harry or not. Ultimately, he knew he couldn’t keep something like this from Harry, especially when he was anxiously waiting for any news about you.

He walked over as Maria was on a mission to get Harry to hit the bar for a drink.

“I'm not in the mood,” Harry mumbled, sprawled out on the couch with his arm over his face.

“Ollie, can you say something to our grumpy buddy?” Maria complained, looking at Oliver.

Oliver was a bit lost in thought; he cleared his throat, “Uh, Harry.”

Harry moved his arm away from his face and glanced at him. "You'd better take a look at this." Oliver handed the phone to him, showing him the message on the screen.

Maria continued. “And, if you want, I can take you to a strip club or something, like the old days—my treat,” she suggested, sitting on the edge of the couch and looking like she was about to give up.

When Harry finally saw the message you sent to Oliver, he shot upright and grabbed the phone from him.

A grin spread across his face.

"Oliver, what have you done to make Mr Happy smile again?"

Oliver chuckled, “Not me; it was all her. Thank God for that.”

“I should just call her,” Harry mumbled.

Oliver grabbed the phone back. “She isn’t going to answer. She said she just wants to drop something off and doesn’t want to talk with you—at least, not yet.”

“I don’t care; I want to talk to her. I really need to see her,” Harry pushed back, frowning.

“I don’t think she wants to see you, man.”

“You really think that would stop me?”

“Nope, not at all.”

Maria jumped in, “Why don’t I just handle the talking—girl to girl? I’m really curious about her anyway.”

“No way.”

“Not happening.”

“Relax! I’m not going to bite her or anything,” she said, folding her arms.

“Look, I told her I’d go alone. But if you want to talk to her too, fine. You should get your act together anyway.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I need to figure this out, Ollie.”

“Alright, it’s getting late. I’ve got to bounce. See you in the morning.” He stuffed the phone in his pocket and left while Harry went into the bedroom.

“Am I invisible or what?” Maria huffed.

“Just go home, Maria! I’m good; there’s nothing to worry about!” Harry's voice echoed in the hallway.

“Yeah, I can see it! You must care about this girl more than I thought if just one text can change your mood like this after we’ve been working hard for days and my efforts feel wasted.”

“Sorry about that!”

“Wow, you didn’t even put in an effort,” she said as she made her way to the door. “Hope that girl feels the same about you, dude. Catch you later.”

Harry thought about it while putting his T-shirt on. That’s what he was kinda unsure about—how you actually felt, especially after what went down last time. But he was set on making things right.

Whatever it took.

It was one of the most luxurious hotels in Manhattan. You arrived early in the morning, bubbling with excitement as you rushed straight to the kitchen. Danilo informed you that Chef Bruno prided himself on punctuality and had little patience for tardiness. You felt the weight of this when he grimaced slightly, revealing that you were only two minutes late—perhaps you weren't so early after all. Fortunately, he was also kind and helpful, and you soon impressed him by preparing and serving every dessert he requested throughout the day.

The kitchen buzzed with energy, resembling a beehive. Commis chefs and cooks labored over their dishes as waitstaff darted about, meticulously inspecting each plate before delivering them to the guests.

By evening, as the sun began to set, you had adjusted to the frantic pace. You couldn't help but dream of one day running your own bakery-restaurant amid such a whirlwind once you completed your training and got ready to receive your certificate. But you recognized that achieving that dream would require hard work and dedication.

As you glanced at your watch, you realized your meeting with Oliver was drawing near. Just as you were about to remove your apron and toque, a waiter approached Bruno and whispered something in his ear. Bruno turned to you with a glint in his eye, saying, “Here’s your chance to really shine.”

“I thought I had done enough for today,” you replied, the fatigue evident in your voice.

Bruno chuckled, “What you've accomplished so far are just baby steps, my dear. If you can whip up my specialty, the chef’s special, you might just receive that certificate sooner than you think.”

“I thought dinner service was over,” you replied with a frown. “Most of the staff has already called it a night.”

You felt utterly drained—exhaustion was an understatement.

“Do you know who we are serving for dessert?” Bruno asked, pulling out couverture chocolates and vanilla pods from a drawer.

You leaned over the counter, resting your elbows on it. “Who is it?”

“The owner of this hotel.”

Surprise lit up your face. “Really?”

“Absolutely! He orders my special dessert every Sunday night. Looks like today is your lucky day.”

“And I thought it was my unluckiest,” you murmured.

“Uh-oh. Success doesn’t come to those who shy away from challenges,” he replied playfully.

“Hey! What makes you think I’m afraid?” you shot back.

“Because you’re whining like a little girl,” he teased.

“All right then, can you share the recipe for your signature dessert, Chef?”

The dessert was a special creation, similar to a chocolate brownie topped with cherry sauce. You managed to prepare it in under half an hour, meticulously garnishing the plate with white chocolate and more cherry sauce.

“Well, not bad,” Bruno said, squinting as he appraised your work. “Let’s hope Mr. Finnegan likes it,” he added with a mischievous grin.

He was careful not to shower you with too much praise—this was no time for complacency, especially since he had asked you to deliver the plate personally.

Before you made your way out, Bruno advised you to carry the plate with one hand, not two, and to have confidence in yourself. Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the dining room. You could feel Bruno's gaze following you as you approached the man sitting with his back to you. When he turned around, you were so taken aback that you nearly dropped the plate, ruining the dessert.

Bruno slapped his forehead in frustration, muttering quietly in his native language.

“Y-you... Alan?” you stammered, recognizing him. This was the man you’d encountered in Paris—what was he doing here?

He looked at you in surprise and then smiled. “Oh, you are the girl from Paris, whose name I still don't know.”

Embarrassed, you bowed your head and introduced yourself. “But what are you doing here?”

Alan laughed. “Well, I'm staying here; apparently, I own this hotel,” he replied with a polite smile.

Your mouth dropped open in shock. The coincidence was overwhelming. “Well, excuse me, I didn't know.”

“But I didn’t know you were a chef. You looked like a model or a celebrity the last time I saw you.”

You laughed nervously.

A model? A celebrity?

He must be joking.

"Well, I'm not actually a chef, I'm still trying to get my certificate so I can open my own restaurant."

“Really? I hope you get it. Did you prepare this?”

“Yes, please enjoy your dessert. I hope you like it.” You bowed your head slightly and turned to leave for the kitchen, but he stopped you with a raised hand.

“Why don't you join me?”

“But I... ” Just then, your phone rang. It was Oliver. Damn, it was almost nine o'clock. “I have to take this,” you said, looking at Alan, who nodded and took a forkful of his dessert.

“Oliver, I'm sorry I got held up at the hotel. Do you mind if I'm a bit late?” you asked in a whisper.

He responded from the other end, “Which hotel are you in?”

You told him the name of the hotel and where you were, then hung up. When you looked back at Alan, he was halfway through his dessert. He glanced at you. “It's really delicious. Taste it, please.” He gestured toward the chair opposite him.

It felt a bit awkward, but he was your big boss, so you couldn't refuse—not if you were going to work here with Bruno. You pulled the chair, sat down, and picked up the fork on the table. You took a bite of the dessert and realized it was fantastic. You smiled, proud of your creation. Alan's gaze was fixed on you; there was something strange about it, something you couldn't quite understand.

“Come on, finish it all,” he encouraged with a smile.

“But—”

“Come on, please. It's fun to watch you eat.”

What the hell?

What did he mean by that?

Some men really don’t know how to give compliments.

“So, how do you know Jack?” he inquired, still focused on you.

You swallowed the last bite of your dessert and replied truthfully, “I used to work as a housekeeper at his place.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That's quite intriguing. But I shouldn't be surprised; I sensed you were a strong woman right from the start.” He chuckled, and you returned a shy smile.

Once you finished your plate, you glanced at him. “I’m really glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Just call me Alan, please,” he said with a warm smile.

At that moment, you heard someone call your name, causing you to jump in surprise. Harry was approaching you from across the hall. You froze, your eyes wide with shock. Instinctively, you took a step back, but before you could react further, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you.

“I finally found you,” he said, resting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you even closer to his chest.

You stayed still, dazed by his sudden appearance. Then, you caught a glimpse of Oliver, and anger rose within you. Placing your hands on Harry's chest, you gently pushed him away.

Alan stood right beside you, and you cursed your luck. What a first impression.

With a quick, icy glance at Alan, Harry grabbed your hand and tugged it. “We need to talk. Come with me.”

“Wait…” you protested, but he held your hand firmly, making it hard to pull away. “I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Finnegan,” you added sheepishly. Alan frowned at the scene but didn't interfere. It seemed they knew each other.

As soon as you stepped outside, you managed to free your arm from his grasp. “Let go of me! What do you want, Harry?”

He frowned, looking slightly puzzled. But why? Had he forgotten how he treated you last time?

“How dare you just pull me away like that? I was with my boss!” you exclaimed.

“Your boss? Since when is Alan Finnegan your boss? And why are you dressed like this? Aren't you a housekeeper? ” he asked, scrutinizing your outfit.

Right.

There were no more secrets between the two of you.

Just heartbreak.

“You mean an unemployed housekeeper. Jack fired me, and I think you know that. And Alan, Mr. Finnegan… Wait a minute, why do I have to explain this to you? It’s over between us, isn’t it? Last time, you told me to ‘get out,’ and I did. That was pretty clear.”

Harry shook his head. “I am sorry. I misunderstood. I was angry. I thought you were a gold-digger or a crook. I had no idea you worked at Jack's house, and you didn’t tell me from the start. I felt betrayed. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

At that moment, one of the waiters approached you with your bag—the one you intended to give to Oliver.

“Thank you, Nancy,” you said.

“By the way, the clothes and the hat…” she pointed out, glancing at your outfit.

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, taking them off immediately. Once she left, you handed the bag to Harry. “Here, take this.”

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Stuff that doesn’t belong to me,” you said, looking away.

Harry peered into the bag and then back at you. “Are you serious? These were bought for you.”

“No, they’re for Melanie. I’m not Melanie,” you insisted.

“Why are you doing this?”

You ignored his question. “I couldn’t find one of the earrings, sorry.”

Harry was about to tell you that he had found the earring and had it with him, but before he could speak, you cut him off, making him more frustrated.

“I don’t want to owe you anything. I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I’m ready to pay whatever it’s worth.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” And what about the other things? The things that can’t be fixed with money?”

It was awkward to hear this from him.

You locked eyes, his expression serious and his gaze intense. “You deserve better than me, and you can do better than me,” you said, turning toward the street and starting to walk away.

Harry watched you for a moment before rushing to catch up. “What if I want you and not them?”

You kept walking, not sparing him a glance. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. Ever since I first saw you. I like you for who you are, not just for the role you play as Melanie Johnson. If you wanted to object, you should have done it that night.”

“What did you expect? I was wearing her clothes, and you kissed me. I was going to end it, but I couldn’t, and I kept lying.”

"You didn’t have to keep lying for me to like you."

You stopped and faced him. “Who's kidding who, Harry? Do you really think you would have looked at me the same way if you knew I was the maid?”

He paused to think.

You shook your head. “That's what I thought,” you said, continuing to walk. He followed you.

“You didn't give me a chance. If you had explained everything, I would have answered that question. Besides, you judge me, but I never judged you.”

“But people like you often do. I am invisible to them, just someone who cleans and tidies up. Why should you be any different?”

“You're doing it again,” he muttered.

“What do you want from me, Harry?” you asked, stopping.

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“You had to lie to me, and I understand that, but was everything a lie?”

You tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, feeling the weight of his eyes on you. “You want the truth? Part of me wanted to see what it felt like... to have someone like you look at me the way you did, even just once. And I’m sorry. Truly, I am. If I could go back to that night, I would tell Melanie to get off her ass and handle it herself.”

He sighed. “Was it real? Any of it?” His brown eyes searched yours, filled with a desperate plea for honesty.

You couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him—not when he looked like that.

You nodded slowly. “Yes, it was real. So real that I struggled with the thought of letting you go. But I had to— that was the plan. Until that night came along. Then... I couldn’t. And when I walked into the room the other night, I meant to tell you everything, hoping you'd accept me for who I am.” You hastily wiped away a tear that threatened to spill down your cheek.

Harry took your hand, gazing deeply into your eyes. “Can't we start over? A second chance, another date—me as I am, and you as you. No secrets. What do you say?”

Your heart raced, like spring flowers blooming within you. But then that memory flashed in your mind—the moment he kicked you out of the room. What if one day, he hurt you because of your social status? Or if you hurt him simply by being who you are? You pulled your hands back. “Like I said, Harry, you can do better than me. Our worlds are so different; I just can’t fit into yours. Besides, I have my own dreams to chase, and I need to work for them. I made that promise to myself.”

“I can help you make that happen; you just have to ask.”

You frowned. “If I can’t achieve it on my own, then is it really success?”

“What do you want me to do then?”

“Go on living as if I never crossed your path. Because that’s what I’ll do. It’s for the best. Goodbye, Harry,” you said coldly, turning away.

This time, he didn’t chase after you. You knew you had hurt him, maybe more deeply.

But this was better.

It had to be.

As you stepped out of the subway and started walking home, your phone buzzed with a notification. It was a message from Harry.

What on earth?

Hadn't you made yourself clear just a little while ago?

You opened the message, your heart racing.

“If you think I’m going to give up that easily, kitty, you’re mistaken. This isn’t over. It’s just the beginning. I’m going to make you mine.”

Kitty?

Seriously?

He's so back.

“Oh great, here we go again,” you muttered under your breath. As you made your way into the apartment building, you managed to open the door behind you with your back, using your foot to close it, texting him back.

“In your dreams, Mr. Castillo.”

“You're already in my dreams, darling.”

You felt your cheeks flush and took a moment to collect yourself before stepping inside your apartment. Upon entering, you noticed Zoe had already made herself at home.

"Hey honey! How was your day?" she asked cheerfully, but you sensed a strange tone in her voice.

“Oh, don’t even ask,” you sighed.

“Well, I hate to add to your stress, but…”

“Why? What happened?”

Zoe stepped aside and gestured towards the couch. “This happened.”

Your eyes went wide as you spotted an unconscious Melanie sprawled out on the sofa, completely wasted. “What the… Melanie?”

“A blond guy dropped her off this afternoon and just left. I didn’t know what to do, so I waited for you.”

“Ugh, Nate!” you hissed through gritted teeth. You immediately pulled out your phone and tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up.

“God damn it!” Frustrated, you dialed Jack’s number next, but he didn’t answer either.

What the hell?

Just then, your phone rang—finally! But it wasn’t Nate; it was a call from someone on the board of directors for the cleaning company.

“I’m calling to let you know your application has been approved, and you need to start work tomorrow morning, right away.”

Zoe looked at you expectantly. “Or?”

You met her gaze and nodded, which made her clap her hands in excitement.

“Uh-huh, I’ll be there,” you replied, a grin spreading across your face. “Thanks,” you added and hung up.

“They finally called!” Zoe hugged you tightly.

“Yes!” you said, beaming with joy, but also wondering why they didn't call Zoe's number but called yours.

“So when do you start?”

“I have to be at the building by 8 a.m. sharp.”

“Is it standard house cleaning or regular maid service?”

“I’ll be cleaning one of the penthouses in the building. They mentioned we’d go over the details about continuity later, and I should be getting the address shortly,” you said, glancing down at your phone.

“What is it?” Zoe asked.

“It’s just a bit strange. Usually, they provide all the details right away, but they didn’t this time. Plus, they specified only one house. It feels like I was handpicked for that particular place.”

“Maybe the owner is really particular and prefers to have just one person working there. And let’s not forget, even though you were let go, you did have three years of private work in a mansion. Your resume speaks for itself.”

“Yeah, you might be right." Perhaps Jack left a glowing reference that influenced their decision.

“Come on, you’ve been waiting for this call for days. Stay positive!” she said, giving you a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

Just then, you both heard a series of grunts from Melanie. She rolled over on the couch and started snoring.

“What are we going to do about her?” she asked.

“We’ll tackle that in the morning. Let’s hit the hay before it gets too late. I start work tomorrow!”

“Yes, you do!”

You both touched each other’s hands, intertwined your fingers, jumped for joy, and embraced again.

“Let’s celebrate with your first paycheck! You’re buying!”

“Sure thing, girl!”

As you woke up that morning, a long-forgotten feeling washed over you, and a smile crept onto your face as you stepped out of bed. The weight of job responsibilities, the thrill of feeling useful, and the excitement of a new job with a fresh salary all surged within you—an opportunity that edged you closer to your dreams. While getting dressed, a sudden high-pitched scream jolted you. You sighed, recognizing the voice and knowing exactly who it belonged to.

Zoe was already in the living room when Melanie stood on the sofa, wide-eyed and looking utterly bewildered as if she had been kidnapped.

“Look who finally woke up!” Zoe snarled.

“What on earth are you screaming about?” You hissed

“Nate brought me here?” Melanie was a mess, with disheveled hair and smudged makeup on her face. She sank onto the couch, still feeling dizzy.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. "You've just woken the neighbors, you weirdo," Zoe grumbled as she went to open it. "Oh, hey John!"

“Are you girls okay? I was worried when I heard that scream,” he said, peering inside as you waved him in. “Hey John, sorry!” you replied with a grin. “We’re having a sleepover, and someone is still drunk.”

Zoe flushed bright red, embarrassed at being caught in her pajamas by her crush. You stepped closer to her and stifled a laugh.

“Wow, that's fine. I was actually going to knock on your door anyway,” he said, glancing over at Zoe. “By the way, are you going to the wedding this weekend?”

“The fancy one with all the celebs and billionaires? Yeah, I’ll be there. They’re paying pretty well,” she said.

“Same here; otherwise I'd have no reason to go. I’m already wiped out from working two jobs during the week; I’m really grinding it out.”

“Full-time waiter?” you mocked.

“Also doing deliveries,” John sighed.

“Wow, you must be a superhero or something.”

“Gotta pay the bills, girl. Want to come along, too? I can ask the boss.”

“Pass on the waitress gig, and I don’t need to; they called me yesterday. I was just about to head out for work.”

“Really? That’s awesome,” he responded, giving you a friendly tap on the shoulder.

“Thanks, John. I need to get ready and head out now,” you smiled at both of them and turned back toward your room.

“Good luck!” he called after you, then turned to Zoe. “We’ll pick you up with the guys Saturday afternoon.”

“Sounds good!” she replied, visibly more relaxed.

You called Nate again as you stepped off the subway, making your way through the streets of Manhattan to the address they had sent you.

“Yep?” he replied, sounding groggy.

“Listen, that thing you left on my couch yesterday? You need to come and get it right now and throw it out, got it?”

“Thing? You mean Melanie? Are you really calling her trash?”

“To me, she is.”

“Come on, babe, I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You raised your voice more than you meant to, causing a few passersby to give you curious glances. Ashamed, you lowered your head and kept walking.

“Don't you think it's partially your fault Jack kicked her out?”

“How dare you say that? Do you even hear yourself?”

Your stomach turned when you heard the unmistakable sound of a girl, no, two girls moaning on the other end of the line, and it hit you why. “I’m a little busy right now. If you're not joining the fun, I should hang up.”

“Ugh! You’re disgusting! I hate you!”

“Love you too, babe,” he said with a cheeky laugh.

Fuming, you abruptly ended the call and shoved the phone into your bag. “What an asshole.” He was a real pain in the neck. As you continued down the street, thinking about how to deal with Melanie, a car pulled up to the curb just as you crossed the street. You nearly stumbled when you heard a familiar voice.

“Morning, beautiful.” Harry was leaning back in the seat of his Mercedes, window half down and a grin plastered on his face.

“Harry? Oh, please, not now. Go away—I’m already running late.”

“Want a lift?”

“No, thanks. After last night, I realized I should avoid you,” you said firmly, resuming your pace. The car kept moving alongside you at a slow crawl.

“Would you consider avoiding me over breakfast?” he asked, still grinning.

“Look, Harry, I’m really sorry, but I’m starting a new job today and I just can’t fit you into my schedule. Is that clear?”

“Hmmm. Not as clear as the memories of that night in Paris with you meowing in my ear. Which I have been replaying over and over. Like a special kinda music to my ears.” he said, smirking and pointing at his ears.

You paused for a moment, swallowing hard as your cheeks flushed. “Huh! I’ve already forgotten; I suggest you do the same. Just erase the damn tape!”

He pursed his lips teasingly. “Hmph, I could if I didn’t still have your fingernail marks on my back. Nice color, by the way,” he remarked, nodding at your nails.

You glanced at the red polish you had applied just the night before, then back at him, watching as he chuckled at your reaction. You frowned and said, “Just knock it off.”

"I will, but only if you promise to let me take you to dinner one night," he replied with the cutest grin.

Oh boy.

Those damn puppy-dog eyes.

Shit.

Ignoring the rapid beating of your heart, you rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Fine, but not anytime soon. I’m swamped with work.” You were already at the entrance of the apartment building.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, kitty. See ya!”

You squinted at him as you crossed the street. He rolled up his window and sped off around the corner. Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the building.

“Is everything set?” Harry asked, just settling into his seat at the office.

Oliver nodded, noticing the grin on his face and his upbeat demeanor. “Yes, the meeting kicks off in ten minutes. Maria's on her way.

By the way, your invitation arrived. The tailor is expecting you tomorrow. With the wedding this weekend, time is tight.”

“I know, thanks,” Harry replied, setting aside his friend’s wedding invitation. He pulled out his iPad and opened the smart home app, looking as excited as a kid in a candy store.

“Why didn’t you mention that you found the other earring?” Oliver suddenly inquired.

“It just didn’t feel like the right time,” Harry responded.

“Listen, if I know her at all, she’ll want to make it up to you,” Oliver said.

“That’s exactly what I want,” Harry replied.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "I had no clue you had a bit of a dark side, buddy."

Harry rolled his eyes.

“It’s just an excuse to see her, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t reply, but Oliver could tell the answer was yes. “Like you wouldn’t see her often anyway,” he suggested with a smirk. “You better put as much effort into your work as you do into chasing her, or Maria's going to kick our asses,” he added before heading out of the office.

Harry tuned him out and connected to the home camera in the penthouse through the app. When he spotted you in your maid outfit, pushing the vacuum cleaner in the hallway, he couldn’t help but smile. “Welcome home, Cinderella,” he murmured to himself.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

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#harry castillo x f!reader #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #pedro pascal fandom

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pedroslakersshirt · 2 days ago

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#pedro pascal #sir. please stop flirting with us 🫠#mr faaaaannntaaastic #pedro pascal fandom #fantastic four #pedropascalfan

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popcornforone · 3 days ago

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Unprofessional Conduct

A Javier Peña Fan Fic

& you all thought some of my Dave York was unhinged. Yea this is very little plot & very much Peña having his way with the reader. I’m also always so shocked by the response I always get from the fics I write for him. You all lap them up.

Synopsis:- Your using Peña for a story, he wants to use you for something else.

Word Count:-5700

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! Every type of sex you could possibly have, Inc oral, a few kinks as well, lack of protection (be safe in real life) chocking, consent isn’t the clearest to start with, angst, rough, passionate, alcohol, swearing. Seriously this makes some of my Dave York tame. There is no plot

Right good luck peoples, I hope your survive. Thanks as always for the read.

Bogotá, 1992.

The hotel lobby smells like stale cigarettes & too much ambition. You’re on the second coffee of the morning, perched at a small table near the window, notebook open, pen tapping absently. You’ve been in Colombia long enough as a journalist to stop flinching at the chaos outside, gun fire no longer a fright, just part of every day life but not long enough to get used to men like him.

You spot him before he sees you. Javier Peña. DEA’s golden boy, or cautionary tale, depending on who you ask. You’ve done your research. You know the stories. Womanizer. Rule breaker. Addicted to danger, & worse, addicted to being wanted, & Jesus Christ, if he doesn’t look the part. Always so rough & ready & handsome oozing sex & smelling of lust.

He walks in like he just rolled out of someone’s bed. What’s not to say he did, you’ve heard about his very methodical way of getting information out of people. Shirt wrinkled, top buttons undone, aviators pushed up into his hair. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a lit cigarette like it owes him something. He doesn’t even look around. Just moves like the whole room’s already watching him. Which You so are. No matter how hard you try not to

He sees you. He Lets a smirk tug at his mouth like he’s been the one expecting you all morning. You don’t stand. You don’t smile. You just arch an eyebrow & let him come to you.

“You’re late,” you say, voice dry like the dust on the streets.

He shrugs, drops into the seat across from you, stretches out like he’s got all the time in the world. “Traffic,” he lies. The smoke curls around him like punctuation. You flick your gaze over him, his hair’s a mess, his lips a little too swollen, & you’re pretty sure the faintest smear of lipstick clings to the edge of his collar. Unbelievable. Yet so attractive.

“You know,” you murmur, uncapping your pen, “most people shower before interviews.”

He grins like it’s a compliment. “Didn’t want to be late, get you even more worked up than you already are.”

You press record on the tiny tape deck between you.

“State your name, rank, & assignment for the record,” you say, eyes flicking to his, not because you need to, but because you like to watch him lie. Also if you keep looking him up & down, you’re afraid you’ll see his length twitch under his jeans. Wondering if his reputation for carrying a big weapon is true. Especially when he sits like this. He leans back, legs spreading wide like the chair was made for it. One arm slung lazily over the backrest, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips. He inhales slow, like he knows you’re watching.

“Javier Peña. DEA. Medellín task force,” he says, voice gravel-smooth and casual. “Assignment? Depends who you ask.”

You scribble something you’ll probably never read again. “Officially,” you prompt.

He grins, smoke slipping from the corner of his mouth. “Officially? I chase bad guys.”

You don’t respond. Just shift in your seat, legs crossed, forcing your tone into something neutral. “How long have you been in-country?” You’re trying to be professional but it’s hard. So…so hard. He flicks ash into the tray, eyes dragging over your blouse before returning to your face,barely.

“Too long,” he mutters. Then, louder: “Three years maybe times a blur now.” You nod, write it down, ignore the way he licks his bottom lip absentmindedly. Or not so absentmindedly.

“In those years, how would you characterize your relationship with the local government?”

His eyebrows lift, cigarette hovering midair. “I’d say… tense. Complicated. A little like this conversation.” His rich brown eyes make contact. This is all fun & games to him.

You narrow your eyes. “This conversation is an interview.”

He leans forward slightly, finally putting out the cigarette. “No, sweetheart. This…”he waves a hand between the two of you, “…is foreplay. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

You pause, let the tape recorder catch the silence. “I’m not here to sleep with you, Peña.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, smile lazy. “That’s what makes it interesting.” The smug bastard.

You click your pen, deliberately casual. “Let’s stay on topic, Agent Peña.” He raises an eyebrow, like he’s surprised you’re still pretending there is a topic beyond what he wants to do to you. What you’d like to do but not admit.

“Sure,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “But I gotta say…” He leans forward again, eyes dragging down your body, slow & deliberate. The kind of look that burns. “This heat? It’s a killer, even for me. Makes a person sweat in places you don’t talk about in polite company.”

You don’t flinch, don’t blush. But your thighs press just a little tighter together. You curse yourself for it instantly. he sees it. Of course he does. His smirk curves wicked, a flash of teeth, something dangerous in his gaze now.

“See,” he murmurs, voice dropping like molasses, “you sitting there all stiff and proper? Legs tight like that? Makes a man wonder…” He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, slow.”…what you’d sound like if I had my head between your thighs.”

You inhale sharply. Not enough to give him the satisfaction, but enough that your pulse betrays you. You shut your notebook & tut.

“Interview’s over.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just tilts his head.

“Hit a nerve?” You rise from your chair, calm, collected, even as your skin is practically humming.

“No,” you say smoothly. “I just don’t fuck interview subjects.”

He laughs, low and pleased. “Good thing I’m not just any subject.”

You toss him a look over your shoulder. “No, Peña. You’re a fucking headline waiting to happen, be it one of glory or a disaster.” You then strut off. Making sure he can see your hips sway. Leaving his imagination to be his company.

The bar’s tucked into a side street near the hotel, dim, loud, & crawling with expats & locals alike, all pretending like the city isn’t on fire outside. It smells like rum, sweat, & desperation. You walk in solo later that evening. The dress clings in all the right places, deep red, strappy, low in the back. You hadn’t planned on being seen. But you knew he’d be here. You’re not above playing your own kind of game, especially with Peña.

You feel him before you see him. Eyes burning holes into your skin from across the bar, from the moment you step through the door.

You don’t turn once you are seated. You order a drink & a glass of water, letting the hem of your dress ride up just a little. A small amount of thigh on show. It takes maybe two minutes before you hear boots behind you, smell the smoke & aftershave & the lingering intoxicating musk of Javi fucking Peña.

He’s close. Closer than he should be.

Smack.

His hand lands firm on your ass. Not subtle. Not accidental. A claim. You whip your head around & find him already grinning, eyes shamelessly dragging down your body like he’s starving.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he drawls, voice thick with smoke & sin. “You wear that for me?”

You arch an eyebrow. “If I’d known you’d still be this much of a dog after a shower, I’d have stayed in.” He chuckles, no shame. The sweat at his temples is fresh, like he walked straight from some backroom deal into this bar & still made time to look good doing it.

“You gonna pretend you didn’t like it?”

You sip your drink, unbothered. “I didn’t say that.” That earns a pause. His eyes narrow slightly, lips parting like he’s about to say something clever… but you cut him off. “But don’t get excited. I’ve got better things to do tonight.” You like the power struggle, it makes you feel good.

“Like what?” he murmurs, stepping in even closer, mouth almost at your ear now. “Write about how bad you wanted me but didn’t have the nerve?”You smirk.

“Oh, I’ve got the nerve, Peña. What I don’t have is the patience to deal with men who think they’re the center of the universe.”

He laughs low, leans in closer. “That a no?”

You tilt your head, eyes locked on his “It’s a not yet.” You murmur. You look him up & down, the game of seduction & chase has started.

He’s crowding you now, close enough that the heat of him crawls over your skin, the bar’s noise fading into static around the edges.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you like he’s deciding what part to ruin first, “I’ve been thinking about fucking you since the second i walked into that lobby.”

You don’t flinch. Not at the words. Not at the tone. But your fingers tighten just slightly around your drink. Water. Cold. Unassuming.

You tilt your head. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

He grins, slow and infuriating. “Not when it comes to you, baby.”

That’s your trigger point. You toss the entire contents of your glass straight into his face, ice, water, everything.

The bar goes silent. For a moment.

Peña blinks, dripping, a stunned pause before his smile returns, wider now, & fucking feral. You set the empty glass on the bar with a delicate clink & step back, voice calm as anything. “Cool off.” Then you turn, get off your stool & you walk. No… you strut. Hips swaying, heels clicking across the tiles like gunshots. Every man in that bar watches you walk away. That red dress & your attitude oozing sex. But he is the only one follows.

You don’t see it, but you hear him behind you, casual as hell, dripping water & cockiness, leaning across the bar as he tosses a bill down.

“To cover the mess,” he says. “I’m gonna go rail the shit out of her.”

The hotel hallway hums with cheap lighting & tension. Mosquitoes buzzing in the evening heat. Your heels echo down the carpeted corridor, hips still swinging like you’re on a goddamn runway, every step deliberate. You don’t look back right away. But you feel him there. Heavy boots. Slow stride. A predator, dragging the scent of smoke & sex behind him. You glance over your shoulder once, just enough to catch the way his eyes trail down your back, linger at the hem of your dress. The way his jaw clenches like he’s holding back something dangerous.

By the time you reach your room, you know he’s seconds behind you. Just like you planned without really doing so. You unlock the door slow, let it creak open a few inches. You step into the frame, tilt your head just enough so he knows it’s an invitation. One any man wouldn’t resist, but one you know Peña will see as a must. He strides along side to the open door. You grab his shirt. Fistful of fabric, still slightly damp, still smelling like every terrible choice you’ve ever wanted to make. You pull him into your room, slam the door shut behind him with your heel, & before he can speak, You’re on him.

Mouth to mouth. Hot. Desperate. Teeth & tongue & everything he’s been begging for since you walked into his life mere hours ago. Everything you’ve wonder this man would give you is about to come to fruition. He groans into your mouth, hands already on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you against the hard line of his body like he needs it to breathe.

“Fuck,” he gasps, breaking the kiss just long enough to murmur against your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You shove him back against the door, breathing heavy. “You like it rough, Peña?”

His laugh is pure sin, fingers dragging up your thighs. “I like it real.”

You drag his mouth back to yours, nails scraping his scalp as you take everything you want, everything you’ve been waiting for. He is going to let you own it… for now.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud as his mouth crashes into yours again, messier this time. Starved. He’s already got one hand tangled in your hair, the other dragging up your thigh, bunching your dress higher & higher like he’s seconds from just ripping it off. Teasing the lace of your tiny panties.

“You know,” he pants against your lips, fingers slipping beneath the lace, he is ever the tease, “I’ve been hard for you since this morning.”

You bite his bottom lip, just enough to make him hiss. “Yeah?” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark & heavy with want. “I’ve been wet for you since you lit that fucking cigarette.”

That breaks him. He growls, actually growls, grabbing you by the hips & spinning you around, backing you toward the bed without breaking the kiss. You’re both pulling at clothes now, buttons popping, zippers sliding, breath catching.

“Fuck, you don’t know what you do to me,” he mutters, voice wrecked, dragging your dress down your body like it personally offended him. Looking at your exposed breast, knowing he has more than that to plunder tonight. “Watching you sit there all professional, legs crossed, mouth smart, fuck. I wanted to bend you over that chair.” He’s wondering what else your smart mouth is capable of.

“You should’ve tried,” you gasp, yanking his shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor. “I would’ve let you.”

He freezes for a second, eyes locked to yours, something like pure hunger flickering behind the cocky grin. Then he’s on you again, tongue in your mouth, hands everywhere, grip rough like he needs to memorize every inch of you with his palms. Your sodden panties hit the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, sliding his fingers through your slick. “You’re soaked.” You moan into his neck, nails digging into his back.

“All fucking day,” you whisper, biting down on his collarbone. “Thinking about your mouth. Your cock. Wondering if you fuck as dirty as you flirt.” He grabs your face, presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice gravel. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name.” You smirk, pulling him down onto the bed with you. Ready to be his for one night of passion & lust.

“Good. I’d rather scream yours anyway.”

He looks down at you, naked, sprawled out beneath him, chest rising fast, legs parted just enough to be an invitation, but not enough to give it up easy. Tonight your Peña slut.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, dragging his eyes over your body like he might never see anything better. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece.”

You reach for him, palm sliding down his chest, lower. “Then stop staring & get your clothes off, Peña.”

He grins, slow and filthy. “So fucking bossy.”

“Can you handle it?” His pants hit the floor.

Fuck he’s big. Hard. Heavy in his hand as he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“Oh, I can handle it, baby,” he growls. “Question is sexy… can you?”

Before you can shoot back, he grabs your hips, flips you onto your stomach in one smooth, practiced motion.

You gasp, breath catching as he presses a knee between your thighs, dragging your ass up until you’re on all fours.

One hand presses firm between your shoulder blades. The other drags over your hip, down to your inner thigh, fingers slicking through your wetness with a low, pleased groan.

“This,” he says, lining himself up behind you, voice thick with filth, “is how I’ve wanted you all fucking day. Back arched. Dripping. Mine.”

& then he pushes in. Deep. Hard. All the fucking way, with no condom. You cry out, fingers gripping the sheets, the stretch delicious & brutal.

“Fuck…Javi…”

He gives you no mercy. No time to adjust. Just rocks into you hard & fast, hips snapping against your ass, skin slapping skin in the dark, sticky heat of the room.

“You feel that?” he grits, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you, fucking deeper. “This cock’s gonna ruin you.”

“You talk too much,” you gasp, moaning as he hits that spot again & again & again. It will soon be your unraveling. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your mouth opens on a ragged moan.

“& you fucking love it,” he growls, fucking you harder. “You love being fucked like this, don’t you?”

You try to nod, try to speak, but it’s all moan, yes, more. He pulls out suddenly, flipping you again, dragging you to the edge of the bed by your thighs. You barely catch your breath before he’s deep inside you again, this time, missionary, but vicious. Legs spread wide, his hand around your throat just enough to make your eyes flutter.

“Want you to look at me when you cum,” he whispers. “Wanna see that pretty face fall apart.” You’re so close you can barely breathe.

As your orgasm hits, when your body shatters beneath him, he follows with a groan, deep & guttural, spilling into you as he buries himself to the hilt.

The room falls silent. Agent Peña falls silent. A rarity. Just breath. Sweat. The slow collapse of bodies against each other. You’ve never cum like this.

What this man has just done to you is leading you both to something that feels dangerously close to obsession. He’s collapsed beside you, arm flung over his face, chest heaving like he just ran ten miles through a warzone. Which, in a way, he did. You’re on your side, watching him, skin flushed & glowing in the low light. You lean in slow, lips brushing his neck, soft at first, then open-mouthed, tongue trailing along the salty line of his throat. He hums in delight, his semi twitching.

You whisper against his skin, voice raspy & smug, “That was the best foreplay I’ve ever had.” He laughs, barely. It’s more like a choked noise, like he can’t believe you still have the ability to speak. Then he feels it.

Your hand. Sliding down your own stomach. Between your thighs. You don’t look away. You watch him as your fingers slip into the wet mess he left behind. As you touch yourself slow, lazy, like you’ve got all the time in the world & zero patience.

“Oooh fuck” you whine. His eyes go wide, then dark. Your dainty hand bringing you such pleasure.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps, propping himself up on one elbow. “You trying to kill me?”

You moan softly, hips arching off the sheets. “You said you could handle it.”

He watches your fingers move, as they sink in & out of your cunt, his lips parting, pupils blown, jaw tight with need. As you work yourself up breathless, teasing, wicked you call him out.

“Don’t just stare, Peña. Get back in & make me come on your cock this time.” He’s already climbing on top of you before you finish the sentence. You don’t even really get the chance to finish stroking yourself before he’s grabbing your wrist, sucking your fingers into his mouth like he’s starving for the taste of you. Then he’s rolling you over gently, but with purpose, onto your side. One arm hooked under your head. The other gripping your thigh, hiking it up over his hip.

“Hold that leg right there,” he murmurs, voice dark & dangerous, dragging his cock along your slick folds. “Try not to let it drop.” You nod, breath catching.

Once again he’s inside you. Slow. Deep. Devastating. Delicious.

You cry out, face pressed to the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets as he pushes all the way in, filling you so completely it’s overwhelming.

“Oh my fucking god,” you gasp. Still raw from his first rampage. You take his girth so well.

Javi groans behind you, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he starts to move, grinding in slow, punishing strokes that have you moaning with every thrust.

“Listen to you,” he pants, hips snapping into you. “Whimpering like a little slut. You like this, don’t you?” You nod frantically, body already trembling. “You like my cock so deep you can’t think straight. You like being fucked like this, used like this.”

“Y….yeah,” you breathe, voice high & shaky. “I love it… fuck, I love it.”

His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, fingers finding your clit & circling just hard enough to make your back arch. Best fingers in the world.

“That’s right,” he growls in your ear. “You’re my filthy little slut. Letting me do whatever the fuck I want to this perfect body. Letting me fuck you open.” Your hand shoots out, grabbing the sheets as your legs start to shake. “You gonna cum for me again, baby?” he hisses. “Gonna cream all over my cock like the good little whore you are?”

“Javi!… i…fuck.., I’m… fuck!”

He tightens his grip, thrusts sharper now, messier.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say whose cock you need.”

“Yours…fuck, yours, Javi….please, please… fuck god….” You fall apart around him, again. Peña doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He just keeps fucking you through it, groaning into your skin like he’s losing his mind.

“God, I’m gonna fill you up,” he moans. “Gonna make sure you feel me dripping out of you for days.” His own ecstasy takes over, both more than satisfied.

You’re both still trembling from the last orgasm when he rolls you over again,this time, flat on your back.

“You done?” you pant, breathless but grinning. He just smirks, grabs your thighs, & starts crawling up the bed. Sheets already stained.

“Not even fucking close.” He swings a leg over you, straddling your chest as he pulls you by the hips, dragging your soaked pussy to his mouth.

You get the hint real fast. He bends down, tongue already deep between your folds. You know what he wants & you take his cock in your mouth like you’ve been waiting for it.

It’s chaos.

Hot, wet, filthy chaos.

You moan around him the second his tongue hits your clit, & he groans into you when you suck him deep, throat fluttering around the thickness of him. He fucks you with his tongue like he wants to drown in you. Messy. No rhythm. Just need. You match him, hand wrapped tight around his shaft, lips dragging down his length while your other hand grips his thigh hard enough to bruise. Every time you moan, he jerks. Every time he groans into your cunt, you suck harder.

You’re both chasing it now. Fast. Raw. Feral.

He licks a filthy circle around your clit, then sucks, hard. You choke on his cock with a cry.

“Oh fuck,” he groans against you, voice wrecked. “That’s it, fuck, baby, keep moaning like that, make me cum in that smart mouth.. fuck”

Your legs start to shake again at his words. Your pleasure taking over. You try to hold back. Try to stay in the game. But his tongue is relentless. He knows your body now, knows the exact angle, the exact pressure, the exact…

You break.

You cry out, mouth full, body clenching, soaking his face as you come hard, grinding into his mouth without shame.

He loves it & He shudders. His self control gone on this night of phenomenal passion.

You feel it the moment he comes, thick spurts down your throat, his groan muffled into your cunt as you both fall apart at the same time. It’s messy. It’s loud & it’s perfect.

The air’s thick with sex & the scent of each other. The sheets are wrecked. Everything’s damp. You feel him shift behind you, arms sliding around your waist, one leg tossed over yours like he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon. He nuzzles into your neck, stubble scraping soft. His hand drifts up your ribs, slow & lazy. Finds your breast.

“You gonna behave now?” he murmurs, voice low & smug, fingers teasing over your erecting nipples, barely touching. “Or do I need to fuck it out of you again?”

You hum, turning your face toward him with a smirk. “Baby, I don’t do behave.” He chuckles, deep & dirty. Then he rolls you onto your back, draping himself half over you, head dropping low to your chest. When his mouth closes around your nipple, slow, wet, tongue circling & sucking gentle but hungry, your whole body arches like you hadn’t just been ruined moments ago.

“You’ve got no fucking idea,” he mutters, kissing across your chest, “how long I’ve wanted this.”You bite your lip, fingers sinking into his hair as he keeps sucking, licking, dragging his teeth just barely across your skin.

“Javi…fuck…”

He glances up, cocky smirk painted across his mouth. “I could do this all night,” he says, moving to your other breast, licking a slow stripe before sucking hard, making your toes curl. “Taste every inch of you. Make you cum on demand just from my mouth.”

You groan, already getting needy again.

“Then do it,” you whisper. His tongue flicks. He grins.

“Oh, I fucking will.”

You’re still flushed, your body buzzing, nipples wet from his mouth, but you’re not done. Not even close. You muster up the strength to push him back against the pillows with a wicked grin, straddling his chest & crawling up until your soaked pussy is hovering over his mouth. He groans, looking up at you like he’s found religion.

“Fuck,” he mutters, licking his lips. “This how you say thank you?”

You grin. “This is how I shut you up.” Then you lower yourself onto his face. & god, does he go to work.

His hands grip your thighs like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. Tongue flat, then teasing, then fucking into you while you grind down, head thrown back, fingers tangled in his hair like you’re using him & you so fucking are.

“Just like that,” you pant, hips rocking. “Fuck, Javi…don’t stop… don’t you fucking stop…” You ride his mouth until your thighs are shaking, until you’re grinding down on his nose like you need it to breathe, until you cum all over his face once again, crying out & clenching around nothing, just friction & pleasure. You barely have time to come down before he flips you again, strength & desperation colliding as he positions you over his cock.

“My turn baby, gonna fuck you til it sticks”

You grab his jaw, lips brushing his. “I want all of you. Every filthy fucking drop.” That’s all it takes. You slide down, taking him deep in one slow, obscene thrust. You both moan in unison , long & wrecked, as he fills you to the hilt.

Then you start to ride. Hard. Fast. Passionate. You set the pace, bouncing on his cock, hands braced on his chest, his name falling from your lips in messy, breathless gasps. He’s losing his senses under you, gripping your hips, fucking up into you with every thrust, the wet sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“You feel that?” he groans. “That’s my cock stretching you out, raw, deep, just how you like it. Just how little sluts like it in their tight cunts” You cry out, back arched, head thrown back.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he grits, pounding up into you. “So tight, so wet, mine.”

You’re both unraveling again, together. Your orgasm hits like lightning, shaking through your body as you grind down onto him, & he’s right behind you, grunting, cursing, coming hard as he spills into you, raw,deep & filthy.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you drenched in sweat, hearts racing. a quick glance but neither of you want to stop. Despite your body’s needing a break.

It’s quiet now. The only sounds are the slow ripple of water, your soft breaths, & the occasional clink of the wine glass he insisted on bringing into the tub with you. You’re both sunk deep in the warm water, legs tangled, your back pressed to his chest, head resting against his shoulder. You both thought this would be the best way to recover, to heal those sensitive spots, but it’s just unleashes more desire.

He’s inside you again, slow, lazy, just rocking, the barest thrusts of his hips under the water as his hands trace your stomach, your thighs, your breasts, like he can’t stop touching you. It’s not about the orgasm now. It’s all about the feeling. The stretch. The intimacy. The weight of his cock still so deep inside you it makes your breath catch. How it pinched with the stretch, but you’ve gone past the point of caring. Peña is yours & you will never have another night quite like tonight ever again. He nuzzles your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses just below your ear.

Then he laughs, low, dark, wrecked. “This is the filthiest night of my life,” he whispers, slowly rolling his hips again, just enough for you to feel the drag of him inside you.

You smirk, eyes fluttering shut. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He groans. “Oh, it’s the best fucking thing.”

His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your still sensitive nipple while he sinks in a little deeper, slower, the water rippling with every movement.

“I’ve never been this desperate for someone,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust & sleep. “Can’t get enough of you. Still hard. Still inside you. & I’m already thinking about the next time.” You shift your hips, pressing back into him, just enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“You’re insatiable,” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder. He grabs your chin, turns your face, kisses you slow and dirty.

“you fucking love it.”

After he’s cum inside you again, you stand up in the tub, slow & deliberate, water streaming off every inch of you skin. No towel. No hesitation. Feeling the sexiest you have ever been. Just the cool air meeting the heat of your body as you step out, glistening & glorious. Javi watches you like he’s in a trance, leaned back in the water, chest heaving, cock already twitching to life again at the sight of you walking away, bare, confident, every step a taunt.

“You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me,” he mutters.

You glances back over her shoulder, with a wicked smirk. “Then keep up, Agent.”

That’s it. He’s out of the tub in two seconds, dripping water all over the tile, stalking after you with that look in his eyes, that need.

By the time you’re halfway to the bed, he grabs you by the hips, bends you forward over the mattress, & doesn’t even pretend to wait. No teasing. No warning. Foreplay a thing of the past. Just raw, slick heat as he sinks into you from behind in one deep, filthy thrust.

“Fuck,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips, already pounding into you like he’s been hard for hours. “You don’t even dry off? You’re that desperate for me to fuck you again?” You moan, hands gripping the sheets, taking him deeper.

“I knew you’d follow,” you breathe. “Knew you wouldn’t last.” He slaps you damp ass…hard, then fucks you deeper, faster, the sound of your bodies echoing in the dark, wet skin slapping, filthy moans tangled together.

“Fucking right I followed,” he growls. “Couldn’t let that perfect, wet pussy walk away. Not when I still needed to ruin you one more time.”

He twists your hair, pulling her head back so your moan shatters the air.

“You feel that?” he grits, hips snapping into you. “That’s me still owning you. Still buried in this tight little cunt like I fucking live here.”

You cum again, soaked & wrecked, & he follows seconds later, hips jerking as he spills into you, moaning your name like a prayer. You’ve both lost count of your number of orgasms now.

You both collapse onto the bed together, tangled, wet, panting, & completely destroyed once again.

Morning breaks soft through the thin curtains, casting a golden haze over the wrecked hotel bed. The sheets are half on the floor, both their bodies still bare, twisted up in sleep & heat.

You blink awake slowly, head heavy, body sore in the best kind of way…then you see him.

Javier Peña.

Flat on his back. One arm behind his head. The other wrapped around his cock, already semi hard, lazily stroking himself, eyes half lidded & staring at the ceiling like he’s reliving every filthy thing you did to him the night before. Your lips curve.

“You really starting without me?” you murmur, voice still husky from sleep.

He glances over, smirks. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You slide closer, fingers trailing down his stomach, then wrapping around his hand, guiding his strokes a little faster.

“Too late for that,” you whisper, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. “Who says we’re done?” He groans, low & already needy again, his hips twitching as your hand fully replaces his, slow and teasing.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. You straddle his thigh, sliding your slick center along his skin with a grin.

“Nah,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I’m just making sure you never forget me.” from the way he looks up at you, completely ruined, completely obsessed, you know he won’t.

Not for a long, long time.

You slowly let him penetrate you. Raw, hard & passionate. Maybe this wasn’t just one night. But as you ride his cock as the new day starts, you both know it’s going to begin with him praising your cunt & the word fuck bouncing off the wall of your hotel room from your exhausted mouths.

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xbeababyx · 2 days ago

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You’re always on my mind.

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lazysoulwriter · 2 days ago

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you can’t touch me, i have a boyfriend ── ✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: drunk!reader, established relationship, soft!Pedro, humor, fluff, protective boyfriend energy

When Pedro’s phone buzzes at 1:36 a.m. with your best friend’s name lighting up the screen, he already knows.

He picks up on the first ring, rubbing his eyes and half-smiling. “How bad is it?”

“She tried to kiss a mural,” your friend giggles on the other end. “And she just yelled at the bartender for not having peach soda.”

Pedro’s already grabbing his keys. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

By the time he finds you, it’s outside a half-closed bar with neon lights flickering and your friend waving frantically from the curb.

And then he sees you.

Sitting on a bench like a little drunk princess, hair wild, cheeks flushed, talking loudly to no one in particular. You’re holding a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand and gesturing like you’re giving a TED Talk.

“There he is,” your friend says with relief. “She’s all yours now. Godspeed.”

Pedro walks toward you, trying not to laugh as you squint up at him with suspicious eyes.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly, reaching a hand out to help you stand. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

But you recoil, eyes wide and dramatic. “EXCUSE ME. Who are you?”

Pedro freezes. “What?”

You wave your pizza slice at him like it’s a weapon. “I have a boyfriend. And he’s, like, the hottest man alive, okay? He’s got brown eyes and a deep voice and the sexiest little forehead wrinkle when he gets mad. He smells like heaven and sin and I love him.”

Pedro’s mouth falls open.

You’re not done.

“He’s literally a walking thirst trap,” you continue, wobbling slightly as you get to your feet. “I’m loyal. I’m a loyal woman. You can’t just come here with your… face. And your arms. And your everything.”

He’s choking back laughter now, hands on his hips, biting his lip so hard it might bruise.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently, voice low and teasing. “It’s me. It’s Pedro.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s what a stranger would say.”

He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Mi amor, I literally live with you.”

You gasp. “OH MY GOD—did you stalk my boyfriend? Is that how you know where he lives?!”

He loses it. Full-blown wheezing, shoulders shaking, hand over his face to muffle the laughter. “You’re gonna be so embarrassed tomorrow.”

“I’m telling Pedro about this,” you say, pointing at him.

He wipes his eyes, still chuckling, and pulls out his phone. “Say hi to your boyfriend.”

You stare at the camera for a long moment… and then your jaw drops.

“BABYYYY!” you scream, launching yourself into his arms so fast he nearly drops the phone. “Where were you?! A man was trying to KIDNAP ME!”

He cradles you against him, still laughing, still shaking his head like he can’t believe how much he adores you.

“Let’s go home, drunky,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “And tomorrow you’re getting so much teasing.”

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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foxlorests · 2 days ago

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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER SIX: THE BALLAD OF HARRY AND CATHERINE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Idealists Masterlist

Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.

He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.

“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”

Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I ask.”

And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”

Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”

He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.

It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.

Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.

“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.

“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”

And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.

The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.

“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”

Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.

Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.

He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.

And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.

Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.

The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.

Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.

They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.

He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.

She noticed.

“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”

He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”

“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”

Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”

He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.

“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”

He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then.

“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”

Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”

He chuckled.

Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.

“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.

And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.

“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.

Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.

“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”

She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.

Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.

Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”

“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”

A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”

Harry tried not to laugh.

“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”

“Hello.”

“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”

They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.

“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”

When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”

She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.

Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.

She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.

Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.

“I like you, Harry,” she said.

He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”

But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.

She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.

He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.

“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.

He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”

Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.

“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.

She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.

He laid her down to his bed.

“I want you, Harry,” she said.

His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.

“I want you—”

“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”

She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.

“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”

“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”

“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”

“Everyday.”

He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.

“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.

He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”

His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.

“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.

He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”

She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.

She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.

He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.

“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.

“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.

“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”

He groaned, stopping her words.

“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.

“You don't have to.”

It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.

“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.

He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.

Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.

His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.

Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.

“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”

She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.

Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.

He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”

His cock pressed against her entrance.

“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”

Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.

He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.

Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.

Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.

He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.

With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.

She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.

His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.

He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.

Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.

His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.

He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.

“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.

Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”

Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.

His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.

Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.

"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."

She moaned louder.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.

Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.

Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.

Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock.

That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.

Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.

“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.

“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”

He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.

After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.

A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.

“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.

He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”

Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”

He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.

She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.

“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.

She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him.

"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”

Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.

"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"

“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”

Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.

He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"

“Yes, please, Harry.”

He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.

One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.

"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."

His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.

They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.

⊹

Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.

So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.

A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.

Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her.

So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.

During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.

She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.

Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.

Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.

He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.

She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”

He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.

“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”

“You’ll finish it later.”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”

“Let’s go.”

“No.”

They ended up at the hospital anyway.

It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.

She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.

It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.

When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.

Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.

“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”

Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.

They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.

The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.

He closed the door behind them quietly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.

“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”

She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.

“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.

That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.

“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”

“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”

She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”

She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.

He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.

He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.

Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured.

“I know.”

He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”

He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”

She nodded against him.

“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”

She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.

“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.

“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”

“I know you do.”

“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”

“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”

“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”

And that was that.

She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.

He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.

And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.

⊹

True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.

He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.

“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”

He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”

She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.

“I was going to pick you up,” he said.

“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.

“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”

Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.

“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”

He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Sure you do.”

He thought. “Bagel?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”

He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.

Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”

Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”

“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”

“And you introduced yourself?”

“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”

He looked at her. She was completely serious.

They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.

Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.

By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.

He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.

He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.

Just sleep.

And maybe—if he was lucky—him.

⊹

His work gala came a day before her celebration party.

Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.

Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this.

The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.

He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.

She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.

He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.

He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.

“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.

He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.

His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.

The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.

This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.

Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.

The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.

Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.

“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.

“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”

“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”

“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”

“Really? Is she here?”

“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”

And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.

He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.

One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.

“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.

“Cold Spring,” Harry said.

“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.

“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”

They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.

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missadangel · 2 days ago

Text

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F! Reader

1 - The Man Who Saved You

Season 1 trailer series masterlist next chapter

Summary: Before the 2003 outbreak, the Cordyceps virus was a secret government project led by your father, a dedicated scientist. After realizing his mistake, he discovered your immunity following a bite at age 10. Desperate to make amends, he made deals with Fedra and later with the Fireflies, while you chose to escape instead of sacrificing yourself. Years of evading capture ended when you were eventually caught and taken to a hospital in Salt Lake with another immune girl. They thought two hosts would boost their vaccine chances, unaware that Joel was ready to take them all down. Unbeknownst to him, he had saved both you and Ellie. Now, you set out on your own, hoping to find your saviour again, leaving the rest of the Fireflies behind in your hospital scrubs. It wasn't long before you unexpectedly encountered him in Jackson, but he had no idea who you were or about your immunity. Chapter W.C. 10,5 k. It's an introductory chapter, so stay tuned for more about Joel in the next one! Warnings: guns, outbreak, Infection, post-apocalyptic theme, FUCKED UP SHITTY WORLD, language, profanity, cursing, attempted rape, blood, SLOW BURN, slow build, idiots in love, hate to love, arguments, cold behavior, selfishness, TOMMY, ABBY, ELLIE, DINA, WLF, FEDRA, FIREFLIES, sexual tension, abuse, trauma, nightmares, violence, injury, betrayal, murder, teasing, hate or love?, angst, maybe smut, fluff and romance stuff later not sure yet...age gap: Reader 30 Joel is 55 authors note: Each chapter will have its own music and warnings. Thank you all for your support, and have fun! my masterlist

Chapter Songs...

**Prologue.**

You are her.

The girl that Fedra, Fireflies and the WLF chased endlessly but could never pin down. Somehow, you always managed to slip away.

EVERY SINGLE TIME.

That’s you.

You are among the first witnesses to see the world turned upside down with the arrival of this chaotic new reality, where everything familiar crumbled due to the cordyceps virus that transformed life as we know it. You stand out as a unique individual, an extraordinary person navigating this virus in a way that defies all expectations, possessing an incredible immunity that sets you apart from the rest.

That’s you.

“Humanity's only hope, the sole potential source of a cure, the chance to develop a vaccine that may never be found again.”

Yeah, those after you see it that way. As a thing, a lab rat, a test subject—disposable, without dreams or feelings...

But honestly, you shouldn’t be surprised.

From the moment you came into the world, a profound sense of distance from others has surrounded you—something you never had a choice in. It all began when your mother was bitten by one of your father's test subjects while she was pregnant. That incident marked the onset of a global crisis—the day the virus escaped from the CDC and rapidly spread across the globe. Growing up in a laboratory, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of touch with what most people would consider home.

Your dad and his team dedicated years to creating something remarkable for humanity—yeah, they really believed in it—while dabbling in something perilously risky, only to realize they had made a grave mistake. They managed to keep it under wraps, but they could never quite eliminate the problem, always falling short.

From 2000 to 2003, your dad and his crew poured everything they had into combating a virus known only to a select few in the government. By August 2003, the number of test subjects had skyrocketed past a thousand, sparking outbreaks in Indonesia and other key grain-producing areas.

And that’s when the world went to hell.

The sound of boots echoes on the floor as a figure strodes through the entrance of the building.

The man has “F.E.D.R.A.” emblazoned in large letters across his back, indicating he is likely a Fedra soldier or commander. Everyone in the room avert their gaze, casting guilty looks as if they had just been caught red-handed. Those sitting on the floor, some sporting visible injuries, quickly get up, heads bowed—not just out of respect, but from sheer shock and fear. They keenly aware that trouble is looming, for this man only appeared during significant events. He is one of Fedra's elite, irreplaceable in his role.

Major Gibson's furious, disappointed eyes scans the room, his anger swelling with each wounded soldier in sight.

One of the soldiers steppes forward, visibly nervous, and offeres a salute. “Sir.”

“What’s the situation, lieutenant?” Gibson inquires, his voice steady yet charged.

“Sir, we’ve managed to corner the target inside the building.”

Gibson narrow his eyes, disappointment dripping from his tone. “You’ve managed?” His gaze shift to the injured soldiers sprawles across the floor, some with bandages on their heads and limbs. “Is this what you call 'manage'?”

The lieutenant loweres his head but, despite his recent failures, a flicker of hope ignites in his eyes—tinged with a dash of determination. “The girl is wounded. She can't escape from the building. All entrances and exits are secured by my men.” She points to the building plan spread out before them, indicating the girl’s possible location.

Without looking up from the map, Gibson asks, “A girl. Is the one responsible for putting your men in this sorry state just a girl?"

Taking a deep breath, the lieutenant steadies herself and replies, “With all due respect, sir, you don’t know her yet. We have clear instructions to capture her alive. It's challenging since she’s exceptionally well-trained—"

“I may not know her, but I do know the orders. How old is this girl again?”

The lieutenant hesitates but answers carefully, “Twenty, sir.”

A grim smile spreads across Gibson's face, as if he expected this. He looks at the soldiers around him, counting them.

“Interesting,” Gibson says with angry smirk. “Twenty men can’t handle a twenty-year-old girl. How fuckin' ironic.” The soldiers bow their heads again. “Alright, listen up! We need to capture this girl before sundown. With the Fireflies closing in and everything going to shit, we can’t afford to let that girl get away. Get your fuckin' shit together! Let's do this!"

“As you command, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldiers echo, rallying around him as Gibson pulls out a red phosphorescent pen and starts marking the building plan. “We’re going to follow my plan for the capture,” he says, and the mood shifts, filled with a sense of purpose.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath as you press your hand against the bullet wound just above your knee. They’re definitely trying to cripple you without killing you, aimlessly targeting your legs, but some of them must not know what they’re doing. Trying to find first aid supplies in this building is like digging a well with a toothpick—practically impossible. Ignoring the pain, you stagger forward with your automatic rifle in hand, scanning every inch of the corridor for anything that might help. At the far end, the dark elevator shaft catches your eye. You can’t tell if the cabin is just stopped or stuck somewhere below, but your mind quickly races to plot your escape. The elevator doors are two-sided, and if you can exit from the other side, you might make it to another building. But with your leg like this, it’ll be painfully slow, and you know that once they figure out where you are, they’ll be right on your tail.

You’re certain of it.

Think, think, think.

Your eyes dart around the crumbling, half-destroyed building, reeking of mold and decay, and then you spot the kitchen area. Just then, a strong, deep voice calls your name from outside. You don’t care; you know what’s coming next, so you head to the stove, checking the gas cylinders in the kitchen.

“Surrender immediately! I repeat, surrender immediately. I’ll count to three, and my team will enter. We know you’re wounded; there’s nowhere left to run. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

You snort, partly at his threat and partly at the thrill building up inside you as you realize the kitchen gas cylinder is still functional. Suddenly, a plan forms in your mind. “We’ll see about that, motherfucker,” you mutter, turning all six knobs and quickly tying a bandana around your neck to cover your mouth.

As the gas begins to fill the room, you can hear him counting down.

“You cocky show-off,” you whisper, pulling a lighter from your pocket. With the cigarette you snagged from the dead man's bag on the street last week, you light it up and take a long drag. The smoke is heavy, old, and scratchy, burning your lungs, but it carries a familiar comfort. You brace one of the doors closed, waiting for the gas to spread. This is a gamble you’ve never taken before—something that could very well backfire—but you don’t care. You’re smart enough to wrap a fire blanket around yourself. With the cigarette burning down, you hear the soldiers’ footsteps getting closer. Adrenaline surges through you, your heart pounding. You bite your lower lip, take a deep breath, and grip a piece of stone from the floor—probably debris from the wall blasted in an earlier explosion. You wrap the blanket around your entire body, feeling every heartbeat like a drum demanding action.

As you check your cigarette, watching it burn almost to the end, you spot the soldiers approaching. Counting them as they appear: one, two, three, and...

Now, it’s go time.

You prepare to toss the burning cigarette with a flick of your thumb and middle finger. With the stone in hand, you smash the glass of the door and step into the elevator shaft, ready to jump to the other side, both physically and mentally. The smell of gas rushes into your nostrils as you hurl the cigarette into the shaft, cover yourself with the blanket, and brace for impact.

Then all hell breaks loose.

It’s not the sharp explosion of a grenade you might expect—rather, it’s slow but utterly devastating. First, the flame from the cigarette ignites the gas fumes, and then pressure causes everything to explode outward with a haunting roar. A shard of glass grazes you, stopping you just short of your escape. In that heartbeat, you realize the mix of brilliance and recklessness in your move. Tossing the cigarette this close was a mistake, but the blanket shields you from the fire's fury, saving your skin. It all transpires in mere seconds, but the intensity is overwhelming.

With the noise pulsing in your ears, you gather your strength and take a few steps back to jump. Your rifle bumps against you, but the shock dulls the sensation. You sprint forward as fast as possible, launching yourself into the air. You land and roll to your feet, recovering swiftly while scanning your surroundings. Did something -infected- hear that blast? Did a soldier figure out your scheme? Nothing moves. A grin spreads across your face, despite the chaos—you’re a mess, but you’re unstoppable. Adrenaline floods your system. It’s as if your blood has transformed, energizing you as you soak in the thrill of your narrow escape.

This section of the building is calm and quiet, but it's unnervingly dark. Frustrated, you flick on your flashlight and move forward, visualizing your plan with every step, recalling the silhouette you spotted from outside. As you make your way down the stairs, you steer toward the likely location of the fire escape. Fortunately, the lower floors are bright, the walls have cracks that let in sunlight, and nature's touch is visible with overgrown grass surrounding you. The area around the fire escape door is unobstructed, and you’re nearly ready to make your escape. The soldiers' voices are now barely audible, a distant clamor filled with shouts and even some pleading. All of it because of what you've done. All because of you. Strangely, it doesn’t scare you like it once did, nor do you feel the same weight of guilt. Not anymore. You have your reasons, and they’re all too valid.

But this isn’t the time to dwell on the past. You are neither the hunted nor the hunter; you exist within a rigid philosophy. Kill or be killed. Eliminate anyone who stands in your way. That’s the new order—a law, a constitution, a moral code to live by. After all, who can hold you accountable? No one bears the blame; everyone is a victim except one. It’s all his fault: your father. And that’s exactly why you’re on the run, and why you must keep moving.

The destruction you’ve caused is staggering; most of the soldiers are likely dead, the rest wounded and spent. That’s a relief; they won’t be pursuing you for a while. At least until you find a vehicle and make your way out of Boston for good.

**Prologue ends.**

10 years earlier.

September 26, 2003...

It was too late. There was no corner of the Earth untouched by the virus. The CDC had gone quiet; its energy spent, its resources depleted, and a grave mistake had occurred.

At just ten years old, you suddenly became significant in your father's eyes—a girl who had once been seen as unimportant until you were bitten by one of his test subjects. Just like your mother.

When your father, a dedicated scientist specializing in infectious diseases, finally looked at you—really looked at you—you felt a rush of excitement. With the innocence of your ten-year-old mind, you might have thought his sadness stemmed from the fact that you were going to die soon, like your mother, your friends, his friends, coworkers and countless others struggling to survive out there.

But you were mistaken; they were mistaken.

You weren't infected.

You didn’t die.

You didn't change.

The bite mark remained—the wound became infected like any ordinary scratch, but eventually, it healed.

It passed.

This was incredible, impossible even, but it happened. That night, your father and his research team aimed all their efforts at studying you. Yes, you were the new test subject. But unlike the others, you were unique, challenging the very limits of reason and logic.

In a way that defied everything your 40-year-old father had seen, learned, taught, and discovered throughout his life, you were alive.

Your situation flew in the face of biology, science, and medicine. It felt like the final flicker of hope, a fleeting thought—a brief breeze.

You were, quite simply, an impossibility.

You were unreal.

You were a miracle.

Yes, "miracle" was the first word that came out of your father’s mouth when he finally smiled into your eyes. It was the only positive thing he had said, but it wasn’t a genuine compliment. It was just a reaction, the moment he realized you hadn't undergone a visible transformation due to the virus—that you were still human.

Miracle.

That single word would shatter whatever had already been broken.

You despised that word with every part of your being. Even now, it’s still a curse, an insult. Because from that moment on, the worst chapter of your life began.

Nothing would ever be the same again after you heard that word. Things were already bleak, and then they took a turn for the worse.

November 29, 2003.

The old world had vanished; everything was now under the army's control. Before the Cordyceps outbreak, it was just an ordinary emergency response unit, handling floods, earthquakes, and other crises. But when the Cordyceps brain infection spiraled out of control, transforming people into infected monsters, FEDRA seized complete control of civilian life. Despite your father being a scientist involved in top-secret projects, it wasn’t solely his influence that mattered. The world had become such a disaster that, regardless of who you were—celebrity, politician, millionaire, or even the president—you were all in the same sinking ship. Rank, fame, and reputation meant nothing; survival was all that counted. The only reason they took your father seriously, listened to him, and placed you—all the lab staff—in safe areas was because of your unique situation. Very few were aware of this, not even Fedra's top brass. Only one of their higher-ups had a clue, but that was just a facade, a distraction they could no longer afford to focus on. Proof was necessary, and it couldn’t be simply about showing your bite mark.

It required scientific data and hard evidence.

Yes, the procedures still continued in this chaotic world.

First, they needed to find a secure place to carry out laboratory activities, but Fedra didn’t prioritize that. It had only been a year since the outbreak started, and hospitals had become some of the most dangerous places around. Soon after, the Fireflies' uprising complicated matters even further. As people worldwide succumbed to the epidemic daily, transforming into lifeless creatures, discussions about a vaccine faded into mere chatter. This was largely due to the failed attempts at developing one. Fedra was reluctant to accept it, while your father was desperate to convince them—but there was simply no way to prove him right. All he had were your blood samples, X-ray results, photos of the bite mark, along with video and audio recordings.

Living in the quarantine zone meant you had to conceal your bite mark, located right on your calf, since there were no guarantees of special protection for you. Instead, they pushed you to take part in self-defense training.

To put it more accurately, your father forced you.

You hated him for it.

You had never been fond of him, but pushing you into intense military training was the final straw. His apparent happiness, as if someone else were to blame for the outbreak, only added to your frustration. Yet, only you, your father, and one other surviving team member were aware of the truth—William. Unlike your father, who never seemed to take the blame, William lamented the role he played in this global catastrophe. Their constant bickering drove you mad, especially when everything around you was already in disarray.

A few months later, the Pittsburgh quarantine zone, where you had been temporarily living, was attacked by a group known as hunters, forcing an urgent evacuation. Hospitals were also being targeted, smuggled by the hunters or raiders. Your father's hopes were dwindling, and the situation was growing more dire by the day.

October, 2009.

Six years had come and gone since everything changed. First, the quarantine zone in Pittsburgh crumbled, falling into the hands of hunters. The remaining civilians in Pittsburgh joined their ranks, and those who dared to voice their opposition were swiftly silenced by the hunters' ruthless leader.

The U.S. military pulled back their search efforts from all areas beyond ten miles of established quarantine zones, a decision clearly outlined in a letter from the U.S. Attorney General. Meanwhile, Boston had emerged as one of the most secure quarantine zones, successfully fending off firefly attacks. That’s where you were now—until Fedra's elite unit transferred you to a secret location.

At last, what your father had been longing for had occurred: a fully equipped hospital had been discovered and cleared from infected, and you would soon be escorted there.

As time went on, the cordyceps continued to evolve. The first group infected in the second stage began transforming into the terrifying third stage known as clickers. This made survival outside the quarantine zones increasingly perilous; the only means of communication left were radios and announcements.

When the convoy set off from Boston, transporting you to the hospital, they didn’t reveal the destination. Perhaps they kept it from you for your own good. Suddenly, an unexpected attack happens—fireflies, the rebel group you’d only heard about but never encountered. Your father and William urge you to stay in the vehicle for your safety as the sounds of fighting erupt outside. The Fedra military vehicle you were in offered some degree of protection, but as a teenager, you were still grappling with feelings of frustration and rebellion, dismissing everything around you. Your disdain for your father had reached new heights, and little did you know that these emotions would soon morph into something far more complex—raw rage.

The firefight intensified, and before you knew it, they’d eliminated all the Fedra soldiers. The door of your vehicle swung open, and a dark-skinned woman with curly hair stepped between two firefly soldiers, commanding you to exit. Your father and William nodded in approval, but hesitation gripped you. William gently pulled you to your feet, standing protectively by your side. You dropped down from the vehicle, shoving your hands deep into your hoodie pockets, embodying the angst of a teenager, looking like you were a million miles away from being the world's last hope.

You relished the sight of your father looking vulnerable, hands raised in surrender. You remained indifferent to the armed soldiers surrounding you—this was a scene you had grown all too familiar with. But your father’s face, etched with desperation, was a different matter entirely, and you couldn’t help but find it amusing.

“Please, we’re only doctors,” he begged, which only made you smile with a hint of cruelty.

"We know exactly who you are, Doctor Clouser," one of them says, carrying a tone of authority. It was the woman with curly hair who spoke up.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered sarcastically. William shoots you a disapproving glance, but you brush it off.

The soldiers turned their attention back to your father, who seemed caught between fear and resignation. “You’re coming with us,” the woman asserted. Reluctantly, your father conceded. What other choice did he have anyway? If they intended to kill you, they would have done it already.

As you walked toward their vehicle, you cast one last glance at the lifeless bodies of Fedra soldiers sprawled on the ground—an all too familiar sight in this grim reality. Your father went on about how Fedra would come looking for you, how they wouldn’t let you go easily, emphasizing your importance.

But no one seemed to pay him any mind.

The journey felt endless, and by evening you arrived at the University of Eastern Colorado, one of the fireflies' bases. The woman leading the group introduced herself as Marlene. Your father was wary of her, and only you and William knew why. When they took you into a triage tent, leaving you alone with Marlene and her two men, you sensed that you were not the only one aware of the truth.

"I wonder why Fedra is keeping you alive? After all, you’re to blame for everything, aren’t you, Dr. Clouser? Nobel Prize-winning scientist in molecular biology and genetics. And you, Dr. William Devane, microbiology expert, also an award-winning scientist. Two geniuses responsible for the outbreak that fucked everything up."

Your father and William tensed up as Marlene’s companions exchanged shocked glances. Marlene’s expression shifted from anger to an almost hopeful curiosity. “So tell me, why does Fedra help you? Is there a chance for a cure or a vaccine? Is that their goal?”

A cure, a vaccine—those words you almost hear every fuckin' day. Turning your gaze to the side, you spotted a 9mm pistol on a table nearby. Grabbing it in a quick motion crossed your mind—thanks to those teenage hormones—but that was a dumb idea; there was no way you could take on all those soldiers outside. They had no clue about your immunity and wouldn't think twice about taking you out and you didn’t want to risk William’s life. Yeah, you cared about him more than you did for your father.

When your father and Marlene were inside the tent talking, you waited outside, aware that Marlene's men were eyeing you with obvious hostility. Who could blame them? Anyone would think the same way, knowing the truth: they were responsible for the world’s downfall and and the one in charge was your dad.

Soon, Marlene and your father emerged, and all eyes turned to them. The moment your father's gaze met yours, you instantly grasped what was being discussed.

What a surprise.

Marlene cast a meaningful glance at her men, called them back to her side, and you returned inside. Your father looked directly at you. “Show them, it’s okay.”

You shot him a glare. “I’m wearing freaking jeans.”

He glared back. “I told you to show them.”

William stepped in, using a gentle voice as he called your name and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Let me help you.” The bite mark was on the inside of your calf, which is why it made you tense. William positioned himself in front of you, creating a barrier as you unzipped your pants. “Okay, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like it would even matter if I said I wasn’t.” You pulled your hoodie down to keep your underwear hidden; luckily, it was long enough to cover your backside.

When William finally stepped aside, the bite mark came into view, looking like a tree branch etched into the skin. Marlene bent down, switched on her flashlight, and leaned in to inspect the mark closely. Remembering how you got this bite, the moment you got bit by an infected, you fought the urge to kick her while she gazed down at the mark. “When did this happen?”

She directed the question at you, but your father chimed in, as usual. “I’ll do the talking; you just stay quiet.” It was his go-to line.

“Six years,” he replied.

Marlene raised her eyebrows in surprise. Your father continued, “Yes, it coincided with the outbreak.”

“How come the vaccine hasn’t been produced until now?” she asked.

And just like that, your father launched into an explanation about the early days—how Fedra couldn’t get you to the hospital, the lack of facilities, and so on. As you pulled your pants back up, you muttered, "That’s enough staring, I guess."

“Salt Lake,” Marlene said firmly. “That’s where we’ll be taking all the supplies after the unsuccessful vaccination attempt by the Biologists we brought in from San Francisco. The hospital is large and has everything you might need, but it’s not exactly clean. Infections are widespread, and cordyceps has infested even the operating rooms. Cleaning it up will take some time. For now, you’ll stay here until I send you there. And remember, this stays between us.” Your father and William nodded, then she turned to her men, giving them a meaningful look without uttering a word.

“Don’t worry, Marlene,” they reassured her in unison.

Marlene locked eyes with you, cautioning you not to say anything about your situation and to behave, having caught on to your rebellious attitude. That look.

The same gaze that flickers in the eyes of everyone who learns your secret—the look of hope you despised. Thankfully, Marlene didn’t use that word; perhaps she was a realist and not a believer in miracles. That might be the only thing you liked about her.

The only damn thing.

February 2012.

Failure, every scientist’s worst nightmare, lingers like a shadow over your father. As promised, Marlene and her team clean the hospital and ensure you’re placed there. He and William have everything they need. It’s impressive that they’ve managed better than Fedra. Yet, failure stares them down once more, especially after the 186th attempt. Each failed experiment begins with the hope that maybe this time it will succeed. Everyone in the hospital is exhausted, sleepless, and on the brink of despair, but no one cares about you—except for William.

The number of blood samples taken from you has left you anemic, your body desperately fighting the threat of it. Your arms are mottled with purple marks; your complexion is pale and wan. But you persist through your training, benefitting from the special meals prepared for your health. They’re concerned about you, but it’s not out of pity; it’s for a larger purpose. Anemia would reduce the number of red blood cells in your blood, which directly impacts the vaccine’s efficacy, leading to more failures.

When your father scolds you for this, you realize you are no longer surprised. It doesn’t even sting anymore. Even the lieutenant trains you treats better than him—strong and tough but quick to applaud and congratulate you when you finally beat her in a spar. Your father doesn’t offer the same. You’ve been a failure in his eyes since birth, and the reality remains unchanged; only the direction has shifted.

For a fleeting moment, you wish he would successfully create the vaccine—not for humanity’s sake. In your eyes, humanity is a lost cause. You’re curious to see if his attitude toward you would change if he succeeded. Maybe he’d look at you with love or admiration. But let’s be honest: deep down, you know that wouldn’t happen.

You’ve spent so long in the hospital that you’re itching to get out. The day you finally break free feels exhilarating. You think about taking a brief detour to escape the suffocating confines; however, before you can get far, you encounter an infected individual. In your surprise, you realize too late that a network you’ve never seen before lies right at your feet, one that sends out vibrations to all nearby infected. Yes, your skills have improved over the years; you can handle various weapons, but when faced with a horde, those arms are useless.

A cacophony rises from the cracked asphalt roads blanketed by green grass—one voice, then two, three, five, eight, and more. Your blood runs cold as you see a horde rushing toward you. Being immune won’t protect you; they’re driven solely by their primal need for nutrition.

You are the prey.

You sprint back toward the hospital, even though you know it’s futile, cursing yourself for stepping outside. Just then, a group of fireflies arrives in military vehicles, opening fire on the infected. As one vehicle pulls up to you, it takes out a runner just behind you, but there are more closing in. Suddenly, another runner lunges at you.

You struggle beneath this dreadful creature that sounds horrifying and looks even worse. With all your might, you attempt to raise your gun, but it’s useless. That’s when you got your second bite, right below your shoulder. The pain is overwhelming, consuming your senses entirely. All you can focus on is the location of the bite—the crushing pressure, the excruciating pain. You scream until your lungs feel like they’re on fire, convinced for a moment that your flesh is being torn apart. The agony spreads through your veins, radiating throughout your entire body. Since the pain dominates your attention, you don’t even notice when the soldier who shot the infected lends a hand to pull you up; you simply let him.

But more are coming—hundreds—relentlessly charging. The soldiers around you cast you bewildered glances, clearly aware of what just happened.

Once you’re taken back to the hospital, soldiers guide you by the arm to a different room in the emergency wing, just to be safe. One even gets scolded by a commander for aiming at you; it’s a rare sight for them. None have seen someone bitten before who hasn’t turned into one of those monsters.

The wound appears serious, likely deeper than the first, meaning it will take longer to heal.

Yet, you remain human—what luck.

The next day, your father brings you to the lab for more blood tests. To your surprise, he seems almost pleased about your new bite, showing no rage for your reckless escape. But William is furious and incredibly worried about you.

It takes up to two weeks for the new bite's effects to show in your blood results, and you return to your monotonous daily routine.

Boring.

July 2012.

One morning, your father walks into your room in a surprisingly good mood, which usually signals trouble for you. He promptly calls William in for a private chat. You find yourself bored out of your mind with their vaccination chatter. Your only hope is that they’ll abandon the vaccine nonsense, leave you alone, and go back to living like normal people. You can’t help but envy the folks outside who are just trying to survive. It’s absurd to dream of living like them, but the truth is, at least they’re free. And when it comes time to die, you think you’ll finally be free too. This hospital feels like a prison. People treat you like a lab rat—they don’t even bother to make eye contact when they take your blood. They don’t ask how you’re doing, and it’s painfully boring.

As you’re sketching in your notebook late at night, William quietly slips into your room. You hold on to the hope that he’s brought something to lift your spirits—a fully charged Walkman or perhaps one of your favorite comic books. But when you see the troubled look on his face, you realize this isn’t going to be a light-hearted chat.

"Come with me."

It’s a good offer, and you can’t refuse it—not if it’s from him.

You glance toward the door. Two soldiers standing guard, poised to thwart any attempt you might make to escape. You’re so crucial yet an absolute headache. William leads you out of the room, and as the soldiers start to follow, he raises a hand to stop them. “It’s alright,” he says.

“Where are we going?” you ask, confusion bubbling up. He doesn’t answer; he simply keeps walking. His arm wraps around you protectively, but you’re not sure why. You step into a room you’ve never seen before, filled with various supplies. William closes the door firmly behind you, grabs a large, dark backpack, and thrusts it into your hands.

“What’s going on, William?” You’re taken aback.

“Just take it,” he insists.

As you check the safety on the revolver he hands you and slip it into the back of your pants, you are even more bewildered. “What the hell is happening?”

“We don’t have time, and this might be our only chance,” he replies, urgency lacing his voice. He throws the bag over your shoulders. “It’s packed with supplies—enough for a few months.”

You nearly stumble under the weight. “Okay, I get that, but I don’t see the purpose yet.”

William’s eyes darken with concern and anger. “Your father has figured out how to produce vaccines.”

You’re stunned. “Isn’t that supposed to be good news?”

“To make that vaccine, you need... surgery. But there’s no way you’ll survive it.” His words hit you like a punch in the gut. You tremble as he wraps his arms around you, his voice quaking with emotion.

“I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him kill you. Damn humanity. Damn the vaccine. I won’t, babygirl. You’re like my real daughter. I won’t lose you.”

You stand frozen, numb, as your heart aches.

“He,” you breathe out, unable to say “dad.” “He’s chosen to sacrifice me, hasn’t he?”

William's continued sobs and silence say it all.

Of course, he has.

He cradles your face in his hands. “Promise me you’ll survive. As long as you’re alive, I can rest easy knowing you’re out there, just breathing.”

“Please come with me,” you plead. “I don’t even know where to go…”

“I need to distract them so you can escape. There’s a map in your bag. I’ve marked possible locations for the Fireflies and the FEDRA, and noted safe spots and soldier routes. When I find you again, we’ll join another group together. Never reveal your immunity, your identity, your name—not even mine. You’re someone else now, can you understand? Stay off the main roads and avoid open spaces. It will be hard, but I know you’ll make it. You are strong. You're 19 now.”

You nod, determination in your voice. “I promise I’ll make it, but you have to promise you’ll survive and come too.”

He tries to assure you with a confident look, but you can see it’s a façade. “I promise. Now you need to go. They’ll be here soon to take you for the surgery. I can't buy you any time if they realize you’re missing from your room.”

You fight back tears, a lump forming in your throat. “I need to know one last thing before I go.”

William takes a deep breath, preparing himself for your question.

“Is there really no other way to produce the vaccine?”

“There has to be a way—there's always a way. But your father…” He swallows hard. “That bastard is just—“

“Enough,” you interject, your voice shaky but steadier now. “I have my answer.”

April 2024.

Ten years have gone by. You’re still on the run, but now you’re more experienced—a young woman who’s tough to stop or defeat. For all this time, you’ve managed to survive alone, witnessing too much—haunting memories that invade your dreams, scars that linger on both your body and soul. You’ve been bitten three more times in this span. William never showed up where he promised. You waited for him for months, even years, placing a sign over to one of those wrecked cars at your meeting spot. The doll from your childhood—the one he gave you for your sixth birthday—remained untouched every time you returned. But still, he never showed up. Maybe something happened to him on the way. Maybe he gave up or maybe he never intended to come back.

Who knows?

And who cares? You certainly don’t anymore, not after what they did and what you had to do.

Now, casting a desperate glance at the map, you contemplate your next route. None of the places William marked as safe are safe anymore. The map has changed, you’ve changed, and so have your aspirations and goals.

In the meantime, you found a companion.

You named him Taxi.

A German Shepherd.

You met him while scavenging for supplies, trapped next to a wrecked taxi—likely caught in a hunter’s snare. He’d lost a lot of blood from an injured leg, and if you hadn’t intervened, he would have died. At first, you felt indifferent; you couldn’t access emotions like before. But when you looked into his eyes and heard his whimpers of pain, you couldn’t ignore him. You helped lift him from his suffering, and since then, he’s never left your side.

From that moment on, that dog turned into your best buddy. He was an amazing pal, warmer than any human you knew, a loyal friend cared for you in ways no one else did and stood by your side, ever ready to protect you.

“What’s up with this Bella girl? Is she torn between Jacob and Edward or what? Is love really that complicated?” you ponder, glancing from the novel *Eclipse* in your hand to the taxi as you carefully walk along the cobblestone. Taxi barks twice. You laugh, “Are you saying I don’t get it because I haven’t read the first book?” Looking at the other novels on the back cover, you shrug. “Dude, the library was crawling with Clickers. It's all I could scrounge up.”

Moments later, Taxi growls, pulling you from your thoughts. You spot a runner nearby, his back turned but movements erratic—likely infected just days ago. You crouch behind a junked car, and Taxi stealthily lowers next to you. “Shh, it’s just one. I can take care of it,” you assure, pulling out your knife. You set the book on the ground and move quietly, letting the pages flutter with the wind, then dive at the runner just in time. You take him down with a swift stab to the throat, his loud, ominous growl echoing as he collapses. You wipe the knife on his ragged clothes and then on the fabric of your sleeve.

No one else is around; it's a relief.

Just then, you hear the rumble of tires approaching. Whistling to Taxi, you signal it to come closer. “Quick,” you say, darting behind the wheel of a nearby gasoline truck. You wait as two military vehicles pass by without stopping. As you recalled hearing on the walkie-talkie that the Fireflies were moving to Utah a few days ago, you couldn't help but wonder: who are they now?

You exhale in relief as they drive on. Just when you think it’s safe, the vehicle behind the other one halts, and you freeze. “Damn,” you mutter as someone opens the door and sees the runner you just took down.

“Hey!” the driver calls, raising his hand to signal the vehicle in front to stop.

The taxi growls low, and your nerves spike. You instinctively reach for your gun, loading bullets from your pocket into the chamber and flipping off the safety. Two people step out of the vehicle, examining the runner and muttering to each other. One gestures for the others, probably telling them to search the area. Soon, they all nod and scatter, weapons drawn, just as you had feared.

Eight armed, trained individuals. They’re definitely looking for you; any other group would have kept driving after spotting an infected by the road.

You glance at Taxi and point him the opposite direction. He leaves immediately—you’ve trained him well—but worry clings to you. Time is of the essence. You pick up a rock from the ground and throw it to the far side of the truck. As two of them turn, you take a steady aim and pull the trigger, hitting both in the head.

Bull’s-eye.

“What the hell?”

"She’s here—" Taxi lunges at the screaming womans throat and you take down the other one as he finish her off. Two people near the vehicle duck behind cover. The other one next to the woman who just got tackled raises a gun and fires at him, but you take him out too.

The remaining one, clearly of higher rank, shouts a warning to the others: "Don’t shoot her! Remember, we have orders to take her alive!" Another voice calls out, "Surrender! Now!"

“Come and get it, motherfucker!” you yell back, quickly pivoting toward the vehicle, aiming, and letting loose with your shots. Thankfully, they hesitate to return fire, giving you the chance to roll into the nearby grass. Taxi crouches down beside you. You signal him to hang tight behind a rock. "They can shoot at you, but they can’t hit me. Stay put.”

It takes a few tense moments to crawl through the grass until you reach the front of the enemy vehicle. You hear a shot ring out in the distance—just a scare tactic—and aim carefully before shooting at the tires of the vehicle behind you. As they scramble, you fling open the car door, dive into the driver's seat, and crank the engine.

“Hey!”

Ignoring their frantic shouts, you open the side door and holler as you take off, “Taxi! Come on!”

Taxi barks in response, sprinting toward the car, dodging gunfire, and leaps into the passenger seat.

“Good boy!” you laugh, giving his head a quick pat as you slam the door shut and hit the gas.

You flash them the middle finger through the window, taunting, “Suck it, fuckers!”

“Shoot the tires!” someone yells from behind.

"Don't let her get away!"

“No, no, no, don’t shoot the tires,” you grumble to yourself. It’s hard enough to steer in a straight line without swerving all over the road. Soon enough, they open fire, and you instinctively duck, while Taxi hangs out the window, barking.

“No, buddy, get down!” you scold him, swerving to the right in a desperate attempt to shield him. Suddenly, you feel a thud as one of the rear tires bursts, and the steering wheel slips from your control. “Damn it!”

Before you know it, the car flips over in a chaotic tumble. Without a seatbelt on, you are jolted violently, your head smacking against something hard. The last thing you hear is Taxi's cries of distress and the screeching of brakes as everything goes dark.

As you slowly open your eyes, a wave of excruciating pain surges through your head and radiates throughout your body. Realizing you’re lying down and catching a whiff of antiseptic, you attempt to sit up, only to find yourself strapped to a stretcher.

“Hey, take it easy,” you hear a voice cautioning you. It must be a medic, though dressed in civilian clothes.

"Where am I? Taxi... Where's my dog?" you manage to ask, panic creeping in.

“You've taken quite a blow to the head,” he replies. “You've got two fractured ribs as well. So how about you just stay still for now?”

“Where’s my dog?” you insist.

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t see any dog.”

“If anything happens to him, I swear—”

“What are you going to do?”

That voice—Marlene.

Damn it.

How long have you been gone?

When did she show up, and... where were you?

“You’d actually burn the hospital down just for a dog? That’s so you,” she says, stepping a bit closer. You notice the deep lines on her face that have only gotten stronger over the years. “After all that time running around by yourself, it's pretty impressive what you've been through. But here we are, years later, and all you care about is your dog. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, you know.”

You give her a sarcastic look. “The hospital... Another attempt for a cure? Marlene, you really don’t give up, do you?”

“Maybe we’re alike in that way. But not in others. What you did back there was selfish. I lost thirty good men because of you."

“Cut it out and get to the point. You planning to take my blood or what?”

“No, you’re not leading this time. You’re going to be... a substitute.”

You raise an eyebrow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

“It means we’ve found another immune person.” You’re taken aback; that’s highly improbable. “Just like you, she adapted to the virus after being bitten. This time, we’re definitely producing that vaccine.” Her eyes sparkle with hope, reminiscent of your father’s once-hopeful gaze.

“Oh, congratulations. Looks like you should be up for a Nobel Prize, Queen Firefly.”

Marlene lets out a lazy chuckle at your joke, but a flicker of something deeper crosses her face—a trace of sadness, perhaps. "What we have endured all this time is finally going to mean something."

“Sounds more like a cover-up to me.”

This time, anger flares in her eyes as she meets your glare. “I wouldn’t feel too relaxed if I were you. If we successfully develop the vaccine thanks to Ellie, we won’t need you anymore—and there are plenty of men itching for revenge. You get that, right?”

You match her menacing stare, though deep down, fear coils within you.

“Now, I’ve got to go. She’s being prepped for surgery,” she says, standing up.

"You mentioned that her situation is similar to mine." Marlene pauses but doesn't look at you. Remembering the virus intertwining with the brain, you murmur, “You know she won’t survive this surgery.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “Yeah, I know," she answers coldly before turning her back and leaving the room.

You watch her go, noticing two armed soldiers waiting at the door. You find yourself wondering how many days have gone and how they found that girl, and you can't shake off your worry about Taxi.

However, at this moment, you should only be worried about yourself.

Hours drag on.

Marlene never comes back to the room where you’re confined. Luckily, they untie you, but you still trapped. When a nurse enters to help you put on your hospital gown, you realize why they released your bindings. “Did the girl’s surgery go well?” you ask her. You don’t know her, but a bond forms from your shared condition, and a wave of sadness washes over you.

“It hasn’t started yet, but it’s almost time. You’ll be next,” the nurse replies.

You tense up. “Hey, what? Marlene didn’t say anything like that, I…”

The nurse explains, "Dr. Anderson believes that having two hosts increases the likelihood of creating a vaccine. They’ll start with her first, and then it will be your turn.’”

“You're going to kill us both,” you grunted.

The nurse stares at you, blankly. “You’re doing this for humanity and—"

You grab her by the throat. “If you utter anything about a ‘miracle’ or the ‘greater purpose,’ I’ll break your jaw.”

Her eyes widen as she pushes your hand away and calls out in alarm, “Open the door, I’m coming out!”

The soldiers at the door swing it open, weapons drawn, until she steps outside. They close the door behind her and stand watch. Through the frosted glass, you see her greet someone in the corridor. You strain to catch snippets of their conversation about the surgery.

“The girl’s been anesthetized; she’s ready.”

“Alright, prep the other girl. The nurses will let you know when it’s time. Today is crucial for all of us, so keep an eye out. Don’t let anything go wrong.”

“Good luck, doctor.”

From the clatter of voices and footsteps, you can tell you’re being held very close to the operating room. Tension fills your body. You have to act, or the fate you’ve been dreading for years will finally catch up to you—you’ll die.

And for a world so wretched.

Additionally, William previously mentioned that there is no guarantee the vaccine will be effective.

The room is small; they’ve stripped away your weapons and belongings, and the soldiers haven’t budged from the door.

You need a plan.

But what can you do? As you scan the room, thoughts race through your mind. Perhaps you could fashion a weapon from the syringes, but then what? How would you handle the soldiers?

Then, chaos erupts with the sound of gunfire.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” someone shouts.

The commotion from the lower floors sends alarms ringing through the upper levels, yet the soldiers at the door remain on high alert, conversing amongst themselves. The gunfire continues, echoing louder. Whoever is responsible for this—could it be Fedra?

Yes, that makes sense.

"It's him!"

“Kill him! Kill him now!”

Him?

Just one person?

The sounds grow increasingly frantic, the shots puncturing the space, thinning the ranks of your captors. As each bullet finds its target, the noise fades somewhat. You feel a mix of relief and anxiety; the soldiers abandon their posts, heading into the corridor. Moments later, the air fills with the sound of bodies crumpling. The clatter of bullet casings and reloading comes closer, making you instinctively crouch down. You don’t dare open the door. Whoever it is, they move like a relentless machine, eliminating everything in their path.

After a brief silence, you cautiously crack the door open. You hear slow, deliberate footsteps, and when you catch a glimpse of the figure, you freeze.

A man in his forties or fifties stands at a distance with his back to you. Suddenly, he swivels his head, revealing his face in profile. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he grips an automatic rifle tightly. He moves forward with a skill, focus and calmness that’s almost savage. In that moment, you realize his intention. Perhaps the girl about to undergo surgery is this man's daughter or someone he really cares about.

Who else would go to such lengths for someone?

Cold-bloodedly killing fireflies one by one.

As the gunfire finally subsides, you push the door open a bit more and step out of the cursed room. You head to the other space where they’ve stashed your belongings. Just then, another gunshot rings out, followed by screams—woman’s screams, one of which sounds like the nurse came to your room earlier. You quickly grab your things and dart down the corridor. There's no time to change; you just need to escape the hospital as fast as you can. Though the backup team is supposed to be waiting, the silence is deafening. Bodies lie strewn across the floor, drenched in blood, as you navigate your way through the carnage.

You might have felt a twinge of sorrow for them if they hadn’t intended to kill you. But now, looking at them, there's no pity left in you. All you can focus on is escaping this place alive and finding your dog.

A short while later, you hear the voices of the team you were waiting for echoing through the hallways. As you descend to the lower floors, you start to map out your escape route. But just then, the sounds of running feet and shouting reach your ears from above, accompanied by a frantic radio transmission. “Crap! The doctor shot!”

“Sir, the smuggler took one of the cars and got away with the girl!”

“Damn! The other girl escaped too!”

“Move to the lower floor immediately! Secure all exits!”

“Find them! Hurry, hurry!”

Knowing you’re already on the lower floors, you sprint to the garage, praying to find a car there. If they managed to escape that way, maybe it could be your ticket out as well.

As luck would have it, there’s indeed a reliable car waiting for you. However, your peripheral vision catches something on the floor—a body. Damn it… it’s Marlene, shot multiple times with a pool of blood forming around her.

Once, this scene would have evoked pity for her, but not anymore. The trauma from your father has eroded any empathy you once had, leaving behind a hollow shell—a girl who is no longer innocent or naive.

Now, it’s time for you to do what you do best: running away.

Thanks to that man, you are alive and were able to escape.

June 2024.

You're on the road again, running away once more. The car you "borrowed" from the fireflies barely lasted a month before you ran out of gas. Luckily, you stumbled upon your trusty dog Taxi near the hospital. He must have been waiting for you there, your only true companion in this harsh existence. The top part of one of his ears is torn, perhaps from the accident or maybe even a bullet. Regardless, he’s in decent shape, which is more than you can say for yourself.

About a week ago, raiders attacked, aiming to steal your supplies and worse. With your military training and the help of Taxi, you fought them off before they could succeed. You had a bullet lodged in your stomach that you managed to remove yourself. Even though you stitched the wound up, it’s become infected and is festering. You have no clue how much longer you can hold out without proper medical care or antibiotics. As the pain and fever drag you down, you stumble and hit the ground. Taxi licks your face, trying to nudge you back to your feet. “Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not ready to give up yet,” you gasp, struggling to breathe.

The heat is parching your throat, and there’s barely any water left. All that’s left in your bag is one last can of dog food you’ve been saving for Taxi. For three days now, you haven't eaten anything other than a meager portion of dried meat—so small it barely fits in your palm.

It’s the last you have.

You've never encountered a situation this desperate, yet you refuse to throw in the towel. You press on, but worry about your condition creeps in. There must be something close by; you need to seek help or things will only spiral downward. Taking a moment, you pause to examine the map. While sipping the last of your water, you contemplate your next move. Heading straight north from SLC (Salt Lake City) seemed logical once then, but now you’re filled with doubt. This decision wasn’t only yours; William had marked an area around Wyoming on the map, but he never noted what it was. It’s not a safe zone or a Quarantine Zone, so what lies there? The marked region extends into Idaho and encapsulates Yellowstone Park. You find yourself at the edge of that circle right now. You have no idea what awaits you there, but you’re out of options. You’ve seen too much already—or so you hope.

What could be worse than this?

As you push forward, you spot a sign, half-destroyed, reading “Etna Village Estates” at the top. The rest of it is illegible, but you can barely make out the phrase “Single Family Home Sites.” Ironically, the word ‘Family’ is almost obliterated, leaving just the letter “y.”

As you venture down the road, you glimpse a few lodge-like houses and some wooden structures. A market sign catches your eye, and the horses tied up nearby bring you to a halt. Taxi starts growling; someone must be inside. You scan the area, but no one appears to be around. When you decide to sneak around back, a scream pierces the air, followed by a gunshot and more screams.

“They must be fighting off infected,” you mutter as Taxi barks anxiously. You look at him, remembering the hard lesson learned over the years: never help anyone. Every time you tried, you ended up hurt, regretting your choices. As you approach the horses, they grow restless; their owners are surely trapped inside—most likely in danger. Your first instinct is to take one of the horses and make a run for it. After all, one of them has a saddlebag filled with supplies; you could survive a little longer. But your conscience pulls at you.

“Damn it.”

You pull your revolver from your side and peer through a broken window of the market, glancing back at Taxi. “Let’s do this.” Taxi hops inside, clearly more eager than you are. “One day, my fuckin' conscience get us both killed,” you murmur as you enter. Gunshots fire from ahead, though not in a steady stream. Instead, voices spill out, and you inch closer, careful to assess who’s inside and their condition first.

“Where did it go?”

“Damn it! What kind of infected are these?”

“Behind you, behind you!”

“Shoot! Shoot!”

Between the shelves, you spot two men, two women, and a little child. One of the women is pregnant, her belly noticeably protruding.

Shit.

These are the bastards you fear the most, more than the clickers themselves. You must come up with a plan immediately; you know you have to save these people since they stand no chance against them.

“Taxi,” you whisper, and he meets your gaze. You gesture, indicating to approach from behind. One of the stalkers stands right in front of you, his focus diverted to the others—it might be your only chance. Taxi growls softly in agreement and stealthily moves forward while you take the right side. There are more damn stalkers than you realized, prompting you to adjust your strategy. You decide to stalk them from behind, switching to your long-barreled rifle and attaching the scope you found last week for this critical moment. Climbing to a higher vantage point, you feel a sharp pain from the wound in your stomach, but you don’t care—you’ll deal with that later.

From atop the shelves, you take stock of the situation, knowing this drill well. You count five stalkers; the others have surrounded them, poised to attack.

Good.

You settle your rifle on your shoulder, positioning a cloth behind the butt to cushion the recoil, and focus on Taxi. You whistle to get him to pounce, and as he barks, leaping at one of the nearby stalkers, you take a deep breath, steady yourself, and aim. You take out one to the right of the pregnant woman and another behind the child. A third stalker flees between the shelves, but that’s fine—you’ll get it later. As one stalker approaches, you shoot before it can scramble up, dropping it instantly. That’s three down. You quickly dispatch the one struggling with Taxi, making it four.

It’s time to head down.

As people stare at you in disbelief, you grab the shotgun and notice another stalker closing in from behind. “Move!” you shout, aiming and firing.

The stalker goes down—five in total.

“Ugly bastard,” you mutter, eyeing the stalker’s shattered face as it crumples to the ground. The pregnant woman looks at you, a mix of nerves and caution flickering in her eyes as you lower your shotgun.

The others remain frozen in shock, their mouths hanging open.

“Who are you?” the pregnant woman asks.

“The one who just saved your asses.”

They exchange glances, weary and anxious, but a sense of relief washes over them.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, glancing at the dog beside you.

Taxi growls softly; you shoot him a reassuring look. “Shh, calm down, buddy,” you say, gesturing for him to sit. He obeys right away, tongue lolling out.

“Smart dog,” the woman remarks looking at Taxi, then turning back to the group. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” responds one, his voice shaky.

“Thanks to her,” adds another, nodding in your direction.

“Thank you,” another chimes in, eyes filled with gratitude.

You nod, but the ache in your stomach deepens, and you wince as you sense a stitch might have come undone.

“I’m Maria,” the pregnant woman says, extending her hand. “Our town is nearby. Come with us; we have a doctor who can take care of your wound. We owe you.”

Out of habit, you shake your head, trying to refuse. “No, I...”

Maria sizes you up. “You need help. Let us repay our debt. Thanks to you, these people can see their families again,” her hands resting protectively over her pregnant belly.

She’s right.

You need help—a shower, food, water. You couldn’t survive out here like this for even a day. Looking at Taxi, who seems to understand and barks, you can’t help but smile.

Finally, you turn back to Maria and nod. “Alright.”

“Welcome to our town—Jackson,” Maria says, glancing back at you from her horse. You are behind her, captivated by the towering, endless walls made of solid lumber and trees. You can't tear your gaze away. Taxi barks up at you from below, sharing your astonishment and you respond him with a smile. As you draw near, the gigantic doors swing open, and a chorus of voices erupts from inside the town.

“It's Maria!”

“She’s back!”

“Tommy! She’s here!”

“Maria’s back!”

The moment the doors part, you spot a crowd gathering, and a tall man with curly black hair rushes toward your horse. He’s focused on Maria, helping her dismount before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her tenderly. Placing his hands on her stomach, he gazes at her, tension evident in his face. "Ya wanna do me in, don't ya? How in tarnation could ya just up and leave like that?"

“Sorry,” she replies.

You watch as the others rush toward their families, worry etched on their faces, all bombarding them with questions. From your perch on the horse, you take in the scene—their expressions reflecting both joy and concern. You wonder if this is what family feels like; the warmth of being cared for is a foreign concept to you. It feels surreal, almost like a stark contrast to your own shitty life.

As everyone turns to regard you with curious eyes, a wave of dizziness hits. Pressing your hand to your stomach, you suddenly feel something warm spreading across your palm—blood. You groan. The chatter morphs into a buzzing background noise until one word cuts through it all.

“Joel! Help her!”

Despite your struggle to keep your head clear, the moment you lock eyes with him, everything around you blurs.

Damn.

It’s him.

Your fuckin' savior.

You’ve seen his profile before while dealing with fireflies at the hospital, but now his full face is before you. For a man his age, he’s surprisingly handsome—his features clean, but his brow still furrowed, and the look in his eyes is far from friendly, echoing that day.

You draw his face more times than you can count in your notebook, always hoping for the chance to meet him again.

Before you know it, you’re sliding off the horse. Maria is saying something, Tommy is yelling at Joel, and someone's arms catches you just before you hit the ground.

As consciousness fades, you gaze up at the person holding you.

It’s him.

He is hurriedly carrying you effortlessly in his arms. You don’t care where he’s taking you.

It’s strange.

You feel safe in his arms.

You've never felt safe with anyone before, even with William.

In that moment, you experienced a sensation you never knew existed.

A warmth, but in a strange sort of way.

Or could it be the sensation of blood pouring from your wound?

Perhaps these are the last moments of your life, and your brain is not braining.

You can’t quite discern whether it’s the warmth of dying or the warmth you feel for this man.

But part of you thinks it would be nice to see such a face before you fade away.

But then something shifts, bringing you back to reality.

You’re alive—not dead, at least not yet.

As he notices you looking at him, Joel’s expression changes; a subtle frown appears on his face while he carries you.

You can't help but smile at his reaction. “I can’t die without meeting you, Joel,” you think to yourself, holding onto that smile.

Since it was the first episode, it mostly focused on introducing things. Sorry there wasn’t much Joel this time, but don’t worry—he’ll be all over the next ones!

taglist : @kluvspedro @balhoneysweetstuff @lailathepedritofan @mirandablue1 @mariiearty @soupiemeowmeow @lamartell @berriesarepunk @demuresfangirlblog @rh1nestonecowg1rl @catofash @shinsegismylove @damnedcinderella @ultra-nina-bella @orcasoul @kaliispunk @sunfairyy @lovesbysblog @faith-alons26 @mellymbee @brittmb115 @anothergojostan @tpwk9740 @daydream-believer19 @yawnzzzzzzzz @pedroslut4eva @queenofodds @blackborndue @jisungandpedrolover @giulia1989ts @missladym1981 @a-girl-who-thinks-too-much @madnessofadaydreamer @marauvderss @mystickittytaco @bueschibaby @theanxietyqueen17 @smvtwitchmiller @picketniffler @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @subconsciouscollapse @poppysplayground @fedeffy @madmelz @ithinkimaslutforharry @spookychaossuit @bitchyfestnight @johnssherlock221 @indiegirlunited @marauvderss @hc-geralt-23

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firsttarotreader · 1 day ago

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Pedro with his security team, Coco and Sean in Sydney. 🤗

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #sydney #australia #fantastic four first steps #press tour

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pascalispunkczechia · 2 days ago

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When he came back

This is part 2 of a 3-part slowburn about Javier Peña. Last part is coming soon! 💌

Part 1 HERE 🎀 Masterlist for this fic HERE

Drabbles HERE

Summary: Part 2 is a story about what happened after. After everything changed. Javi is no longer the boy she once knew; and she’s not the same either. But some things never really go away. Like the feeling you get when you hear his name. Like that one place where you always knew you’d find him. And maybe… like love that never quite stopped. Just two people trying to figure out if they were ever just friends at all. And if it’s too late to find their way back.

Warnings: slow burn, emotional repression, unspoken love, breakup aftermath, anxiety, mild panic attack, family tension, jealousy, brief argument, heavy emotional themes (regret, longing, growing apart), bittersweet reunion, unresolved feelings

Word count: ~ 3.6k

The first few weeks and months of college were rough. Not because of the classes or anything but because I was here on my own. Yeah, I made some friends. But the one person who’d been with me through everything - the good, the bad, all 18 years of it - wasn’t here. And that fucking hurt.

And on top of that… I still didn’t get those weird new feelings that started bubbling up after Javi pulled me away from Jeff’s gross hands, and then again when we said goodbye before leaving for college. But over time, it started to click. The longer it had been since we last saw each other, the more I realized it - I’d fallen for Javi. I think. Maybe.

And it hit me like a damn truck. I didn’t get how it happened. I was confused as hell. Like… come on. We grew up together. Scraped our knees together. Shared dumb little secrets no one else knew. Held hands during our first horror movie and again at our first grandparents’ funerals. We knew each other’s favorite cereal and the stuff that kept us up at night. I taught him how to draw hearts. He taught me how to spit like a boy. We spent years doing the kind of stupid stuff that didn’t feel like anything special back then; but now I get it. Now I see how much it mattered.

And when I finally admitted it to myself, six hundred miles away from him, it shattered me. A million-piece heart, the fear I’d ruined everything between us, and the worst part… could we really go years without each other? Just hoping we’d see each other every now and then during breaks? I had no clue.

So I started trying. Even with a broken heart, I tried to find new friends. Sometimes I went on dates. But it never felt the same. Not even close. I couldn’t give myself fully to anyone; no matter how hard I tried. Not as a friend. Not as anything else.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever fully fell in love with anyone else. Not for real. But… I had to take care of myself too. Because somewhere along the way, Javi and I started to drift apart. In the ‘70s, it wasn’t easy to just call or text whenever you wanted, especially not when you were both off at college. And maybe that made it worse. Sure, we wrote a few letters. But sometimes… every single word from him hurt. And sometimes, writing back felt just as painful.

Then there were breaks and holidays. We didn’t always end up in Laredo at the same time. And when we did, it felt… different. Maybe it was my fault. Because back then, I was in a relationship. His name was John. I cared about him, in a way. He was my first real, serious relationship - we ended up staying together for another two years.

One summer, John wanted to see Laredo and meet my family. I thought I wouldn’t be seeing Javi anyway; my parents had mentioned the Peñas were going to Mexico for a couple weeks to visit relatives, so I figured Javi would stay on campus. That’s the only reason I said yes. Otherwise… I don’t think I would’ve let John come with me. Probably because, deep down, I didn’t want Javi to see me with someone else.

But Javi was there. And the worst part? John got even more clingy than usual, glued to my side the entire time. Javi and I barely had a chance to talk. It felt like he was avoiding me.

After that, it kind of became a pattern. Javi either didn’t come home for the holidays, or he’d show up with a girlfriend. Most of them acted a lot like Lorraine. He probably could’ve used a good friend to tell him to choose better… But we were already so far apart by then… I didn’t say anything. And he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

I don’t know why things spiraled the way they did. Maybe I was trying so hard to protect my heart that I forced myself to believe it had all just been some childhood, teenage kind of friendship and that it didn’t mean anything after that.

I don’t know. Even now, all these years later… I still don’t know. And I don’t know what caused the shift in our friendship from Javi’s side either. We never talked about it. Not once.

After college, I moved back to Laredo. John and I had broken up the year before, it wasn’t working. I didn’t regret it.

As for Javi, he came back to Laredo too, but only to tell everyone he’d been accepted into DEA training at Quantico.

We were full-grown adults by then, and whatever was left of our friendship felt… even more distant. I hated it. But what was I supposed to do?

After training, he stayed in Quantico for a few more years, working at the local field office. During that time, we barely spoke.

Eventually, he came back - settled in Laredo again for a bit. Home. And for a little while, we started reconnecting. We even went to see a movie together. Had to drive to the next town over, though. The old theater we used to go to every Friday… yeah, that one finally shut down. Probably when we stopped going.

I think we both tried to bring that spark of friendship back. But it didn’t quite work. I kept my distance; afraid that all those feelings I’d buried for years would crawl back up… and it would hurt.

And Javi… I think he could sense that wall I had up. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me. Just staring. And there was something about the way he did it; like… something broken. Like disappointment.

I felt sorry. I did. But I didn’t have the strength to go there. Didn’t have the strength to ask what happened, or why we felt like strangers now. And besides… We weren’t kids anymore. We weren’t those reckless teenagers laughing until our ribs hurt, holding hands under the table, sneaking candy into movie theaters, swearing we’d be best friends forever. We weren’t like that now. Grown-ups don’t get to be that way. Not really.

Unfortunately, things got even more distant between us after that. It started when I randomly met someone - Frank. And it only got worse when Lorraine showed up in Javi’s life again.

Yeah. That Lorraine.

I never really understood why he let her back in. And since we didn’t tell each other everything anymore - since we weren’t us the way we used to be - I never found out.

I just watched it all from a distance. Lorraine probably loved the fact that Javi and I barely talked or saw each other anymore.

As for Frank… it was a relationship, sure. But it didn’t last long. Same old story: no spark.

Javi knew I was seeing someone. But he never found out we broke up a few months later. There just… wasn’t a moment to tell him. We didn’t bump into each other anymore. Didn’t have a reason to talk. Lorraine was still around. And something told me she wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if he sat down with me just to catch up.

A few months later, the wedding invitation came. Javi brought it himself. No Lorraine. Just him. He rang my doorbell; I’d just moved into a small house outside town. My first place on my own. No parents. That’s when you really feel like your childhood’s over. Like everything you knew has changed.

Anyway. I opened the door, and there he was. Tight blue jeans. A plaid shirt. He might’ve been a DEA agent now, but he still looked like the same boy he used to be. Brown hair parted the same old way, and this kind of pained look on his face. It almost felt like old times. Like when we’d get into some dumb fight as kids and he’d show up at my front door with those puppy dog eyes.

But this wasn’t then. It hadn’t been “then” for a long time. The last time we properly talked? A year ago, maybe.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Your mom gave me your address, so… uh… I brought you this,” he mumbled, handing me a white envelope.

I took it. Already had a sinking feeling what was inside. Opened it. Wedding invitation.

With joy in our hearts and rings on our fingers

Lorraine & Javier

are getting married

Yeah, something like that. With the exact date printed underneath. I knew Javi didn’t come up with that line. Back in the day, I would’ve laughed in his face. Now? Laughing was the last thing I could do.

My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. I felt that burn in my eyes, the sting of tears coming up fast. All those things I’d buried over the years started clawing their way back. Every single emotion I hadn’t let myself feel… they were back. Loud and angry. And it hurt like hell.

I couldn’t look at him. He’d see. So I just kept fidgeting with the envelope and mumbled, “Uh… congrats. That’s… that’s a surprise.”

“Thanks… uh… are you okay?” Javi’s voice dropped. He stepped closer and touched my arm.

And that was it. It was like fireworks inside me. Like a damn electric shock. Fuck.

I pulled away. “Yeah… uh, yeah, I’m good,” I stammered, still not lifting my head. Tried blinking the tears away. Didn’t work.

He reached for me again, wrapped his fingers around my arm - gently - and pulled me a little closer. Then lifted my chin with his thumb. I had no choice but to look at him.

Shit. He saw. My eyes were glassy, and one tear was already sliding down my cheek.

He let go of my face, and for a second he looked even more miserable than before. “You… why…?” he started, voice shaky now too.

“No, I’m fine, really… I’m just… moved, I guess. That my… my friend… is getting married,” I mumbled, trying to sound convincing. I could tell he wanted to say something else. But I didn’t let him. “Sorry, I… I’ve got something to take care of, so…”

“Yeah… yeah, sure,” he said, looking totally lost, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his whole damn body.

“Okay. Bye,” I said, and closed the door.

Then I fell apart. I cried harder than I had in a long time. Ran my hand behind my ear and touched the little bump of raised skin.

The tattoo. The one we got together all those years ago.

Maybe I should’ve said something. When he stood there, all quiet and unsure. Maybe one word could’ve changed it.

One “stay.”

One “why her?”

But I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I was terrified it wouldn’t matter anyway.

And I didn’t just cry for him. I cried for everything. For the fact that we weren’t us anymore. That we weren’t the kids with scraped knees and dumb jokes and shared milkshakes. That everything that used to feel simple… now hurt.

I closed my eyes and wished someone would just rip that wedding invite up.

Erase her name. Write mine instead.

And that thought - that tiny, brutal wish - was the thing that truly scared me.

Because in that moment, there wasn’t a single doubt left.

I loved him. I loved Javier Peña. My best friend since diapers.

Once, when we were eight, we ran through the rain all the way to his house, soaked to the bone. I had a rock in my shoe and Javi knelt in the mud to help me get it out, laughing like an idiot and saying, “This is what real adult love looks like, you know.”

I just laughed back then. Now? It fucking broke me.

The wedding wasn’t for another year. I left shortly after he brought me that cursed invite. Work, supposedly. That’s what I told everyone. But really? I just needed out.

Far away from Laredo. From him. From Lorraine and that smug little smile she wore like a crown. From the damn invitations. From the way the whole town would talk. From every street corner that reminded me of that chocolate-smeared little boy who used to look at me like I hung the moon.

He never called. Never wrote. Neither did I. But I still came back for the wedding. Because… I was still his friend. Even if we weren’t us anymore, he was still Javi. My Javi.

And I’d made myself a promise - that I’d be there. Even if it shattered me all over again.

Everything that day looked perfect. Decorations everywhere, all carefully arranged. Lorraine looked like her dress cost more than my damn car.

But… he didn’t show up. Javi just… didn’t come. Didn’t show up to his own wedding.

At first, I was scared. What if something happened to him? I hadn’t seen him at all yet. I came straight from Oregon, got home to Laredo late last night, and today I was already thrown into this whole wedding chaos.

The guests started whispering like crazy, little rumors buzzing everywhere. Javi’s parents looked nervous; they didn’t know what the hell was going on either. I was just about to walk over and try to reassure them, even though I was just as worried, when she appeared.

Lorraine.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she snapped, sharp as a knife.

I gave a small nod and stood up. Oh, this wasn’t gonna be good. We hadn’t talked at all since that night - when Javi saved me from Jeff at the drive-in. Not a single word in all those years.

“You know what I think?” Lorraine started right in, no filter. “I think this is all because of you. It always was because of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe you thought that just because you two grew up together, you had some kind of claim on him. But he’s not that boy next door anymore. And you’re not some special exception. You just ruined everything. Again.”

“Wait, Lorraine… what the fuck are you even saying?” My voice cracked, nerves shot. For the first time in her presence, I wasn’t quiet. I wasn’t polite. “You think he ditched this wedding on purpose? You ever stop to think maybe something actually happened to him, you stupid brat?!” I yelled. “I’ve been gone for a year, we haven’t even been in contact; how the hell could I have ruined anything?!”

“Exactly. You were gone for a year. And just when things were finally quiet, he was miserable. You get that? He was like a ghost. You know what? I’m done. Take him. That’s what you’ve always wanted, right?” She was shouting now, loud enough that people were starting to look over.

It was humiliating. I had nothing to say to that. My brain was still stuck on one sentence. He’d been like a ghost all year? All I could manage was a shaky: “I need to go.” Because if I stayed another second, I might’ve broken.

But I didn’t give a shit about Lorraine anymore. What if something happened to him? What if he passed out? What if someone hit him on the way here? What if he had an accident? What if… What if he’s lying somewhere, alone, unable to call for help?

God. Fuck. Fuck.

My breathing went shallow. Too fast. The room spun a little. I had to get out. Away from the people. Away from her. Away from those fucking white flowers on every table. I had to find him.

And then… just one image hit me. That clearing. That goddamn clearing past the river - the one we used to sneak off to as kids. Javi used to hide there when he was fourteen and fought with his dad. Later, when his grandfather died, he went there too. It was always that place. Anytime shit hit the fan. Anytime he was too scared to face something head-on.

I sprinted to my car. Started the engine. I had no idea if I’d actually find him there. No idea if he even wanted to see me; or anyone, really. But I had to know. I had to make sure he was there. That he was alive. That he was okay. I couldn’t bear the thought that he wasn’t.

He was there. Sitting under that old oak tree where we used to sit as kids. He must’ve been so deep in his own head that he didn’t hear the car pulling up. Didn’t hear my footsteps either.

He had a white shirt on. His jacket was tossed on the grass next to him. His head was down.

“Javi?” I called softly once I was close enough.

Only then did he turn and look at me. His eyes full of surprise and… something like awe? Before I could even register what was happening, he stood up fast; eyes red, glassy with tears, bow tie undone, the top three buttons of his shirt open.

And then he hugged me. Hard. Fast. Strong.

I didn’t even have time to react.

He just wrapped his arms around me like he’d been holding everything in for too long. Rested his head on my shoulder and breathed against my skin. He was trembling. Like he wanted to cry but didn’t want to at the same time.

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him even closer. That warmth again. Spreading through me.

By now, I wasn’t surprised by it anymore. But I still didn’t know what to do with it.

He smelled like freshly washed laundry. Like those minty gums we used to buy and chew like maniacs when we were little. Like coffee. Like home. Like something familiar that calmed every nerve in me.

I don’t know how long we stood there like that. But the whole time, I was terrified he’d feel how fast my heart was beating. This hug - this kind of hug - we hadn’t shared one in years. Not since before we left for college. And that had been… a lifetime ago.

God, I missed him. I don’t think I even realized just how much until right then.

“I couldn’t do it,” he whispered into my shoulder. “I didn’t show up because I…” He trailed off. He slowly pulled out of the hug and looked me in the eyes. “I couldn’t. I mean… I was supposed to stand there and say I loved her. That I wanted to marry her. I was supposed to… fuck, I know that. But I stood in front of the mirror at home - dressed, ready - and the only thing I could think about was… whether you were smiling somewhere. Whether you were okay. Whether… you’d ever hug me again like you did that last time. Like a friend. Like someone who belongs with you.”

I took a breath, but no words came. I didn’t know how to respond to that. And even if I had… I couldn’t.

‘Like a friend’, he said. That’s all we ever were. All we were ever supposed to be. At least… that’s how I understood it back then.

We didn’t say much else that day. We mostly sat in silence. But after all that time, at least we were there. Together.

The next few days were quiet. All of Laredo was whispering. Lorraine was even more pissed than before, especially because Javi actually ended it with her; for real this time, it seemed.

And us? I don’t even know. Since that day - since the wedding that never happened - we were stuck in this weird in-between. Like… like I had this growing feeling that maybe I should’ve said something. That maybe that whole ‘I kept thinking about whether you were smiling, whether you’d ever hug me again’ thing… maybe he didn’t just say that. But I didn’t know. And honestly, I still don’t.

A few weeks later, Javi left for Colombia. Just like that. Told me and his family he was going; he could make a difference, he said.

And when we said goodbye, it wasn’t like when we parted ways before college.

This time, it was… different. Neither of us cried. No watery eyes.

Just…

Maybe…

Maybe if I’d said something, anything, he would’ve stayed?

But I didn’t know what to say.

And Javi… he just stood there like he was waiting for me to say something.

And when I didn’t, he left. Really left. To Colombia.

I haven’t seen him since. It’s been 10 years.

And I still - even now - keep wondering if he ever really wanted me to say something that day. Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe I just wanted it too badly. I don’t know.

But it’s time to come back to the present. I glance again at the newspaper article. Javier Peña allegedly helped some kind of vigilante killers in Colombia. I shake my head. Again.

Then… a knock at the door.

I flinch, caught in my thoughts. I rush to open it - It’s Javi’s dad.

“Hey,” he greets. Doesn’t step inside. He looks… shaken. God, did he see the article too?

Before I can even think what to say, what excuse to make about why I never told him I already read it (because he knows I’ve got a subscription to the Miami Herald), he speaks. And it’s something I can’t even begin to process.

“He called me. He’s coming back. Tomorrow.”

Fuck. Javi’s coming back.

After ten years of silence. After all that distance.

He’s coming back. Fuck.

•thank you for reading!

If you made it all the way here – thank you. Truly. This one felt quiet, a little heavy. A lot was left unsaid.

❕But Part 3: we’re finally stepping into Narcos canon. Javi’s back in Laredo, for real this time. Older. Different. And maybe not ready to face what (or who) he left behind.

Stay with me 💌 Part 3 is coming soon!

MORE FICTION? -> Masterlist

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