#will i make a fic to fill the gaps? maybe…..Maybe….

[iamasaddie]

LET ME CLIP YOUR LITTLE WINGS

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: when your date with Joel is on the verge of falling through, he makes sure you meet again. even if it means getting his hands dirty. warnings: darkfic, non-con [reader is asleep for a part of it], somnophilia, drugging, gaslighting, age gap [Joel is 61, don't read it and don't @ me about it if it's not your thing, just leave], switching POVs, various explicit sexual content [ironic use of the word 'grandpa' in a sexual situation]. reader description: afab she/her, has hair long enough to be pulled; has boobs and ass; reader mid to late 20s-30s. word count: 5,7k

a/n: thanks so much to my angel @arcane-fox for finding time and proofreading this for me <3 thank you for your interest and support towards this fic! for now it's the last installment that i planned out in the beginning, but the series is not over, i am just in creative search where i want to take it next <3 READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST | part 2 | part 4?

[Joel's POV]

An unobtrusive melody vibrated through the half-empty space of Joel Miller's living room. While his skillful fingers thoughtlessly plucked at the metal strings of his old guitar —mixing notes into one of the many Johnny Cash songs that clung to his mind— the man himself was deep in thoughts about the young girl who so quickly became the reason for his sly smiles and frequent boners.

Everything happened pretty fast this time, you succumbed to his charms and easely woven lies so easily, that for a moment Joel himself thought he had fallen into a trap. But no, there was just something in him that must have pushed those levers inside you that had been previously collecting dust, untouched.

Joel smiled to himself, he would gladly touch every inch of you, inside and out. He would explore the inviolable fields of your skin, become the most devoted and invasive species on the land that is your body and mind. You triggered something inside him, too, he noticed. Something that went beyond the darkest carnal desire to corrupt and taint. Something that felt like possession, the gnawing need to own and claim. To stay in you even when he's done with you, become a part of you that would never die, a stain you wouldn't be able to bleach or cut out with a knife.

His fingers caressed the wooden body of his guitar, mind wandering to the way he caressed you days ago. The supple flesh of your body, the gullible matter of your mind.

He ached to touch you again. An addiction so familiar to him. Something that drove Joel out of his bed where your panties were hidden under his pillow, and into the shower that morning. Made him shuck his striped boxers on the floor and take his rigid cock in his hand that felt too rough after the softness of your mouth.

The images you'd sent, the raspy little voice you’d teased him with, it was all ingrained in his brain, he didn't even need to unlock his phone to see it. He just closed his eyes and there you were, writhing, moaning as your fingers pushed deep inside your pussy that was crying for more. Slick glistened on your fingers and Joel spit on his own hand, imagining your arousal instead. He fisted his cock violently, the rigid thickness of him throbbing in his hand, and with every pump he thought of the tightness of your cunt when he breaks you in. The sweet little cries that would inevitably fall from your lips as he pushed all the way in. The way your breath would catch and you’d bite your lips bloody, maybe even bite him bloody and he would wear that scar with perverted honour.

The thought of you thrashing in orgasm he’d fuck out of you, your eyes rolled back, his name slipping past your lips with both fear and devotion. That was what made him paint his blue tile wall in ropes of pearly cum that morning.

"Fuck," he grumbled, getting up from the couch and putting the guitar aside. His old knees cracked pitifully, contradicting his blood filled cock, which reminded Joel of his college days. But Joel was in no hurry to unbutton his fly. 

It was for the best, he thought. He didn't want to screw up when he finally got the chance to stretch you on his dick. He wanted to prolong it as long as possible, maybe even fuck you a few times. The image of you crying on his cock, tired and overstimulated, almost made him bust in his pants. Yeah, he definitely should go easier with jerking off. 

He wanted to make sure he took his sweet time with you. There was nothing prettier than seeing a girl break under him. Watch her deny every instinct that might’ve told her to run. You’d make it look even better. Joel imagined the color of your eyes changing, growing darker as you accepted your fate of being his dumb little doll. A pretty young body he took for his perverted pleasure. 

Damn it, he loved a challenge, loved to see them struggle and shake off the warning thoughts that crept in their pretty heads. The harder they fight the sweeter they break.

The days went by painfully long for Joel, and his cock reminded him of itself more and more often since the moment he decided to cancel his jerking off session until your date. Even when he grabbed his length to pee, his cock started to harden, making the process less comfortable.

"Fucking shit," he swore, and took the frying pan with the burning potatoes off the stove. He succumbed to the devil's call again and started scrolling through the few photos you’d sent him. 

You haven't texted since then, but Joel wasn't worried, he let the anticipation build in both of you. After all, he already knew how easy you gave into him.

After hypnotizing the calendar for several days, Sunday finally arrived. His cock was no less pleased, so he was rocking a semi since six in the morning. It was now three. He was planning to text you around seven, so you didn't have time to back out — not that he thought you'd want to, but better safe than sorry. That's why when he heard a little ping of a new message, his heart did an unpleasant flip. 

He made sure to turn off the stove and placed the hot pan on the empty cutting board before pulling the phone out of his pocket. The message was from you. You quit texting him first after your first date, which meant that something wasn't going according to his plan.

 Joel’s right leg began to twitch, the nervous tic he had left in his anxiety-filled youth returned. He swiped on the screen and tried to enter the password, but his finger slid on the wrong button and the screen flashed a humiliating "wrong password" message, annoying the man.

"Fuck," he cursed and entered the password again, this time correctly.

The message from you was short, without greeting, and Joel squeezed the mobile phone in his hand so hard that he almost crushed the metal of the case.

[You]: Sorry, gotta cancel. A pipe busted in my bathroom and I can’t get ahold of the fuckin’ maintenance guy. Trying not to flood my neighbors on my own. xo

The blood was boiling under his skin, he couldn’t let you loose, not now. He knew that if he gave it a couple more days, you'd get off his hook. Your mind would overpower your body, and he hadn’t had his fill of it yet.

"Think, fucker, think," he muttered under his breath, his cock still hard in his pants. The corner of his lips twitched up and he exhaled, typing a reply.

[Joel M.]: I know it's not the most romantic idea for a date, but how about I save the damsel in distress and fix your pipe?

[You]: Just so we’re clear, it’s not an innuendo, is it?

Joel couldn’t help but laugh at the message. He shook his head and typed again.

[Joel M.]: No, sweetheart, I told you, I’m pretty good with my hands.

He sent another message immediately after.

[Joel M.]: This one is also not an innuendo.

[You]: I don't even know what to say, to be honest.

[Joel M.]: Tell me your address, and you can thank me later.

[You]: I will *wink*

The message with your address came a minute later. 

"I know you will," he muttered out loud and locked his phone. 

A bag of crushed "Ambien" pills burned through his pocket as he drove to your house. There was a bottle of wine he blindly grabbed from the kitchen cabinet secured on the passenger seat. Joel considered for a long time whether he should just spike his bottle before he took it to your place, but then he wasn't sure if you'd want it, and he didn't want to look weird insisting you drank it.

The white powder in a small zip-lock bag was safer. He knew just how much to pour to make you relax, make you droopy or make you pass out until tomorrow.

He was just planning to make you loosen up, though. It was going to be enough. He could do the rest himself.

From the very first date, you were in his web, and every day it enveloped your fluttering body more and more. It held your weak little wings against your back until they atrophied and could never carry you away from him again. It wouldn’t kill you, just hurt you a little; Joel would take a bite to satisfy his hunger, and then you could run if you wanted to.

[Your POV]

Everything was going wrong from the moment you got out of bed. 

As soon as your feet touched the floor, you yelped and felt your foot tip the glass of water that you had recklessly placed on the floor before going to sleep. You swore softly and threw an old T-shirt on the floor, collecting all the liquid that the soft fabric could absorb.

As if on pins and needles, you failed at your attempt to live your day without paying much attention to the date with Joel that was scheduled for the evening. 

All week you'd been able to ignore the thoughts of meeting him, pushing them far into the back of your mind, and opening that secret door only under cover of night. Memories of him made your heart flutter and your pussy get wet, yet a dark cloud of wariness hung tirelessly above his name.

On the day X, it turned out to be impossible to dismiss the thoughts of him, so you walked around the house in a slight state of distress. 

The coffee boiled out and you threw the cezve into the sink, watching as the brown liquid went down the drain. Maybe it was for the best, your heart was pounding relentlessly, the coffee would only make it worse.

You clenched and unclenched your fists several times, cracking your fingers. You poured warm water into a tall glass and drank it in small sips, trying to collect yourself. The plan formed itself in your head, and you imagined it as a long list, like those grocery lists written on crumpled pieces of paper in your mom's handwriting. She used to give you these when you were a kid before going to the supermarket. 

You were going to take a shower and get ready, then do your hair, put on makeup, choose a set of sexy underwear and chase all of the stupid thoughts out of your head.

And then Joel would come and you would feed him dinner and ask all of the questions that bothered you before finally letting him in your bed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," you were on the verge of tears as you watched the stream of water flooding your bathroom floor. You just got out of the shower, a light green bath towel towel was wrapped tightly around your body. 

The plumber's phone, which you found in the list of necessary numbers on a piece of paper attached to your refrigerator with mismatched magnets, continued to laugh at your tragedy with long beeps of its voice.

Remembering everything your father once taught you, you decided to turn off the water, immediately stopping the flood. At least you'd had time to wash up. Apparently, you wouldn’t be able to do that for some time.

You pulled an old towel out of the laundry basket and tried to absorb as much water as you could from the floor and squeeze it into the sink. 

It took you a while, and after the plumber ignored you again, you typed a message to Joel with wet fingers, disappointment stuck deep in your stomach.

When he suggested to come over, for a moment you thought that you were in a cheap romcom. Seemed near impossible that a man who didn’t owe you anything or didn’t try to get anything out of you would just come to the rescue.

Of course, you knew that he was counting on a certain ending to the evening, but on the other hand, you were counting on the same thing, so it was a win for you either way.

A slight touch of anxiety overshadowed the joy of the news, you weren't sure if you were ready to let Joel into your space, however, when you heard the sad moan of a broken pipe, you quickly sent him your address.

When someone knocked on your door, you already smelled like your favorite perfume, and your favorite jeans paired with a cute blouse hugged your body comfortably.

The anxiety of meeting Joel faded away since this time it happened on your own territory. The aroma of pasta and shrimp tantalizingly filled the small space of your apartment, and you took one last appraising look around the place before opening the door. 

You didn’t even have time to say hello when a strong arm wrapped around your waist and hot lips covered yours. You cry out softly into the kiss, but quickly give in, your body melts in the confident grip of the man who stepped inside your apartment and blindly slammed the door behind him.

The taste of his lips was as addictive as the taste of his cum. You thought you'd be able to recognize him in a row of dozens now. His stubble prickled your chin and his thumb drew circles on your lower back.

He didn't try to deepen the kiss, gently nipping your lips and soothing the bites with his tongue. You felt your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, while your core blazed with a different kind of flame.

"Wow," you said breathlessly when he finally set your mouth free. Your eyes struggled to focus on Joel’s lips, swollen red and shiny with your combined saliva.

"Hello, sweetheart." He whispered back, his thumb gently caressing your cheekbone. 

"Hi," a silly smile pulled your lips apart and you almost forgot about the pasta until Joel complimented you.

"Something smells amazing," he still didn’t let you out of his arms and the heat of his body became almost unbearable, but you didn’t dare to take a step back. He finally allowed some distance between the two of you and held a bottle of wine in front of your face. "Hope this will go with it nicely?"

You inspected the label with curiosity, "white is better with shrimp, I have a bottle." 

And you give yourself a moment to study his face, but Joel just smiled and nodded.

"So, where should Noah build his arc?"

You didn’t distract Joel while he was tinkering in your bathroom. Only a couple of times you quietly glanced at him, and your gaze slid over his ass and thighs, hugged by black jeans. The fact that your staring went unnoticed made you shameless, and you played with a strand of your hair while you watched his muscles tense without shyness. 

When you peeked into the bathroom again, Joel was lying on his back and grumbling something, whispering obscenities at your sink, and for some unknown reason it almost made you laugh. But when he spread his legs apart, your laughter got stuck in your throat. 

Something about this man, fixing shit, saving the day with his hair in a beautiful grey mess sticking to his sweat soaked temples. Damn, you felt the familiar moisture gathering in the gusset of your panties, you could just sink your teeth in his thighs, press your face in the straining bulge of his cock right now. You could almost smell the sweat and musk of him, feel the wiry grey hair tickle the skin under your nose as he slips his cock deep into your…

"Fuck," you didn't notice yourself whispering out loud.

"You said something, sweetheart?" His head popped out from under the sink and embarrassment flooded your chest. He beamed at you with a soft smile, the dimple in his right cheek seduced you with its adorableness. Joel picked up the small towel you gave him beforehand and wiped his hands.

"I said dinner's ready."

"Perfect timing, I'm done here, too."

"Really?" Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, he was there for less than twenty minutes which seemed unfair compared to the amount of stress you’d gone through hours ago.

With a slight creak, he got up from the floor and dusted himself off, then came up to you and held your chin between his fingers, pressing a light kiss against your lips, as if he had done it a thousand times before. "Really."

It was almost unbelievable how easy it was to talk to Joel. The man asked the right questions and listened carefully to what you were saying. As you served pasta on the mismatched plates, he again praised your culinary skills, but you just shook your head.

"Try to lie in my face after you try it," you joked, and he pointedly put a forkful of pasta in his mouth, humming contentedly.

The bottle of wine that Joel had brought was standing alone on the kitchen counter, and you, in turn, opened a semi-dry white one and allowed the man to fill your glasses.

The conversation flowed casually, and the pasta turned out to be edible. Joel asked you about work, friends, and you kept talking, smiling when he genuinely laughed at your jokes.

Your hand was on the table palm up, waiting for Joel to take the hint.

As if reading your mind, the man reached out to you and knocked over a glass of wine, the light liquid instantly staining your blouse.

"Fuck, I’m so sorry, sweetheart," Joel jumped from his seat trying to catch the glass before it fell and broke. "There goes my attempt to be a romantic. How pathetic." 

He shook his head disappointingly, but you just laughed it off. 

"I'll go change and throw this to soak. Good thing my sink’s all fixed," you placed a chaste kiss on his stubbled cheek and he whispered another sorry that you waved off. 

When you came back clad in a simple pink dress that had an infinite row of buttons in the front, you saw that Joel had already cleaned up the mess he made. The wine glasses were back on the table, both of them full. Your eye snapped to the kitchen counter to see that the bottle he’d brought was still closed and you accepted the wine without a second thought.

After the dinner was over and your plates and glasses were in the kitchen sink, you took Joel's hand in both of yours and dragged him into the tiny living room, which contained a small sofa you bought at a flea market; a bookshelf, a third full of photo albums; and a bedside table with an old TV.

Joel’s attention was immediately drawn to the stack of albums.

"That's quite a lot of memories for someone your age." He chuckled, running fingers over the backs of them. "Don't think I've got enough photos to fill up even one album."

"Oh, that’s... That's not. Umm, it’s like a hobby of mine. I've been taking pictures since my mom gave me an old Olympus for my fourteenth birthday."

You chose one at random and you and Joel sat down on the couch. Joel started asking you about different photos he saw there, and in response you either told him what you remembered or made up stories right on the spot. He quickly figured you out when the orange date at the bottom didn't match what you were telling him, but he just laughed it off.

"Your memory is as shit as mine, isn't it?" He studied the black and white photo of a smoking woman you took outside of a club one early morning. "That makes me feel a little bit better."

He flipped through the pages full of black-and-white pictures, and your body started to feel heavy. His questions sounded blurry, as if someone had slowed down an old tape, and you asked him to repeat the same thing several times.

Your head was spinning, the familiar feeling of disorientation was consuming your consciousness. You breathed through your nose and tried to get up from the couch, but your legs wouldn’t obey so you just stayed in place.

"You okay, sugar?" His voice was slow, honey-thick. Brown eyes found yours and he ran a rough fingertip over the delicate skin of your cheek. You shook your head, trying to get rid of the fog of fatigue that suddenly rolled over you in an all-consuming wave. 

"Did you… Did you spike my drink or somethin’?" You chuckled, but a familiar feeling of unease tickled the edges of your mind. 

Joel didn't find your joke funny, he furrowed his eyebrows and for the first time you noticed glimpses of gray in their thickness. Like a magpie, you were distracted by the gleam of his eyes.

"What? Why would you say that" He turned his body towards you, your old soft sofa did not allow you to fully straighten up.

"I’m just... not feeling that good."

Without taking your eyes off him, you tried to memorize his expression, to find a crack in the cement of his facade. Something that you could at least explain to yourself. Finding nothing but concern on his face, you waved your hand, pushing your stupid thought away for the hundredths time. Joel captured your face in his hot palms.

"What is it?" His thumbs drew symmetrical lines on your cheeks. You felt like someone had tied weights to your eyelids. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"

"No, I am just… I suddenly got so tired. It doesn’t happen usually." You leaned away from him and stifled a yawn, your limbs felt heavy and numb at the same time. Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, and you tried to pull yourself together, but your body refused to wake up. You reached a hand to the side of your thigh and pinched it, just to find out that you barely felt anything. It was like you hadn’t slept for days.

"You know," Joel gave you a crooked smirk, "they say that you feel sleepy when you're with a person you trust, because of hormones or some stuff."

Not giving it a second thought you replied. "Pretty sure they say that about the person you love." The heat was licking your neck and you struggled to keep your eyes open. Joel’s face didn’t give out any concern regarding the L word and you had a tiny, almost loose knot tying your insides as you saw him give you a content grin.

"Well, I didn’t wanna rush, it’s just been two dates." He laughed and you echoed him weakly. You didn’t mind as he scooted even closer to you, the expanse of him caging you in the corner of the sofa. He threw an arm over your shoulder and you calmed yourself, relaxing in his embrace as his scent lulled you in. "Why don’t you rest your eyes for a bit, you’ve had a stressful day, sweetheart."

"Yeah," you mumbled, and the light had already dimmed in your mind. "Just for a moment."

"Just for a moment," he whispered into the stillness of the room.

[Joel's POV]

It wasn’t difficult to drag you to your room, you almost did it yourself but with your eyes closed. If he were twenty years younger, he would have picked you up without any problems, but now he and his back were grateful that you sluggishly but still independently moved your legs on the way to your room. By the time he put you on the bed, you were snoring softly. Your dress hiked up, exposing the tempting skin of your thighs, and Joel's cock quickly made itself known, swelling under the thick fabric of his jeans. 

Joel switched on the bedside lamp —the burnt orange lampshade was sitting a little crooked, but he didn't fix it — and looked around the room. From the scratches of knowledge he had about you, your room was your perfect reflection: a partially contained chaos. A mess you tried to organize in shaky piles. On the floor, a tall stack of books mixed with magazines leaning against the wall. He couldn't see the titles from where he was standing. A heap of poorly folded laundry on a chair next to the window. On a table there was a small mountain of things you must've shaken out of your purse before going to bed one day: wired headphones, a couple of candies—their wrappers glinted in the low light, and some type of receipt. Everything was scooted towards the edge of the table, separating from the rest of the space as if to say ‘it wouldn't have been here if only I had time. I'm not messy, I was just in a rush.’

Your bed was small, it fit you on its blue sheets but it could barely fit Joel next to you. The mattress dipped pitifully under the weight of two bodies and you mewled something in your sleep. For a few short moments Joel watched your chest rise and fall. 

The light caressed the soft edges of your face and body, letting him enjoy this slow moment of permissiveness. 

The soft swell of your tits beneath your thin dress beckoned him, and he didn’t resist for long before deftly unbuttoning a row of small buttons and exposing your hard nipples pushing against the translucent lace of your burgundy bralette. 

"A little wolf in a sheep’s skin, aren’t you, darlin’?" He got bolder as his cock grew to full mast, still caged in his pants. Slowly, Joel's hand slid under the skirt of your dress. The meat of your thighs teased with its tenderness and he felt his mouth water. 

Joel didn't need to see to know that the lace of your panties matched your top, if anything the way you dressed you didn’t take lightly, and he boldly dove his fingers beneath the last barrier separating him from the heat of your pussy. 

He cursed softly when Joel felt the hot, slippery wetness already oozing out of your hole. Losing caution, he leaned his face towards your chest, inhaling the sweet lotion off your skin. His nose traveled a line from your neck down the valley of your breasts and his tongue peeked out between his lips, leaving a wet stripe on your skin.

He wanted to lick you whole, taste every inch of your body inside and out, but didn't have enough time. The fact that you passed out was a lucky coincidence, his hand tripped above your glass sending too much white powder to dissolve in wine. Even though a part of him knew he'd end his night between your legs either way. Giving in, his lips covered your nipples through the thin material of your bra, the lace pleasantly scratched his tongue, which left wet spots on it. 

Cautiously, his thick middle finger squeezed into the heat of your pussy and Joel moaned, his lips sent vibrations around your taut nipples. He couldn’t stop touching you, nibbling the soft flesh of your breasts with his teeth and immediately licking non-existent wounds with his tongue.

Your cunt hugged him, sucking him in like you begged him to give you more and once again, he obliged. The sound of his finger, and then the second one, relentlessly fucking into you became the filthy soundtrack of your evening. Unconscious, you were dripping with arousal for him, fat globs of your desire flowed down his fingers all the way to his knuckles. 

The gentle tension of your walls was the result of his relentless intrusion. Joel felt how close you were and made an exorbitant effort to pull away from your chest. His lips were covered with his own saliva, and his eyes were clouded with a veil of unspilled desire, but he wouldn’t allow himself to miss the moment of your break. 

His fingers curled inside you and pushed on that sweet spot that made your legs tremble even in your sleep, his thumb joined and began to circle your clit. 

Your dreamy moans accompanied Joel's heavy breathing the closer you got to your orgasm. Your brows knit together, lips parted to accommodate your lungs begging for more air. He took his eyes off your frowning face for a second and looked where your pussy greedily sucked his fingers in. The wet, slurping sounds were getting louder and louder and he almost started humping your bed when your pussy finally contracted around his digits. Before he had the opportunity to lick his fingers clean of your cum, he felt your fingers in his hair tugging his head up.

"Sweetheart, I…" His hand was still in your panties, fingers didn’t stop gently petting your pussy, making you twitch. There was no fear in your eyes, no disgust. You didn’t scream, you didn't even push him away. You didn’t do anything Joel would expect you to do.

"Fuck me," you moaned. With how droopy your eyes were, he knew that your head was still hazy.

"What?" It felt like he'd been taken by surprise for the first time in the sixty something years of his life. He waited for a punch, for a dam of fear to burst. For something logical. And yet again you showed him how special you were by gripping him by the hair and tugging him up. The sharp sting didn’t even register when you pressed your lips into his, the smell of wine still prominent on your breath. And just like that he was dumbfounded for the first time in his life.

"Fuck me, Joel. Please."

Joel didn’t question you anymore. His fingers flew to his zipper, slick digits slipped on the metal button as you pushed your dress higher and got rid of your panties. You sent them flying and Joel's peripheral vision noticed that the color indeed matched your bra.

He groaned loudly when he finally freed himself from the clutches of his jeans and boxers. When he fell between your open thighs and his hot cock came into contact with the wet slit of your swollen pussy, sparks flew from his eyes.

By the collar of his black T-shirt, you pulled him towards you, arching under the weight of his body, moving your hips so that your pussy began to grind against his already throbbing cock.

"Don't rush, sugar, or I’ll cum all over that pretty pussy and leave you needy and desperate again."

"Then stop teasing me and fuck me, grandpa." You reached up and bit his lower lip painfully, pulling it back. With his right hand, he grabbed you by the throat, not hard, but confidently squeezing the graceful column and pressing you into the pillow. With his left hand, he found his thick shaft, pumping it a few times before pressing it in your hole that greeted him with the warmest welcome.

The silence was broken as he entered you with his whole length, knocking the air out of two sets of lungs at once.

"G-god," you whined, speared on him. Your cunt felt tighter than a fist, choking him with post orgasmic spasms. 

"Tight little hole," he purred, letting his hips thrust, pushing his cock in and out of you and rendering you speechless. "Can't believe you’d beg me to ruin you." His hips kissed yours as he tried to keep a stable pace. Coarse hairs above his cock were scratching your swollen clit, and the painful sensation of his massive shaft squeezing inside you made your thighs shake. 

"I, I- -"

Tsk, "don't need to talk, baby. Ain't nothing you say makes a difference. Your perverted little cunt brought you here, crying on my cock." He growled into your neck, his voice like poison seeping through every bite he left on your skin. "I'm just glad you woke up for the main act, wanted you to know how pathetically desperate you are for an old fucker to pump you full of his cum."

Your eyes rolled back in your head, and Joel felt like he'd been on the edge too long to last any longer. The wet heat of your pussy, the honey of your arousal and the previous orgasm that flowed in fat drops down his cock and balls, your pathetic moans and pleas, all of it drove him crazy. 

He clenched his teeth, baring them in a pre-orgasmic growl. 

"Come on, baby, come for me. What’d ya call me? Grandpa?" You screamed, your pussy began to cry and clench around him in warning, "come for grandpa, then, you little depraved bitch."

His cock exploded in thick spurts of hot cum at the same time as you howled, cumming. Your scream was deafening, he hadn't heard anything sexier in all the years of his life. Without pulling out, he collapsed on your shaking body, exhausted.

For a few long moments filled only with your heavy breathing, he laid on top of you, heavy but you welcome it. Your hand found its way into his sweat-soaked hair, and you slowly thread fingers through it. It was the first time he was at a loss for words, ao he did the next best thing— pulled the lace of your bra down and placed lazy kisses on your freed tits, making you giggle. 

"Next time, try seducing me when I’m sober," you say matter of factly, yet he felt your heart pounding rapidly. He pressed one last kiss, close to your nipple, and it immediately pebbled. Joel raised his head to find your eyes in the dark. His voice was playful, contradictory to everything that had happened that night.

"You free tomorrow, sweetheart?"

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[rynwrites4fun]

Love You Anyway | THEN (1) | Andrew Cody x Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Andrew Cody x F ! Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: You’re best friends with Deran Cody, a surfer with big dreams. When he brings you to a party, you meet his brothers but don’t know about their criminal lifestyle. Andrew “Pope” Cody soon realizes you don’t belong in their dangerous world 

Word Count: 6516

Warning: Nine-year age gap (late teens / late 20s) — Andrew Cody x reader are NOT together in the “Then” timeline, substance and alcohol use

Authors Note: I'm currently half way through season 2 of Animal Kingdom. The show is literaly so sick and twisted, but so good. I debated with myself whether I should write a Andrew Cody fic, just because he's such a dark, complex character, but he is literally fictional so its fine and this is for fun so who CARES. Also the way I scowered the DEPTH of gifs to find young shawn hatsoy gifs for a young Andrew. If you’re a regular around here, you already know the deal: slow burns, typos, and no idea how many parts this will be because I’m literally making it up as I go lol Tag list for this fic??? Let me know! - Ryn

THEN, 2008

“Deran, I thought you and your brothers were throwing a small party” you say as the two of you walked through the breezeway. 

“This is small”

“This is not small…at all!” 

You’d thought this would be like one of Deran’s beach bonfires—something small, low-key, intimate. A few people, music, maybe some snacks and a fire. Not this. Not chaos.

You look around and take it all in. Loud music blasts. The bass thumping in your chest. People fill the backyard and house, red cups in hand, yelling and laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. The air smells like smoke, beer, and sweat. Someone cannonballs into the pool, water splashing everywhere, but no one seems to mind.

“This is a normal party” he say nonchalantly 

“You’re telling me this is normal? Your mom lets you guys throw parties like this? This is insane, Deran” you say, eyes wide as you take in the chaos unfolding around you.

“Relax,” he says with a grin. “This is pretty tame, actually.“Smurf doesn’t care. We throw parties like this all the time. Kick backs…keg parties—”

“Smurf?”

“My mom, it’s a nickname– that's what we call her”

“Right” 

You didn’t know much about Deran’s family. just what he’d told you once, almost offhandedly: “We’re a chaotic bunch. Headstrong. Dysfunctional, but we’re close.” He didn’t go into details.

You glance around at the strangers bumping shoulders, dancing, arguing, kissing, drinking. “Do you even know all these people?”

He shrugs, “Some are my friends, you know from surfing…my brothers’ friends… people from the neighborhood.”

A guy you’ve never seen before stumbles past, nearly crashing into you before Deran catches your arm to steady you.

“My mom’s over there,” Deran says, nodding toward a woman sprawled out on a lounge chair, sunglasses on, sipping liquid from a crystal glass.

“Hey, Ma.” He says as the two of you walk over.

“Hey, baby” She sets her drink down on the little table beside her as Deran bends down and kisses her on the cheek.

She eyes you, then sits up and rises from the lounge chair with effortless grace. Sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head, she looks you over, like she’s trying to read you.

“And who is this? Where are your manners, Deran?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as her gaze sweeps over you.

You feel the judgment in her stare. You weren’t what people expected Deran to be friends with, let alone bring home.

Deran quickly introduces you.

“Hi, Ms. Cody,” you say with a shy smile, extending your hand politely.

She doesn’t take it. Instead, she steps forward and pulls you into a tight, unexpected hug.

“No need for all the formalities. I’m Janine—but you can call me Smurf.”

“Make yourself at home.” She pulled away. 

“Thank you.”

You return her smile, but your stomach twists. There was something about her—she seemed warm, friendly, even generous… but it felt like a performance. Like her kindness was a test, and if you failed it, she’d turn on you without warning. You couldn’t explain it, but somehow, you already knew: Janine Cody was not someone you wanted to be on the wrong side of.

He nods toward a group of  people sitting together. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my brothers.”

“Have fun, kids,” Smurf says, but you can still feel her gaze on you—sharp, burning into your back as you walk away. 

Before you have a chance to say anything, Deran leads you to the back corner of the backyard towards the deep end of the pool.

“Hey guys, ladies,” Deran calls out. He nods acknowledging the girls around his brothers.

They’re all sitting in a loose half-circle on worn couches and sofas pulled close near the pool. Drinks and other items rest on the low table in front of them.

“Who’s this?” The brother with a girl in his lap asks. 

Deran introduces you.

His older brothers stare at you like their mother had but not as sharply. The girls’ reactions are instant. You feel their stares, their judgment. A few roll their eyes.

You feel like a kid standing among the group. The girls lounge around in crop tops and bikini bottoms like it’s just another day at the beach, perfectly comfortable in their skin. They move like they belong here. Like they’ve done this a hundred times before.

Meanwhile, you’re in a plain white t-shirt, overall shorts over top, and Converse. Your hair’s pulled back in a tight braid, with a few loose strands framing your face—and you’re still rocking your multicolored braces. You look every bit the outsider, too clean, too young, too far removed from whatever this is.

They’re adults. Seasoned, wild, careless in a way that only comes with time.

You had only just turned eighteen a few months ago. Technically legal, sure. But not like them. Not yet. Not even close.

You stick out in every way.

Too sweet, too innocent. Definitely not someone who fits into their world. This place wasn’t made for someone like you. And they all seemed to be wondering the same thing—how someone like Deran could be friends with someone like you.

Honestly, they could hardly believe it.

“You already sorta know Craig” Deran says.

You’d met Craig a few times. He was closest in age to Deran, and the two of them had always been thick as thieves. Craig was the kind of guy who would show up on campus unannounced, yank Deran out of class, and vanish with him for the day if the swells were good. You’d spotted him at a couple of the bonfires Deran threw down at the beach—loud, shirt half off, drink in hand, laughing like the world belonged to him. Craig was reckless, wild, the kind of guy who lived for the moment. The life of the party—sometimes too much of it.

“This is Baz… he’s the adopted one,” Deran adds with a laugh.

“Deran,” you scold, thinking it’s rude to refer to his brother like that.

Baz just grins, clearly unbothered. “No, I am,” he says, raising his beer in a mock toast.

He’s lounging back like he owns the place, a beer in one hand, a girl settled easily in his lap, and another tucked in close against his shoulder. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by the noise or the chaos—completely at ease, like he’s soaking in the attention without even trying. There’s a cocky edge to him, like he thinks he’s better than everyone else and maybe, in his mind, he is.

“And this…” Deran pauses, then gestures. “This is Andrew or Pope as we like to call him”

You notice it right away, Andrew is different from his brothers. He doesn’t have a girl draped over him, doesn’t flash a grin, doesn’t even try to look relaxed. While the others are loud and easy, half-lost in the party, Andrew is still. Coiled. Intense.

He sits slightly apart, legs spread, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. A backward baseball cap hides most of his curls, just a few peeking out at the sides. His eyes follow everything—sharp, unblinking, like he’s trying to figure you out. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches you is enough to make your skin crawl.

It’s not just that he’s quiet. It feels like he’s holding something back. Like he could snap at any moment or is waiting for a reason to. Deciding if you’re a threat or just someone to watch.

“Don’t mind his staring,” Deran mutters under his breath. “He’s like that with everyone.”

You give a small wave and a quiet greeting before sitting down right where you were standing. Deran goes to squeeze between Baz and one of the girls.

The group stays together on the other side of the low table, while you sit alone. It feels like there’s a clear line separating you from them.

“You want a beer?” Baz asks, giving the bottle in his hand a slight shake, the amber liquid sloshing inside.

“I’m good,” you reply, keeping your voice steady despite all the eyes on you.

“You sure?” he presses, tipping his beer back and finishing it in a few quick gulps. “We’ve got more than beer—tequila, vodka, whiskey. Pick your poison.”

“Really, I’m fine.” You nod, a little firmer this time.

Baz shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

The blonde sitting in Baz’s lap raises an eyebrow. “You come to a party and don't drink?” she says.

She pulls a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, “How about a smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” you say, your tone polite but firm.

“Drugs?” The brunette sitting next to Deran chimes in. She leans forward, smirking, and taps her manicured nail against a small plastic bag on the table—white powder clearly visible through the plastic.

Craig raises an eyebrow. “Who brought this?” He grabs the bag.

“I did,” she says, all charm, tilting her head at him. “Thought I’d liven things up a bit.”

“Do you mind?”

She shrugs, flashing him a smile that’s way too eager. “Not at all. Help yourself.”

Craig leans forward, rolls up a dollar bill with practiced ease, and starts dividing the powder into neat lines on the table like it’s nothing.

Your throat tightens. You’re no stranger to partying. You’ve seen beer, joints, even the occasional edible passed around. But this? This feels like a line you can’t and won’t cross.

You keep your voice firm, steady—calm, despite the way your skin prickles.

“Definitely pass on the drugs.”

A few of them snicker. The brunette raises a brow like you’ve said something ridiculous. Someone mutters something under their breath that you don’t catch, but the tone is mocking.

But you don’t waver.

“Well, aren’t you fun,” the redhead beside Craig drawls, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“So you don’t drink, don’t smoke, no drugs?” the blonde adds, eyes narrowing, her voice thick with mockery.

“Let me guess—virgin too?” the brunette jumps in before you can answer, already laughing.

“Cute,” the brunette sneers, her eyes gleaming with sharp, smug amusement as she looks you up and down.

Craig and Baz follow, trying to hold back their laughter, but it still slips out—sharp and too loud. They know you’re Deran’s friend, but that doesn’t stop them. Baz chuckles into his beer like it’s all a joke. Craig throws an arm around the redhead, lets out a low whistle, and grins. He looks at you, clearly amused, but doesn’t stop.

And then there’s Andrew.

He doesn’t laugh. He just watches, his eyes locked on you. There’s no mockery in his stare. There’s no amusement on his face, just that same unreadable intensity. Like he’s studying you, the girls, the entire scene. Like he’s deciding something.

His silence feels different. Not like the others who are ignoring it—but like he’s measuring it.

No one steps in.

Except Deran. 

He rolls his eyes from where he’s lounging back on the couch. “Alright, cut it out. Leave her alone.”

It doesn’t do much—they keep laughing, barely glancing his way. Deran wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He wants to fit in with his brothers, to not be the one always pushing back—but he doesn’t always like the things they do. So he stays quiet, caught between wanting to protect you and not wanting to stand out.

You shift in your spot, feeling like you’ve never been more out of place in your life.

“You guys really know how to make someone feel welcome,” Andrew says finally, bringing the beer to his lips.

“Oh come on, we’re kidding, don’t get soft now Pope you know how it goes. ” the brunette says, waving a hand like she’s brushing off the tension. “Look, usually people come here for something—fun, a drink, a distraction… whatever.”

“Yeah,” the redhead adds with a laugh. “Not to sit around being all… moral.”

The girls giggle again, smug and satisfied—until Andrew gaze lands on them.

His eyes are cold. Hard. Unamused.

“God forbid someone here actually wants to stay sober. Coherent. Not a pathetic mess slurring through the night.”

Their laughter dies instantly, like a record screeching to a halt.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and ruthless. “If your idea of fun is getting wasted, mocking and tearing down someone just because they don’t need substances or sex to feel valid… then congrats. You’re exactly as empty as you sound.”

He takes another swig of his beer.

“But hey, keep going. Keep ruining your dignity one sloppy night at a time. Makes the rest of us look better by comparison.” 

That shuts them up.

The vibe goes still—until Baz lets out a snort he tries (and fails) to smother. Craig chuckles under his breath. 

Andrew turns his head slowly, eyes cutting toward them.

“Don’t laugh. You idiots enable this.”

That quiets them fast. Baz shrugs, not quite apologetic. Craig suddenly finds intense interest in the condensation on his drink, avoiding eye contact.

The girls scoff, insulted. “Whatever,” one mutters, getting up. “Fucking asshole,” another hisses as she pushes past him.

They leave in a flurry, muttered curses, tossing one last glare your way like you were the one who started it.

Baz shakes his head with a smirk, like it’s all a bit amusing, while Craig just shrugs, like it’s not his problem.

Andrew doesn’t flinch. Don't watch them go. His eyes remain steady, locked on you.

And now, the silence left behind isn’t just awkward—it’s charged.

You sit there, still and quiet, as something settles heavily in your chest. You aren’t sure if it’s gratitude, relief, or just the shock of being defended by someone who didn’t know you.

Maybe it’s all of it.

No one says anything right away. The girls are gone. Baz takes a sip of his drink, eyes on the table. Craig leans back, arms crossed, pretending not to care. 

But Deran doesn’t laugh. He’s been quiet—too quiet. He glances at you, then down at his hands.

“I shouldn’t have let them talk to you like that,” he says quietly. “That’s on me.”

Andrew’s head turns toward him. His voice is cold. “Damn right it is.”

Deran doesn’t argue.

“You invited her,” Andrew says, voice low but sharp. “Then you sat there and let them treat her like a joke.”

Andrew doesn’t let up. “Don’t be a pussy. If she’s your friend, act like it. Stick up for her.”

“Sorry,” Deran mutters.

You speak before the tension can stretch any further. “It’s fine, Deran.”

Deran nods, still not meeting your eyes.

Andrew's eyes lock onto Craig and Baz.

“You think that was funny?” he asks, voice low but deadly sharp.

Craig raises his eyebrows, all mock innocence. “Relax, Pope. We were just messing around.”

Andrew’s gaze hardens. “She’s young. Our little brother’s friend. She deserves respect. Not this bullshit. You wanna keep messing around? Then do that shit with someone else.”

Baz leans forward, voice rough but calm. “Yeah, man. We got the message. No need to get all serious.”

Craig and Baz both look at you. “Sorry,” they say, the edge gone from their voices.

Andrew leans back in his chair, silent again. He’s still tense, still watching, but he lets it drop—for now.

The tension lingers for a moment longer, then the conversation loosening again, now less sharp, less pointed, less about you.

Craig suggests going for a swim. The night is moving on.

Shoes were kicked off, laughter echoed louder Craig was the first to cannonball in, soaking the pool deck. 

You quickly stood up from sitting on the ground, moving to the side to avoid getting wet further. 

Baz followed, tossing his shirt aside and diving in after a running start.

Deran stands up.

“I’m getting a drink,” he says casually.

“Do you want anything?”

“You guys have soda?” you ask.

“Yeah, we have soda… Pope, you want?”

Andrew doesn’t say anything.

Deran’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Okay…” he mutters, not pushing further as his brother stays silent.

You watch as Deran disappears into the house, weaving through the chaos of the pool deck. Laughter echoes, music thumps.

You move to sit where Craig had been on the couch. Now it’s just you and Andrew.

His eyes are fixed somewhere beyond the party, watching, but not really part of it.

The silence between you stretches, still, not awkward.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, heart pounding. You want to say something, anythin, but the words tangle in your mind.

You fidget with your fingers, gathering courage. Finally, you say, “Thanks… for standing up for me. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

He stays silent at first. Then, slowly, he turns his head.

“I talk,” he says simply, “when it’s worth saying. When it matters.”

He shrugs, looking away before you can read his expression. “Didn’t do it for a thank you.”

You glance down, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I know. Still… thanks.”

He doesn’t say more, but the corner of his mouth twitches—just a flicker of something.

It’s the smallest thing, but it feels like a crack in the wall between you.

You watch the pool together—Craig yelling something, Baz trying to dunk someone, people screaming and laughing as they swim around in the pool. 

You find the courage to continue the conversation and shift slightly in your seat. “You don’t like parties?” you ask, noticing he hasn’t really socialized or engaged. He’s just kind of a wallflower.

He doesn’t answer right away, his eyes stay fixed, watching the water ripple.

“I don’t like people,” he says simply.

There’s no bite to it, just a quiet fact.

You glance at him again, trying to read his expression. His face is blank, distant—as if he’s both here and somewhere else at the same time.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” you say. “But if you don’t like people, why are you at a party?” You give him a sideways look. “You’re kind of a wallflower.”

He repeats the word quietly, almost like he’s testing it. “Wallflower.”

Then he shrugs. “Better to be on the wall than in the middle of the chaos.”

You glance toward the crowd—laughing, dancing, loud—and then back at him. “Fair point.”

Finally, he looks at you. “Craig drags me to these things sometimes. Says I need to ‘be normal’ more.”

It’s his turn to ask the questions. “What about you? Why are you here? This isn’t much of your scene either.”

The question catches you off guard, not the words, but the tone. It’s not accusatory. Just curious. Honest.

You shrug. “When Deran said you guys were throwing a party, I figured it’d be more like his beach bonfires—small, laid-back, a few familiar faces. I wasn’t expecting… all this.”

He nods slowly, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Yeah… this is definitely not that,” he says.

“Here.” Deran comes back and hands you a cold Spirit, droplets of condensation slipping down the can in the humid air.

You take it, fingers brushing him briefly. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine”

“Pope’s not staring you down to death, is he? It’s okay to admit it. Dude’s got a staring problem—makes people uncomfortable.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “No.”

“Okay so he’s not doing that ‘reading your soul or plotting your funeral’ look? I never can tell which.”

“If you’re asking if I’m uncomfortable, I’m not,” you say, trying to keep it casual.

Deran raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

Before you can answer, Andrew cuts in—calm but firm.

“We’re just talking.”

Deran raised an eyebrow. “Talking…” He knew his brother—brooding, intense, always watching but rarely engaging. But something about him now was different. His body language had shifted.

Andrew looked almost relaxed. Not smiling, not soft, but looser. There was a quiet stillness to him, a calm that rarely showed, especially around strangers.

And then there was you.

Most girls stayed far away from Andrew. They flinched under his stare, got quiet or flustered, or just walked away without a word.

But not you.

You held your ground—steady, calm. Like you weren’t intimidated at all.

Andrew wasn’t shutting you out. He was actually engaged, in his own way.

Deran stood with his drink, watching like something was unfolding in real time.

You weren’t trying to impress Andrew or put on a show. You were just being yourself, real, genuine. For someone like Andrew, who could smell fake a mile away, that probably felt like oxygen.

That’s what got to Deran, the reason he became your friend.

He took a slow sip of his drink. It was rare to see his brother open up like this, rare for anyone to get close to Andrew at all.

Deran remembered how you came into his life—not with flashy words or fake smiles, but with quiet honesty and genuine kindness. You were nothing like the rough, reckless, broken people he’d known all his life.

You’d known each other since freshman year, but didn’t really become friends until senior year, when you were paired for an English project.

That project started it. But it was the quiet talks afterward that made your friendship real.

Deran liked that about you. He liked that you were truly good, truly kind.

He desperately wanted to hold on to that—the good—in a world that didn’t offer much of it.

Now, watching Andrew soften, even just a little, Deran wondered if maybe his brother saw that same something in you.

“Yeah we’re talking” You echo. 

“Okay, I—uh, ran into Adrian. You’re cool if I catch up with him for a bit?” His eyes search yours, a little hesitant.

You knew Deran liked Adrian. You were the only one who knew—something private between you two. There was a quiet understanding there, an unspoken trust.

You smiled softly. “Yeah, of course.”

Deran’s shoulders relaxed, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Thanks. I’ll be back soon.”

He gave you a quick nod before weaving his way through the crowd,

“How are you friends with Deran?” Andrew asks, his voice low and curious.

You laugh softly, a touch of nostalgia in your voice. “We’ve known each other for years—shared a few classes here and there since freshman year. But it wasn’t until this year, when we were paired for that English assignment, that we really started talking.”

Andrew nods slightly, his expression unreadable but attentive. “What changed?”

You pause for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That project forced us to actually work together.” You laugh softly. “We had to talk, argue, figure things out. But after a while, it wasn’t just about the assignment anymore. I always thought he was nothing, but a beach bum, but there’s more to him than that. We really got to know each other”

“Like what? Do you talk about?  He asks, watching you closely.

“Just normal stuff… music, our interests, hobbies… But sometimes, it’s more than that—like when we talk about what’s going on in our lives, what we’re dealing with. Stuff most people don’t see.”

Andrew’s eyes darken, suspicion flickering beneath the surface. He wonders if Deran has told you anything about their family—what they really do, who they are, what they’re capable of.

Andrew’s eyes flicker with something unreadable as he moves in slight closer to you. “So, you talk about music and hobbies, huh? Sounds pretty normal.” His voice is casual, but there’s a quiet edge beneath it. “But you ever stumble into the... other stuff? The stuff no one’s supposed to know about?”

You glance away, choosing your words carefully. “Other stuff? Like what?”

Andrew studies you for a moment, his eyes flickering with suspicion. From your reaction, it’s clear—you don’t know much at all. You seem almost oblivious to it.

He shrugs, almost like he’s joking. “You know. Family drama. Secrets. Things that don’t usually get shared so casually”

You swallow, keeping your tone even. “No, nothing like that. Just the usual. The only thing he’s ever said about your family is that you’re all—his words, not mine—‘dysfunctional,’ but close.”

“It’s silly, kind of childish I guess but we talk about our hopes, dreams… our future after high school” 

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” you admit, your voice softening as you look around if Deran happened to be in ear shot.

“He wants to go pro—make it big in surfing. He thinks it could lead to sponsors, travel, maybe even a real career.”

You pause, a fond smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“He wants to surf all over the world—Indonesia, Australia, South Africa. He’s got this list in his head of dream breaks and secret beaches he wants to chase. He talks about it like it’s already within reach.”

You glance at Andrew, more thoughtful now. “It’s ambitious… but he’s passionate about it. And honestly? I want that for him.”

Andrew doesn’t respond right away, but you see it in the shift of his expression—something softer, more distant. His posture loosens a fraction, like your words struck a familiar chord.

Because he knew what you were saying was true.

Deran had a real shot. Out of all of them, he was the one who could actually get out—the one with something pure to chase. Surfing wasn’t just a hobby. It was freedom. A way to outrun everything they’d been born into.

Even the family saw it. Smurf had said once, almost grudgingly, that Deran could make something of himself—if the weight of their world didn’t drag him down first.

Andrew wanted that for him. Maybe more than Deran knew.

But underneath that quiet hope lived something heavier: fear.

Because in their world, having something good meant having something to lose. And good things didn’t last.

“What about you? What are your plans?” He wasn’t sure what compelled him to ask.

“College,” you say with a small shrug. “I haven’t heard back from the schools I applied to yet, but that’s the goal.”

You pause. “I’m not sure what I want to major in yet. I’m planning to do exploratory studies my first year. You know…feel things out, see what clicks. I’m just… open to learning, you know?” There was a spark in your eye, a quiet hope that still shone bright beneath the uncertainty.

Deran shouldn’t have brought you here, Andrew thought. but for some reason, though, Deran did—and if you kept coming around, Andrew knew it wouldn’t end well for you. 

“You don’t belong here,” he said, blunt and unflinching.

It came out of nowhere. A punch wrapped in plain words. Just seconds ago, he’d been almost warm. But now? All edges. Cold. Controlled.

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” you question. 

“It means this isn’t for you,” he said, low and final.

His tone caught you off guard. It felt personal, though you didn’t know why.

“I didn’t realize coming to a party was such a federal offense,” you said, trying to keep it light.

He didn’t smile.

“You think this is just a party?” he asked.

You hesitated. “It’s a bunch of people drinking and being loud. I got the gist.”

His jaw ticked. Then: “This isn’t your world.”

“Okay… but it’s Deran’s,” you said carefully. “And I’m his friend…” You had no idea where this was coming from or what you’d said to set him off. 

He let out a breath. Almost a laugh—but not quite. “Yeah. That’s the part that worries me.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you too long, silence thick between you.

“You don’t see it now,” he finally said. “But one day you will.”

“See what?”

No answer.

“You’re not built for this.”

“Built for what?”

Still nothing. Just that unreadable look.

Then he shifted, like the conversation was already over. “Just… don’t get too comfortable.”

A chill passed through you, and it wasn’t the wind. He hadn’t been cruel. But it still felt like a door was slammed shut.

You didn’t know it, but just by stepping into this party, you were already too close. You weren’t built for their life—untouched by it. Clean. Genuine. Real.

Andrew understood why Deran clung to you. Because that’s what had drawn him in, too. You weren’t pretending. You weren’t playing games. You were just… yourself. Something steady in all their chaos. And maybe that was the problem.

For someone like Andrew—who’d spent his life navigating wreckage—peace wasn’t just unfamiliar. It was dangerous. Still, part of him wanted to protect it. Protect you. Even if it meant pushing you away before the world he lived in pulled you under.

To him, you were just starting out. 

You had to keep your distance—once you glimpsed what lay behind the curtain, there was no turning back.

His words were harsh, but they weren’t meant to hurt. They were meant to warn. To set a boundary. And he wasn’t about to let you cross it.

With that, Andrew stood up and weaved through the crowd. You watched him walk away, leaving you sitting alone.

_

It was the wee hours of the morning. The party had died an hour or so ago.

Andrew was in cleanup mode—gloves on, a red Solo cup in one hand, and a large black trash bag dragging behind him.

The backyard looked like a war zone. Crushed cups and empty bottles blanketed the patio. Cigarette butts were mashed into half-eaten pizza crusts. Beer cans floated lazily in the pool. The fire pit was a ring of dead embers, its smoke still clinging faintly to the air, mixing with the sour scent of stale alcohol and ash.

“You need help?”

Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, as you stepped out through the sliding glass door. The cold hit you immediately, but you stayed where you were.

Andrew paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, surprise flickering in his eyes when he saw you still there.

“You’re still hanging around?” he asked, tone guarded but not unfriendly.

“Yeah. Even though I don’t belong here,” you said quietly, watching his face for any sign of a shift.

“That’s not what I had meant,” he said quickly, something unreadable crossing his face—regret, maybe, or something sharper.

“Then what did you mean?”

Your voice stayed steady, but a quiet unease pulled tight in your chest. You couldn’t stop thinking about your conversation with him earlier that night—how, for a moment, it had felt easy. Maybe even warm. His guard had slipped just enough to make you think he could see you as a potential friend. But then, like a switch had flipped, everything shifted. The warmth vanished, the air between you changed, and now… now you weren’t sure he even liked you at all.

He looked at you for a long moment, and for a second, it felt like he might say something real. His expression softened just barely, like he wanted to warn you, protect you, explain something you weren’t ready to understand. But whatever flickered behind his eyes, it vanished just as fast.

After a pause that stretched uncomfortably long, he said flatly, “It’s complicated.”

You let out a dry laugh, the sound sharp and brittle in the quiet night. “That’s one way to put it.”

He didn’t respond. Just went back to work—lifting a half-smashed folding chair and tossing it toward the side fence with a dull thud.

You watched him for a moment, then sighed. You weren’t going to get answers. That much was clear. So you bent down and started picking up trash beside him.

He nodded toward the mess. “You don’t have to help”

“I don’t mind,” you said, stepping forward, brushing hair from your face as you bent to grab a red cup half-buried in the grass.

“Deran was supposed to be my ride… I don’t know where he went.” You knew he was probably left the party so he could be alone with Adrian, away from anybody seeing them.

Andrew didn’t look at you right away. He just kept working, the trash bag rustling with every movement. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to say anything. Then:

“I’ll take you home.” His tone was flat, no emotion behind it—just certainty.

You looked over at him. “I can just call a cab—”

“I’ll take you.”

“It’s really not a big deal—”

“I said I’ll take you.”

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice left no room for protest.

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in him again. “Okay,” you said quietly.

He pause his work. He stripped off the gloves and dropped them into the bag. Then, without missing a beat, he pulled the drawstrings tight—muscles in his forearm flexing with the motion—and slung the heavy trash bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

He walked it over to the breezeway and dropped it with a dull thud next to the other trash bags piled there. For a moment, he stood there in the quiet, then glanced back at you over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said, already turning pull out his keys and walking towards the car in the driveway.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, because you suddenly weren’t sure what this meant. His voice was closed off again. But still… you followed.

The car ride had been silent. The only words exchanged were when you gave him directions.

Andrew pulled up outside your house and shut off the engine. The soft hum of the car faded, leaving only the sound of crickets chirping somewhere in the distance.

You went to open the door, but before you could, he was already stepping out. It took you a second to realize—He was walking with you up to your house.

He walked you to the gate, hands tucked into his pockets, his steps slow and unhurried. The porch light spilled a soft glow across the sidewalk, casting long shadows on the concrete.

You stopped just before the latch.

“Thank you, Andrew,” you said quietly, turning to face him.

It was the first time you’d said his name all night. He noticed. He’d expected you to use his nickname Pope—like everyone else

But you hadn’t treated him like everyone else. All night, you spoke to him like he was just a man—not a threat, not a monster. Hell, even when he stared at you, you didn’t flinch.

But you didn’t know him. You didn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. If you’d seen the blood, the wreckage—the cost of getting close to someone like him—you’d see him for what he really is.

His gaze flicked to yours. He nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I’ll see you around.” 

“Maybe.”

He was hoping Deran wouldn’t bring you around again. Hoping he’d know better than to keep you far from their family.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

There was a pause—just long enough to wonder if he might say something more.

You stepped through the gate, fingers brushing the iron latch, and made your way up the walk. You didn’t look back, but you could feel him standing there, still watching.

—

When Andrew got home, Baz and Craig were still lounging at the outdoor table, trash, bottles, and empty cans scattered around them. It looked exactly the same as when he’d left to drop you off. He knew they weren’t going to lift a finger. He’d be out here a while—picking up every piece of it, scrubbing the place down until it looked like there was never a party at all.

“Where’d you go?” Baz asked, eyes narrowing as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

Andrew shrugged, sitting down heavily. “I took Deran’s friend home.”

Craig raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk creeping across his face. “Really? Since when do you play chauffeur?”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “Deran was supposed to take her home.”

Just then, Deran came rushing through the open sliding glass door, catching the tail end of the conversation. His gaze flicked between his brothers.

“Where’s—” he started.

“Pope took her home already,” Craig cut in smoothly.

Deran blinked, surprised. “Really?”

Andrew’s tone sharpened. “Why’s it such a shock that I took her home?”

Baz snorted, but Craig just leaned back, crossing his arms with a look that said he was amused but also intrigued.

“I mean, you were practically staring at her all night,” Craig said, grinning.

“Like you saw an angel or something, when she first walked in” Baz added with a snicker, nudging Craig.

Andrew rolled his eyes and looked away, his jaw tightening.

“And then you were chatting her up,” Baz said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“We were having a conversation. I wasn’t chatting her up,” Andrew shot back, trying to keep his tone even.

Craig leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I think someone’s got a crush.”

Deran cut in, voice cold and sharp. “No. She’s off limits. Don’t even fucking think about it. I’ll kick your asses.”

Baz held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Damn.”

“Message received,” Craig said, smirking. “Loud and clear.”.

.“Trust me. It’s not happening.” Andrew responds

Andrew didn’t have feelings for you—not really. He’d only met you today. You were nine years younger, his little brother’s friend. That alone drew a hard line between you. It wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.

And yet, something in him shifted the moment you showed up. This instinct to protect you—it hit fast and hard, like a reflex he couldn’t explain.

He told himself it was just because you were young. Out of place. Too soft for this life.

Too good for this world.

Baz turned toward Deran, smirking. “Why’d you bring the angel around anyway? Maybe you’re the one that wants in her pants…”

Deran didn’t flinch. “Shut the fuck up, Baz.”

“Oooh, touchy,” Craig chimed in with a grin. “That a yes?”

Deran’s face hardened. “She’s a friend. Chill out.”

Baz raised a brow. “Yeah? Since when do you bring friends to our parties?”

Deran hesitated for a beat, then ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just... she’s different. Normal. Not caught up in bullshit.”

Baz laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, no kidding. You didn’t have to spell it out. She’s the opposite of everyone we know. That’s for damn sure.”

Deran’s voice dropped a little as he added, “She’s got her head on straight. She’s... good. And I like being around that for once.”

Baz eyed him, head tilted. “Damn. You sound soft.”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Andrew muttered suddenly, still watching the door like he could see you walking through it again. “You know that.”

Deran didn’t argue. “Yeah. I know.”

“But do you really, Deran?”

Andrew leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and grim.

“She won’t last. Not around us. People like her—they get hurt.”

His eyes sharpened as he spoke, each word deliberate.

“I’m telling you now, you need to be careful. If you know what’s best for her, you’ll keep her away from all of this. From us. Because if you don’t… there’ll be consequences. Sooner or later, she’ll see. She’ll know.”

He didn’t say what she’d see—didn’t have to. The violence. The lies. The blood.

Andrew’s gaze flicked toward Deran again, unreadable.

“You think you’re doing her a favor by letting her in. But you’re not. You’re dragging her toward the fire and pretending it won’t burn.”

Deran said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything they couldn’t say.

And maybe, deep down, Andrew wasn’t just talking about you. Maybe he was thinking of the past—of people he tried to protect, and failed.

Andrew stood, pushing away from the table without another word leaving Deran alone with Baz and Craig as he starts back into cleaning mode.

Deran didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Didn’t defend.

Because the worst part was—Andrew was right.

And for the first time, he wondered if bringing you in—letting you close—meant he’d already set something in motion he couldn’t stop.

LYA Tags: @obfuscateyummy

Love You Anyway | Then (1)

[kurtsascot]

ok so what do we think happened after white christmas ice skate ? besides hanging out with burt obviously…..

did blaine come back to kurt’s apartment and they watched christmas movies together/caught up? did kurt take blaine around new york a bit? did blaine get kurt a present …. did they fuck or almost fuck……what are we thinking…..

[svtskneecaps]

literally it's 3am where i live and i'm on mobile but FUCK IT i haven't posted any actual writing in like a YEAR on this blog whose description include the words "I WRITE" and i can't tell if i'm even going anywhere with this so fuck it under the cut is the prospective absolute mess of the first chapter of the flipo family time loop fic. (for clarity, flipo family as in slime, mariana, and juanaflippa) this covers loop 0, aka the relevant parts of canon. words: 1630

parts of it i popped off with and other parts i hate; up to you to identify them. also the italics and other formatting got erased when i copy pasted and i'm re-adding all of it by hand so if i missed a spot, no i didn't. if i missed an accent on a letter in spanish that was a typo, if i missed a ¡ or ¿ that may have been on purpose.

oh and for obvious reasons, content warning for mentions and mild descriptions of child death and child murder. no blood, and most of it is a three word mention; i'd say the brief paragraph beginning "Tilín didn't scream" is most of the reason this warning exists.

Charlie Slimecicle stepped off the train.

He’d been hoping for a bright, sunny day to start their vacation, but was sorely disappointed. The portal had apparently taken them pretty far, since they’d gone from noon to night time. Talk about jetlag. They hadn’t even been on a plane.

“What happened to the other guys?” he wondered aloud as he stepped onto the platform.

“Yeah no clue,” Phil said, scanning the empty station. “Thought they’d meet us here.”

“Guys!” one of the Spanish speakers--Vegetta, he’d said, when they’d all met up at the first station--called, from a lectern at the wall. “There is a book!”

They crowded around as he read the instructions aloud--something about pressure plates, Slime wasn’t paying that close of attention. He was a little more preoccupied with making sure it only felt like his brain was dripping out of his ears. That would be kind of embarrassing.

Which was not to say that he wasn’t enjoying the constant onslaught of people talking over each other using words he may or may not understand. In fact, it was the opposite; he was frankly thriving in the absolute chaos that kicked back up around him as a timer appeared in the wrist communicators they’d been provided along with their tickets.

“Como se dice ‘we are going to die now’?” He giggled, chasing Phil and Fit to one end of the station.

“¡Vamos a morir!” shouted Spiderman, echoed seconds later by the black bear in the collared shirt.

Giddy over the high of attempting to use his high school foreign language for the first time maybe ever, Slime absolutely didn’t contribute much to solving the puzzle, and before long the sound of the timer ticking down was accompanied by a loud buzzing alarm.

“It’s been an honor!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs. “It’s been an honor!”

The bear ran past them again, shouting, “I’m going to die!” in English this time.

“Adiós amigos!” Slime yelled.

The countdown ended.

And then his communicator buzzed, and there was a video playing on the screen, showing a cartoonish yellow duck in front of a blurry beach stock photo. He skimmed it absently--some generic welcoming message and another side quest for them--distracted by Maximus audibly losing his shit laughing across the station.

“Come on, I’m trying to take a vacation, I gotta work now?” Fit complained. “This is ridiculous.”

Slime wanted to jump on that bit, but the message cut off with coordinates marred by static and the noise of the emergency weather alert system and he lost his train of thought completely.

“I got the English book!” Spreen called, holding it with two fingers like it had personally offended him.

“English leader,” Vegetta said, seeming to find that amusing.

“English leader.” Spreen laughed and flicked the book away. Slime stepped back but somehow it still nailed him in the chest.

“Guess I’m reading then,” he said cheerfully.

“In Spanish?” Maximus said.

“Um.”

Vegetta called something, backing across the plaza with the book open in his hands. Phil backed up to the wall.

“Here,” Phil instructed, “we’ll read it here.”

“Okay okay.” He flicked it open. “So we have to get water wheel planks--”

Their peace lasted a grand total of thirty seconds as voices suddenly began shouting, overlapping in chaotic chorus.

“What is that?” Fit demanded.

“Is that coming from the other side?” Phil stared up at the top of the wall.

“This is the thinnest thick wall I’ve ever seen,” Slime said, giddy laughter bubbling out of him again. “Is this thing made out of pencil shavings? If I sneeze on it, is there gonna be a hole?”

“Nevermind, we’ll read it over here.” Phil dragged them away again, but the Spanish speakers were dispersing into the trees.

“Forget the book,” Fit said, “follow them!”

(In the end it was explosives that took the wall down, which in hindsight was a precursor to how a not insignificant portion of time on the island was spent. The first day, however, it was just funny, much like everything else.)

(That was to say, the first first day.)

The communicator had indicated that today there was something special planned, so he made an extra effort to wake up.

“Morning Jaiden!” he called to his upstairs neighbor.

“Hi Charlie!” He could hear her farming through the wall. “Glad you woke up on time!”

“Well you know, you know, El Backflipo couldn’t miss it,” he joked, sifting through his backpack. “Got any spare food? I’ll trade you uno backflipo.”

“I have so much toast, come here and get some, free of charge.”

With a quick backflip and some toast to start the day, he popped open the map.

“There’s a lot of people down the wall,” he noted, their green dots so clustered they formed one. “Wanna check it out?”

“Yeah sure.” Jaiden tossed some seeds into a chest. “Do you know what this event’s gonna be?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted cheerfully.

She laughed. “Yeah, me neither. I guess there’s an egg involved, but that’s all I know.”

He dug around in his backpack for a paraglider, nodding along. “Yeah, yeah, un huevo, I get you.” Shuffling the landmine from Vegetta to one side, he yanked out his glider and threw himself out her window. “Let’s go!”

(nothing like getting struck by lightning to wake a guy up in the morning)

Slime fiddled with the communicator as he waited for the line of people to get through the ticket machine; he already had his own, a nice B for Backflipo. The new live translations still boggled his mind. He had to fight the urge to chant weird shit under his breath, just to see what the bubbles would say.

He paid a little extra attention when Mariana walked up to the machine. That guy seemed cool. They’d done that pequeño dormir together on day one, and he had a good sense of humor. Egg parenting would probably be funny.

He was thrilled to see the B for Backflipo on the ticket Mariana stepped away with, even if Mariana was decidedly less so. This was gonna be good.

(it was, and it wasn’t)

So, Mariana wasn’t exactly the coparent of dreams. Then again, Slime was pretty sure Mariana could say the same about him. In fact he was pretty sure Mariana had said the same, but in Spanish, when he wasn’t checking the translation.

It was great. They thought they’d killed a child immediately and then decided to fake their own child’s death to get away with it, and then confessed their sins to a bilingual angel and built a farm and then he buried himself beneath an improvised cross and went into a coma until his sins were forgiven, or something, except his sins weren’t forgiven in time to save his own child’s life.

And then Juanaflippa was dead. Dead at Mariana’s hand.

His bitch wife killed their daughter.

(Everything went faster, after that.)

Slime wanted to kill him.

Slime wanted to kill him for killing their fucking daughter, but of course, Mariana couldn’t even be bothered to be around to take care of her alive, never mind to pay for his crimes when she died by his hand!

(in a better world, his rage started and ended there. in a better world, the anger fizzled out with the lack of a target.

this was not that world)

There couldn’t be an Egg Event with no eggs.

If he killed them all, it would bring her back.

(in a worse world, he succeeded. in a worse world, the Egg Event ended there.

this was not that world)

They held a trial.

If he won, it would bring her back.

(in another world, he didn’t convince them. in another world, they left his daughter in Hell.

this was not that world)

Tilín was still before she hit the ground.

Tilín didn’t scream. Maybe they didn’t have time. It happened so fast. He was sure it happened fast. Almost too fast. But everything went so fast, now, even though Flippa was back. Yet, time slowed down for this, like a rubberneck driving past a highway accident, watching him desperately trying to shock their heart back into motion.

“YOU KILL MY BEST FRIENDS,” Flippa wrote. He begged her to understand. She wrote, “i can’t believe it.”

She wrote, “I HATE YOU.”

(in a better world, the error would have been caught in April instead of July.

this was not that world)

His daughter fell to his bitch wife’s sword. The same way. The next day.

They’d only just gotten her back. And Mariana killed her again.

He only left eggxile for the funeral. She wouldn’t stay dead, but he had to be there.

Time went even faster after that. He was Gegg, or maybe Gegg was him, or maybe Gegg was Gegg, or maybe. . . ?

He went back to eggxile.

He wasn’t leaving without them. Tilín. Juanaflippa. He would do whatever was necessary. He would pray to any higher power. Lil J still owed him a goddamn favor, but the guy wouldn’t pick up his calls. Maybe if he put more shit in the shrine; angels liked shiny shit, didn’t they? He went back to the mine, where the gasses swirled in his head. He built the shrine. He mined. He built the shrine.

He went back to the mine.

He went back to the mine.

He went back to the mine.

“This is where I sit, this is where my bitch wife sits, and this is where my daughter sits, if I had one!”

He’d said that before. No he hadn’t. Yes he had.

No, he just needed to clear his head.

Charlie Slimecicle went back to the mine.

Charlie Slimecicle stepped off the train.

[holydramon]

current thoughts for dwatd but with very little context

[muldersfingers]

I'm right at the end of my fic and I forgot how notorious I am for just. Not knowing when or how to stop

[mc-tums-fog]

So far the first 2 and a half chapters I have done of this Elliott Marston x Reader fic it's in like second POV with it being mainly focused from the readers perspective but I'm wondering lowkey if I should have moments where it's in third person to be more in Elliotts perspective

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Flesh Wound - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 2.5k words. Dr. Abbot's wife's cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself--and her bloody hand--to the Pitt without telling him.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, blood, graphic descriptions of wounds, & knives. Colorful language, per usual. Implied age gap. breaking select grammar rules because I can. not beta read.

a/n: This got away from me and is longer than necessary lmao. I’m not in love with it, but I need to get it out of my brain and drafts so it stops plaguing me. Enjoy my first Pitt fic! Divider credit!

“Fuck!” you hissed. The kitchen came to a standstill around you; your cooks, dishwashers, and wait staff suddenly focused on the angry gash on your hand.

Abby’s was your pride and joy. Back in the day, culinary school felt like a gamble and then some. Today, you thank your lucky stars that it panned out well. The restaurant you’d built from the ground up was often featured in local publications and had grown into a neighborhood hub—it was a success from the day you first opened the doors to the public.

On days you didn’t stay at work for the full evening rush—like tonight, when you had your silver fox of a husband waiting at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and the full Netflix catalogue at your fingertips—you at least made sure to come in for a couple hours in the afternoon to help set up and ensure your staff had all the support they needed for a successful night.

Amid prep work for a new dish you were piloting, you looked away at just the wrong moment when your name was called, resulting in the unmistakable piercing feeling shooting through your hand. You’d nicked yourself. Well, more than nicked yourself, because you were now bleeding at a rate that would have Javadi passed out cold on the floor.

This certainly wasn’t your first knife injury and probably wouldn’t be your last. You haphazardly cleaned up your station as best you could while holding pressure to the wound with a towel. Accidents happen to everyone, no matter how long they’ve been in the industry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing to slice your palm open in front of the staff who were supposed to look up to you. 

You bit your lip and willed the tears to stay at bay after closing your office door. You tried taking deep breaths as you sat on the edge of your desk. In for 4, out for 8. In for 5, out for 10.

It didn’t help much.

This hurts like a bitch, you cursed through the unrelenting stinging. It was worse than any other kitchen injuries you’d had in recent memory. You remembered your husband rambling about how the hands were one of the most highly vascularized parts of the body. When it bleeds, it bleeds, he said to you. You were acutely aware of that now.

The bleeding wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon, even after you’d soaked through two hand towels. Jack had taught you quite a bit of first aid and then some over the years, but even you recognized that you couldn’t patch yourself up. When a little fuzzy feeling began to sink in, you knew it was time to seek medical attention from a professional who wouldn’t spiral at the mere notion of you being harmed.

Sure, you could’ve called your trauma doctor husband, who seldom went anywhere without his ‘go bag’, but that would make too much sense. You didn’t want Jack to worry about you. He did anyway, but you didn’t want to add to his stress. The salt and pepper hair suited him well–you frequently reminded him when you carded your fingers through his curls–but if he went full-on gray, you might be accused of grave robbing.

“Doctor Abbot speaking,” the man grunted in greeting. The trauma doc hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Or maybe his mind was still filled with the post-night shift sleep haze.

“Hey, honey,” you smiled through the phone despite your barely contained anxiety. The fresh towel you left the restaurant with was quickly turning crimson. The walk to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was 15 minutes, and you prayed that you’d make it there before the towel was soaked through or before you passed out—whichever would come first.

Your voice washed over Jack like warm honey. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply. Per usual, he hadn’t realized how tense he was until you dissolved his stress.

“Hello, my beautiful wife,” he flirted through the phone, the corners of his lips ticking up into a smile. Several years into your relationship, he could still make you blush.

“I know we planned to stay in tonight and watch a movie, but I’m gonna have to stay at the restaurant late. We got slammed, and I need to make sure the team has everything they need.” That counted as a white lie, right? Jack and his wife didn’t keep secrets. But this time, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, you rationalized. You would tell him once you were all stitched up, snuggling at home with him, and not pale as a ghost. You would tell him when you could laugh about it, at how silly the oopsie you made in the kitchen was. Right now you were not laughing.

Abbot nodded, though you couldn’t see it. Your dedication to making sure your staff were taken care of was admirable; you were always so attentive, caring, and considerate. But selfishly, Jack would’ve given his other leg to spend a night with his wife. 

It wasn’t like you both weren’t used to taking rainchecks. Sometimes chefs called out sick and you had to step up, or put out metaphorical and literal fires. Other times, Jack’s pager seemed to be determined to set a record for most received messages.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We can do something tomorrow.” It was a promise they’d hold each other to.

Years in service to the military and working in healthcare–emergency medicine, no less–meant he was used to change and could be flexible, to say the least. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be miserable to everyone around him until he saw his wife again.

Keeping a low profile at the Pitt was damn near impossible given your reputation.

The ER staff were well acquainted with Dr. Abbot’s wife, the pretty lady who brought them food. It started when you brought Jack dinner, and then Dana too. Sometimes Robby if you caught him at the right time. Eventually, you’d occasionally drop off catering-sized orders from Abby’s to be shared amongst the Pitt staff, just because.

A concerning majority of the providers, nurses, techs, RTs, and radiology staff survived 13-hour shifts on protein bars and far more milligrams of caffeine than was considered safe for human consumption. (It was a good thing they had plenty of 12 leads and crash carts full of pharm goodies for when a staff member inevitably developed a caffeine-induced dysrhythmia.) When the smell of Dr. Abbot’s wife’s food filled the Pitt, they knew they were in for a treat.

“You got any food for us, Mrs. Abbot?” Lupe asked as you approached the thick registration desk glass, before her eyes fell to your hand cradled against your chest. Definitely not catering.

Unfortunately for you, the third towel was fully saturated by the time you made it through the lobby’s double doors. The fuzzy feeling from earlier was quickly advancing to woozy.

Lupe and Dana brought you straight back from triage, effectively bumping you to the top of the queue. Maybe it wasn’t entirely according to hospital policy, but they’d never hear the end of it from Abbot if he found out his wife was stuck in a waiting room while she bled out.

“Everything is still attached, but the cut’s deep,” you relayed to Dana, who hummed as she peeled back the towel to assess the damage.

“Your husband know you’re here?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. She knew the answer based on the fact that Abbot hadn’t tore through the damn building to get to you. Yet, anyway. She more so asked to give you a chance to reflect on your dumb decision to not inform your husband.

“I don’t want to stress him out. Please don’t tell him?” You pleaded.

“I won’t say anything, but I can’t control what happens when he sees his last name on the wrong part of the status board.” Her emphasis on when made it clear that it was only a matter of time, not if.

Of course he would pick up a shift once his evening freed up. He was a workaholic, but so were you. Birds of a feather.

When Doctor Robinavitch and Javadi pulled back the room’s curtain, Dana did the talking–nausea was setting in along with a wicked headache. You refused to look at the laceration at this point, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above you.

“BP is soft,” Robby observed. Dana nodded while holding pressure to the wound with gauze. “Let’s start some IV fluids to get it back up; you definitely had some blood loss today.” Not helping, you thought as another wave of nausea rolled through you.

“She said she doesn’t want Dr. Abbot to know, and I’m not about to get in the middle of that. Plus, provider-patient confidentiality,” Robby finished with a shrug to Dana at the nurse’s station.

“Who doesn’t want me to know what?” Abbot asked, cosmic timing seemingly on his side. He was here far earlier than he needed to be for his shift, but he had nothing better to do Better than sulking at home, missing his wife. He’d still miss her while he was working, but at least he’d have an active distraction. His grip was firm on the strap of his camo backpack slung over his shoulder.

Robby groaned and his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly turned to face the night shift attending. Dana answered the nurse’s station phone within a nanosecond of the first shrill ring, leaving Robby to fend for himself.

Abbot looked at him expectantly, his patience quickly waning. Robby shook his head and vaguely nodded his head backwards, simply sighing “room 4” before getting back to work. Jack didn’t press for more info, just crossed the Pitt with long, purposeful strides. His heart dropped and the world around him slowed when he saw his wife laying back on a gurney, hooked up to IV fluids with gauze around her hand.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering, yanking the curtain open with an abrasive tug. He immediately started scanning you head to toe and noted the color drained from your face, a bloody rag in the biohazard bin, and the remnants of a suture kit in the waste bin.

“Baby, what the hell happened?” Jack asked, wild eyes bouncing between the vitals monitor to your tired form. You squeezed her eyes shut and cursed the fact that PTMC was the closest ER to Abby’s.

“I told Robby not to call you,” you grumbled. Your husband grunted.

“He didn’t call me. I picked up a shift.” You knew Jack wasn’t upset with you directly. Seeing you in the same department where patients regularly coded and trauma alerts rolled through at light speed to the trauma bay unnerved him.

You felt a twang of guilt in your chest. Jack wouldn’t have come in on his first night off in a while if you hadn’t canceled date night. And date night wouldn’t have been canceled if you’d just been paying more attention in the kitchen. You extended your unaffected hand to your husband and he grasped it in an instant. 

His tense shoulders and tight jaw gave him away. You hated to see him needlessly stressed, but it also warmed you in an odd way—how lucky you are to have someone care for you so deeply. Someone as weathered and worn as Jack, who has seen his fair share of trauma and then some, loves you to the point of worry. What a privilege that is.

Jack’s shift technically didn’t start for another 20 minutes. He had every intention of spending those minutes right by your side.

Saved by the bell a few minutes before shift change, Robby came back in for rounds, tailed by Javadi (who, to her credit, did not pass out at the sight of copious blood flowing from your hand earlier). “Hey, love birds,” Robby greeted with a grin. Abbot’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line while you smiled weakly back at the attending and the med student who followed him around like a little duckling.

Dr. Robinavitch gestured for Javadi to present the case to Dr. Abbot. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights at the harsh stare Abbot pinned her with. Her gaze bounced from your joined hands back to the attending before she cleared her throat and began. Javadi described the depth of the laceration and the amount of stitches required, topical TXA, IV fluid bolus and subsequent drip for hypotension. Jack forced air from his nose before inhaling again, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Princess will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork and home care instructions,” Robby winked as he left you and Abbot by yourselves. Jack snorted. There was no way in hell you’d be caring for the wound yourself, not if he could help it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jack’s voice was quiet. He wasn’t mad, but rattled. You twisted your mouth to the side, feeling a bit of shame. This wasn’t how you imagined your evening going.

“Technically, I did… on my walk here…” you offered. It sounded weak even to your ears. Jack deadpanned. It didn’t land well. You sighed and rolled to face your husband fully. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you whispered, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray you. Jack pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m always going to worry about you, sweetheart. Because I love you.” His fingers traced your jawline. Jack, who woke up with night terrors well over a decade after the war-torn atrocities he’d seen, gazed at you tenderly. You had half a mind to make a ‘Tis but a scratch joke, but figured that might send him over the edge.

“I love you too.” It wasn’t a reply, it was a promise. Jack kissed the back of your hand, your fingers intertwined until he had to go.

Dr. Robinavitch hung around until he was satisfied with your blood pressure so he could drive you home. Even if you had politely declined, he would’ve stayed. Abbot certainly wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it if his wife had to take a taxi home from the ER. Robby guided you toward the exit, holding your bag and his. Gotta keep our patient satisfaction scores up.

Jack doffed his gloves while he jogged to meet you before you reached the door. He blindly tossed the blue nitrile gloves in the direction of the nearest waste bin, not bothering to check if he made it in. But they had, because of course they would. Cocky motherfucker.

Jack wordlessly pulled you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand holding your head to his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

“Take it easy, okay?” The two of you could’ve been slow dancing in a burning room, but Jack wouldn’t have noticed. He tuned out the constant buzz of the Pitt and focused solely on you. You offered your free hand up for a pinkie promise.

If the med students and interns saw Dr. Abbot go soft—oh so whipped for his wife—and make a pinkie promise, they knew better than to say anything about it.

a/n: Reblogs & comments are much appreciated 🥰

Find more of my writing on my master list.

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[bambiihee]

ROMANTICISM HANDLED WITH DISCIPLINE ── 박성훈

your professor catches you reading a not-so-safe-for-school book in the middle of his class. in an effort to make things better, you fear that you may have just made them worse.

⧼ 📜 ⧽ 一 pairing༚ ⸝⸝⸝ professor!park sunghoon ✗ student!fem!reader includes ༚ ༚ ༚ jungwon, jay and jake of enhypen, giselle and karina of aespa

genre ༚ ༚ ༚ smut, fluff, porn with plot

warnings༚ ⸝⸝⸝ teacher/student, age gaps, power play, light dom/sub dynamics, dom!sunghoon, masturbation (f. rec), erotic literature, explicit language and sexual content, spanking, dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, name calling (slut), wet dreams, impact play, oral (m. rec), cumming in pants, facefucking, deepthroat, big dick sunghoon, doggy style, sex on furniture, unprotected sex, creampies, talk of contraception (reader is on birth control), alcohol mentions, drinking and partying, hair pulling, size kink word count༚ 12 . 2 k | ⧼ 🗝️ ⧽ 一 to library༚

[notes.] a rewrite of a rewrite of one of the first ever fics i've ever written! this fic was originally written for soobin of txt, but i took that one down when i decided to discontinue writing for that group. but thanks to my lovely mutuals, they asked (demanded) that i rewrite it for hoon <3 this is a romanticization of student/teacher relationships where both parties are consenting adults, but it is important to note that these relationships can be problematic in real life due to one parties authority over another's and unstable power dynamics. banner done by my beloved mootie @heechwe! reblogs and feedback are very appreciated <3 i hope you enjoy!

YOUR FRENCH LITERATURE professor embodies everything you find detestable in a teacher. His classes are a monotonous drone of information, devoid of anything exciting or engaging, though that might not be entirely his fault with how painfully, mind numbingly boring the subject he teaches is. He rarely ever deviates from his tight-lipped script, and he absolutely refuses to entertain any questions or foster any interesting discussion. He never accepted late assignments or gave any extensions, his tests are ridiculously hard, and he’ll dock points off your assignments for the tiniest, stupidest reasons. Sure, it’s a difficult course, and it’s important to your major, but you swear he seems to take some kind of pleasure in making his students miserable. Each class feels like an eternity, and often you find yourself counting down the minutes until you can escape the insufferable, suffocating atmosphere of his classroom.

Yet, for some strange, inexplicable reason, you find yourself absolutely obsessed with him.

Maybe it was because you spent your time in his class focusing more on him than any of the words that came out of his mouth. His irritatingly handsome, angular face and his pouty, kissable lips, the moles on his cheeks framing his tall nose. The way his thick brow furrows and his lip curls when one of your classmates asks a question that he deems too stupid to grace with an answer. His big veiny hands and how they look shuffling papers and twirling pens, filling your head with thoughts of how they would look caressing your body. His tall, fit frame and how he towers over you whenever you come up to him, the way he has to lower his head to look you in the eye, a soldering heat bubbling in your belly from the way he makes you feel so small. You can’t stand to be his student, but you dream at night about being something else to him entirely— it’s a paradox that drives you to detrimental distraction. How can you be so obsessed with someone you loathe? His perplexing combination of qualities was like some kind of mystery you felt compelled to unravel, at the very least to put your own mind at ease.

That was when you found the novel. It was hidden in the romance section of your favorite used bookstore, squished between two old technicolor cover harlequin novels, it’s dark and simple spine juxtaposing against all the bright colors and ornate fonts. It intrigued you enough to pull it from the shelf and look it over, your cheeks heating up as you take in its cover. A headless, well-dressed man sat in a chair with his legs spread invitingly, the smart suit he was wearing disheveled and his undone belt held tightly in his hand, the leather strap resting against his inner thigh. The title Lessons in Attraction was printed where his head would be, vague but provocative enough to make your stomach flip. The man immediately reminded you of Professor Park, from the way he was dressed to the prominent veins in his hands, and when you flip the book over to read the synopsis you understand the connection. It outlines the story of a steamy romance between a strict economics professor and his teaching assistant, an innocent, young virgin who wants nothing more than to please. It was as if the author had plucked your deepest fantasies straight from your head and printed them out on paper, then planted the book in the perfect spot for you specifically to discover. You knew just from skimming through the pages that reading it would only do you more harm than good, but you just couldn’t put it down, drawn to the story like an addict needing a fix. You hid it in your stack of textbooks, and you refused to look the cashier in the eye as they checked you out.

At first, you had intended to keep it hidden in your bedroom, only to be read late at night when your roommates were either out or asleep. But as your obsession with your professor continued to deepen, so did your obsession with the novel; soon you found yourself taking it with you everywhere you went, reading snippets whenever you had the chance and quickly shoving back into your bag anytime someone would walk by or glance over at you. Your dreams devolved into graphic, vivid replays of your favorite dirty scenes, with Professor Park in the place of the professor from the story. You wake up hot and bothered every morning, and his class becomes even more difficult with your head now full of illicit, naughty fantasies. Everything he does makes your belly swirl with need, even something as simple as running a hand through his hair or adjusting his glasses— you can’t even bare to look at him, and instead try your hardest to focus on whatever boring tangent he was rambling on about… until you caught yourself fantasizing about how his deep voice would sound whispering dirty words in your ear.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Professor Park's lectures were beginning to feel more like sick torture— you needed something to keep you distracted before you went insane.

So, against your better judgement, you started to bring the novel to read in class. You sat far enough in the back that you were certain he wouldn’t notice, and your poor classmates were too bored out of their minds to look your way. It was easy to keep it hidden away tucked in your lap, so you could pretend to be writing in your notebook while you read. Something about it excited you, reading about fucking your professor with your real professor standing there in front of you, none the wiser. Being able to admire him as you indulged in your secret desires. If he caught you, you would be humiliated, but you would be lying if you said that the thought didn’t excite you…

"Miss L/N, what are you doing?”

You nearly shoot straight out of your chair, your professor’s sudden call of your name shocking you out of your reverie. You had gotten so absorbed into your novel that you had forgotten to check to see if he was looking your way. “H-huh?”

“You keep looking at your lap.” Professor Park remarks, peering up at you from his spot at the podium with an unamused frown. His thick-rimmed glasses made his pretty brown eyes appear even larger than they already were, blinking up at you like he was studying you through a magnifying glass. “You’re not on your phone, are you? You know I have a no-tolerance policy when it comes to electronics.”

“Oh! No, sir, I’m just…” your startled gaze bounces back to the book in your lap, and you swallow nervously. “Reading.”

“Reading?” Professor Park echoes, raising his brow. “What are you reading? I assume it’s not the textbook, from the look on your face.”

You blanche, trying your hardest to appear nonchalant as you snap the book shut and shove it down into the recesses of your school bag. “It’s nothing!” You reply far too quickly, sounding guiltier than sin.

Professor Park's lips pull into a thin line, his magnified eyes raking over your sweating face before trailing down to your bag, clasped protectively over your lap.

“Give it to me.” he orders curtly, stretching out his hand.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. “What?! W-why?!”

“Reading anything that isn’t the course material is against my class rules— I have it printed clearly on the syllabus, though with how you can never seem to pay attention I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed it when I went over it at the beginning of the semester. I would recommend looking over it again to see if there’s anything else you’ve forgotten. Now, get up and hand me that book.”

The entire class has turned to look at you now too, dozens of pairs of eyes fixated on your every move. The silence is absolutely deafening. Your heart races and your hands tremble as you squirm in your seat, trying desperately to come up with some sort of escape as if you were in a horror movie; you might as well be, because out of all the ghouls and monsters you can think of, this has to be your worst nightmare.

You consider refusing. Technically, Professor Park couldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to— hell, you could walk right out of the classroom right then and there if you really wanted to, with both your book and your dignity intact. After all, you were a grown adult paying to further your education out of your own pocket. Trying to confiscate your belongings as if you were a child was borderline insulting.

But you can’t risk your grade over something like this, as embarrassing as it was, and you wouldn’t put it past him to penalize you in some way for defying your orders. You were already struggling as it was, partly because of how difficult the coursework was and mostly because of how you could never concentrate whenever Professor Park was around. To make matters even worse, passing was a requirement for your degree. Getting even more on his bad side than you already were simply not an option.

It takes every ounce of energy you have to force yourself to stand up out of your seat and trudge down to Professor Park's podium, clutching your novel against your chest like you were clutching pearls. He has to pry it out of your hand with a considerable amount of force, because you can’t seem to loosen your fingers around the cover.

You scamper back to your seat, but not before turning back to see Professor Park eye the cover with a startled expression. It would have been comical if you didn’t feel like you were seconds away from throwing up all over your desk.

He places it gingerly face-down on his desk like he was handling a dead fish, and you’re both grateful and horrified that he noticeably avoids making eye contact with you when he steps back up on his podium. “You can come by my office later to get it back, Miss L/N. I have a free period at six.”

“Yes, sir.” You answer glumly, staring at your shoes.

Luckily for you, he dismisses the class only a few minutes later, muttering about something to do with grading papers. You’ve never ran out of that lecture hall so fast in your life.

“Whoa, what’s up with you?” your friend Jungwon asks when you walk by him in the hall, looking up from his phone and tugging out his earbuds to cock his head in your direction. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

You stop just long enough to realize that you were still running, even though you had made it nearly halfway across the building. “I’m so fucked.” You state simply.

“What? What happened? Did you do something to piss off Professor Park again?”

“Yes. No. Kind of?” you cringe inwardly. There’s absolutely no way you’re telling Jungwon about any of what happened; he’d laugh at you to the point you fear you might actually start crying. “I don’t want to talk about it. I gotta go.”

You shuffle away before he can respond, and while you feel bad ignoring him as he calls out to you in confusion, you’re focused solely on finding somewhere quiet and empty to hide out until your next class. And maybe grabbing an iced coffee or something. Just to drown out the tears as you wallow in your own misery.

Against all odds, you manage to make it through the rest of your classes. The wait was almost worse than getting caught, barely able to sit still in your seat as you panic inwardly for hours on end. If it was Professor Park's intention to psychologically torture you, he wildly succeeded.

And you’re absolutely sure it was, because the first thing you see once you step into his office is your professor lounging back in his chair reading your book.

“Professor!” you yelp.

He glances up from your book, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes as he sends you a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N! You’re just in time. I was just flipping through your book here, it seems awfully… interesting.”

You gulp, your trembling hands clutching the strap of your bag in a vain attempt to ground yourself. “Um, sir!” you squeak, rushing to his side to glance over his shoulder at what page he was on, praying to whatever god that will listen that he hasn’t read anything raunchy. “I think it would be best if you, um, didn’t read that…”

“Oh?” He flips the page and quirks his brow, not even sparing you a second glance as he adjusts his glasses, “What do you mean?”

You rack your brain desperately for a good enough excuse, but you can’t think of anything other than just how mortified you were, watching helplessly as your professor’s keen eyes scan over the pages. “Can I have it back now?” you say instead, your voice small and shaking.

“Surely you can wait just a little longer— now I’m dying to know why you don’t want me to read this.” Professor Park's crooked smirk infuriates you.

Was there any possible way that you could talk your way out of this without telling him upfront that what he was holding in his hands was an erotica, one about a teacher and a student no less? You shuffle nervously, stumbling over your words as you try to stutter out something, anything, “You, um… you wouldn’t like it.”

He turns his head to look up at you again, the look in his eye sharply changing when he takes in your frightened state, into something you don’t recognize and aren’t sure you like. “How can you be sure I wouldn’t enjoy it? I’m a fan of many different genres of literature, though I’ve never read anything quite like this before. Is it some sort of romance novel? If it is, you don’t have to be ashamed, Miss Y/N. I’m sure many young women such as yourself read these sorts of novels, though I strongly discourage reading them while I’m in the middle of a lecture. It’s simply disrespectful. Now, where was I?”

He trails his finger down the page as if he was looking for his place, and you bristle. “Sir, seriously, don’t—!”

“I followed my professor to his office, watching with bated breath as he rounded his big wooden desk.”  Professor Park begins to read aloud. You barely stop yourself from screaming, instead letting out a sort of pained choking sound. “He stopped to stand behind me, looking down my shoulder as if he were looking over my essay just as I was. I had made three errors in my writing, each one circled in bright red ink. He seemed more upset about it than usual.”

“Professor, please.”

“’Put that essay on my desk.’ he said, so I did.” Professor Park continues, ignoring you. He had gave the professor character a stupid, high pitched voice when he spoke, which would have been funny if you weren’t so humiliated. “’Now bend over with your elbows on my desk, so that you are looking directly at the essay. Keep your face very close.’”

“Stop it! Just let me have it!” You hated to talk to him this way, but if he continued reading any further… it took everything you had to keep yourself from running out of his office and crawling into the nearest ditch to die in.

“That’s not how you should speak to me, Miss Y/N. Now you certainly aren’t getting it back.” Professor Park retorted, his evil little smirk growing even wider. You wanted to hit him, or kick or scream, but you couldn’t do anything except stand there and try your hardest not to cry. “I was puzzled, but I followed his instructions, bending over the top of his desk so that my chest, belly and arms were pressed against the hardwood. My nose was merely a centimeter or two away from the letter, which made it difficult to read. My skirt was starting to… to slide up the backs of my thighs, but I was sure that if I moved to tug it back down, I would just get into even more trouble.”

You grimace when Professor Park's voice broke, his smile slowly starting to slide off his face and twisting into something unreadable. But he did not stop reading. “’Now read the letter to yourself. Read it over and over again.’ My professor said. I read: “In today’s rapidly evolving global landscape, the integration of technology in…” and at the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he— he… um… Oh.”

You began to feel less like wanting to die and more like you were actually dying. Professor Park stares hard at the pages for a painfully long moment, his ears turning bright cherry red, but to your surprise and absolute mortification, he began to read aloud again. His voice had dropped that cheerful quality, however, sounding winded as if he had been hit upside the head. “At the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he reeled his arm back and spanked me hard. I stopped reading with a loud gasp, shocked— the sting reverberated through my core, fiery hot, and despite my embarrassment I began to soak through my panties. At my silence, I was spanked again, even harder. ‘I said read it.’ My professor reminded me. ‘Be a good girl and follow instructions.’”

Professor Park shuts the book closed abruptly and looks up at you with a very red face and wide eyes. The tears that had been pooling in your lashes threaten to spill down your cheeks, so overcome with fear and embarrassment that your stomach turns like you're going to be sick. That was just what you needed to top off this already life-ruining experience, wasn’t it; vomiting all over your professor after he uncovers your darkest, dirtiest secret.

“This is extremely inappropriate material to bring on campus.” Professor Park finally says, his voice wavering.

“Yes, sir.”

“And that relationship, it’s… wrong. It’s against the university’s code of conduct. I— he could get fired for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You shouldn’t be reading this. It’ll put... thoughts in your head that don’t need to be there.”

“…Yes, sir.” Part of you wants to argue with him, remind him that you’re an adult and can read whatever it is that you would like, but you don’t have the strength to.

He sighs heavily, like something important is weighing on his mind, and he hands you back your book before turning back to pour over the scattered, forgotten papers on his desk. “Go home, Miss L/N. And get rid of that book.”

You turn tail and scamper out into the hall, but you can’t help but glance back into Professor Park's office as you leave. He’s hunched over his desk with his elbows resting on the wood, his fingers tangled in his dark hair as he rests his head in his hands. It seems like something is bothering him, something bigger than grading papers or your stupid, silly book.

You don’t stick around to find out what it is.

The next morning, you receive a rather hastily written email from Professor Park telling you that he’s cancelling classes for the rest of the week. He’s come down with a cold, he claims— you and the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach know better than to believe that.

You don’t see him until that next Monday, but even then he might as well not have shown up at all. He struggles to get through his lesson plan even more than usual, and he wouldn’t look away from his papers or the projector, even when one of your classmates raised their hand to ask a question. You spent the entire period gathering up the courage to go up to him after his lecture, but when you do he brushes you off with a lame, half-baked excuse about having papers to grade and no time to talk, grabbing his things in a rush and scampering out of the lecture hall before you can call out for him to come back.

The pit in your stomach opens up into a black hole, swallowing up everything except for overwhelming, gnawing anxiety. It’s eating you up inside, manifesting itself in how you’ve chewed your lips until they bled, and then bit your nails down to the quicks— anyone with eyes could see that something was weighing on you, and you became increasingly tired of all your friends asking if anything was wrong, so once you were finished with your classes you took to hiding out in your dorm room curled up on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around you as you sullenly binge-watched a k-drama you’ve seen a thousand times.

While you were more of a homebody, your two roommates were much the opposite. Karina and Giselle loved to go out and party. Tonight was no different, the two of them flittering around the dorm as they got ready to go out to some club, and while they had given up on trying to get you to join them a while ago, something about the way you moped about seemed to reinvigorate Karina’s desire to get you off of your ass and out on the town. She knew you better than anybody, and immediately she could sniff out that something was off.

“Why don’t you come with us? You can borrow one of my dresses.” She offers, rummaging through her collection of high heels. “It’s a Friday night, everyone’s out! We can dance, we can find some boys to take home; it’ll be fun. You look like you need some.”

“I don’t need to have fun. I need to study.” You reply solemnly, scowling, but you make no moves to get up off the couch. It was a shitty excuse even to your own ears; it was obvious you didn’t have any plans to do anything tonight except feel sorry for yourself.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” She huffs. You don’t even have to look at her to know that she’s rolling her eyes. “Something’s bothering you and you won’t even tell me or Gigi what’s wrong. Don’t you think a drink or two would be good for you? You can vent to us all night, too. I promise we’ll listen.”

“I don’t know if I even want to tell you about it.”

“Why not? We’re your best friends, Y/Nie. You can tell us anything, even if it’s stupid or embarrassing. If it’s bothering you this badly, it’s clearly something serious.”

You peer out from under the blanket to look over at Karina— the worry in her eyes makes your heart sink. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even consider taking her or Giselle up on their offers, but the way you were stuck running circles inside your head was far from normal. “You promise not to laugh at me?” She smiles warmly. “Nope. But I promise I’ll hear you out regardless.”

The loud, thumping bass reverberating throughout the club did very little to help ease your pounding headache. Your temples throbbed with every beat, the pressure so severe it felt as if your skull was just moments away from splitting in two. You don’t think you’ve ever been this uncomfortable in your life; the dress that Karina gave to you was a size or two too small, the shiny fabric so tight around your chest that you gasp for air. It would be difficult for you to breathe even in properly fitting clothes, the air hot and heavy from the throngs of sweaty bodies that surrounded you. You felt claustrophobic, the crowd closing in on you and threatening to swallow you whole— the only place to escape was to the bar, but even there you’re bombarded with flashing lights, deafening music, and the overlapping voices of everyone around you. You have to strain your ears to make out what Giselle was saying, and she was just on the barstool right next to yours.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” She giggles, sipping on a brightly colored cocktail. She had ordered a round of them for all three of you, and the amount of alcohol mixed in them felt like a sucker punch to the face, even with all the sickeningly sweet grenadine the bartender had used to try and mask the flavor. You watch in abject horror as both she and Karina downed them one by one like they were water.

“No.”  you reply honestly.

“You will once you tell us what’s going on with you!” Karina interjects from your other side. “I meant it when I said I wanted you to vent to us, let it all out and give us the tea! Aeri’s dying to know.”

“It’s really embarrassing…” you admit, staring forlornly down at your own drink. “I’d rather just forget all about it.”

“It can’t be that bad. You didn’t drop your pants in front of everyone or anything, did you?”

You cringe. “God, no. It’s not like that.”

“Then it’s nothing you can’t tell us about.” Giselle shoots you a smile over the rim of her glass.

“It’s… it’s about Professor Park.”

“You and Gigi's lit professor?” Karina asks, cocking her head. “Isn’t he the one you have a massive crush on?”

Your cheeks flush, your drink becoming even more interesting as you avoid looking at either of them in the eye. “Maybe.”

“Ugh, your taste in men is the worst.” Giselle snickers. “I don’t understand why you like him so much. He’s such a dick.”

You fight down the urge to defend him— for some odd reason, you feel a surge of protectiveness over Professor Park, even when you completely agree with what Giselle is saying about him. “Yes, I like him, but that’s not the point. The point is that I totally fucked up and now I think he hates me.”

“What did you do?! Please tell me you cursed him out, he fucking deserves it.”

“No, Gigi, oh my God.” Even the mere thought of doing something like that sends shivers down your spine. “He caught me reading during class.”

“…That’s it? You’re freaking out over that?” Giselle blinks.

“It’s what I was reading that’s the problem.” you lament miserably, gathering your courage with a sip of your disgusting cocktail. “I have this book; it’s about a teacher and a student… getting together, if you know what I mean. It’s really dirty… and he caught me reading it in class. He took it, and then he read it himself right in front of me! He thinks I’m a freak. It’s been two days and he won’t even look at me.”

Karina and Giselle stare at you.

“Why the hell were you reading a smut book in class?!” Karina gasps, her dark glittery makeup making her wide eyes look even wider. “And one about a professor, too— were you trying to get caught? There’s better ways to go about telling him that you want to fuck him.”

“I don’t know— I was bored and stupid, okay?!” You had been asking yourself the same question for days, mentally beating yourself to a pulp every time it crossed your mind. “I thought he wouldn’t notice me since I sat in the back… now he’s going to tell the dean, and I’m going to get expelled, and—”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Giselle stops you in your downwards spiral, grabbing your shoulder to ground you. “You’re thinking too hard about this. He’s probably just a prude. If he was going to do something like that, he would have probably done it by now. Plus, I don’t think that’s really something you can be expelled over.”

You lean into her touch, resting your head on her shoulder as she pats your back comfortingly. “He’s mad at me…” you whine petulantly. “I was trying to get that TA position, too… fuck, I’m so screwed.”

“What would he be mad at you for? Being horny?” Karina laughs, “It’s really his own fault for snooping in your stuff.”

“I think you’ll still get it.” Giselle supplies helpfully. “You’ve really got nothing to worry about. Sure, your grade sucks, but I’ve seen the two of you talking in the hallway before— the way he looks at you is insane. And the way he looks at your ass when you leave is even crazier. You just showed him that you feel the same way about him that he does about you.”

“Don’t say that.” You groan. “You think that about every guy I talk to. There’s no way in hell that Professor Park feels anything for me except hatred.”

“If you’re really that worried about it, you can always just apologize.” Karina says, drumming her long nails against her glass. “It might not do anything, but it’ll make you feel better.”

That was the first bit of real advice either her or Giselle had given you in a while, even if it left a bad taste in your mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like that would just make things worse. I need to go to the bathroom.”

You scramble off the barstool in a rush, teetering on your heels— you weren’t even that tipsy, but every step made you feel like a newborn deer. Karina and Giselle watch you hobble away in pity.

You stumble through the crowd in search of a bathroom sign, quickly getting lost in the sea of bodies. There’s little room to move around, everyone pressed up against each other dancing, too intoxicated to notice you trying to politely squeeze by. They jostle and knock you around, and you nearly trip over your own wobbly feet multiple times. Your headache grows nearly unbearable, your desperation to find an escape leading you to start pushing people out of the way so you can continue to move forward. One particularly drunk woman nearly knocks you to the ground, and she shoots you a dirty look over her shoulder when you shoulder past her roughly. You hate to be rude, but you’re teetering dangerously close to your breaking point. You need to find some peace and quiet, and fast.

But all of that goes out the window when among the countless bobbing and weaving heads, you spot a frighteningly familiar pair of broad shoulders.

“Professor Park?!” you call out in shock, shoving your way towards him. “What are you doing here?!”

Without his suits and big clunky glasses on, you almost don’t recognize him. He was leaning back against the wall with two men who you vaguely recognize as other professors at the university, talking and laughing amongst themselves with beers in their hands. You admire the profile of his strong, angular nose, the way his pronounced collarbones peeked out from the loose linen shirt he wore, the first few buttons undone to show a delicious strip of tan skin. His dark hair, usually gelled back to show his forehead, was left fluffy and untamed, framing his dark, intoxicating eyes. He jumps a little at your voice, turning away from the men to look at you.

His eyes widen sharply, moving slowly from your face down to your chest. They linger there for a moment, blinking owlishly, before he tears them away from you completely, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

“Oh, um. Hello, Miss L/N.” he covers up his stutter with a weak cough, suddenly very interested in the state of his shoes. You make a quick mental note to thank Karina later for convincing you to squeeze yourself into this stupid dress.

“Oh, this is Y/N?” One of the two other men slurs gleefully, a grin stretching across his handsome face. There was a certain hunger in the way he undresses you with his eyes, scanning you head to toe like a predator. You could tell from his flushed pink cheeks that he was very drunk. “I’ve heard all about you! It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Something odd flashes in Professor Park's eyes and he jerks his head to shoot his friend a deathly glare. He was far too tipsy to notice.

“You’ve… heard about me?” you cringe, your heart sinking. Out of whatever Professor Park had to say about you, none of it could be anything good.

“Oh, not much, just that you’re one of the brightest students that he’s ever taught.” The other man cuts in, chuckling. He tips his head back and takes a swig of his beer, flashing you his sharp jawline. “One of his favorites to have in class, he says.”

“Such a smart head on those little shoulders! You should consider taking my econ course next year, it’d be a gift to see your pretty face in my class.” The first man adds, his crooked smirk widening.

“Jake, Jay, please.” Professor Park grits out through gritted teeth, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, what did you say, Miss L/N?”

You splutter as your lips refuse to form words. You?! The brightest student he’s ever had?! That was just a complete and utter lie; if it wasn’t for Giselle helping you with an extra credit assignment you had practically begged him on your knees for, you would be failing his class spectacularly. You couldn’t fathom why Professor Park would say something like that to these two men, when nearly every class he was scolding you for being late, distracted, forgetting your deadlines, a combination of all three and more. Not only that, but with what had transpired the other day still fresh and stinging… they had to be saving face or making some kind of sick joke. As you collect your thoughts, you half expect them to start pointing and laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, peering up at Professor Park's blushing face. He avoids meeting your eyes, just like how he did in class.

“Am I not allowed to enjoy the start of my weekend?” he retorts, fiddling with the pull tab on his beer. “Clearly, you’re doing the same.”

He spits out the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. It stung like an insult. “I thought you said you were busy.” you assert, biting your lip to keep from scoffing. The liquor giving you a little too much courage; he was still Professor Park, even if now standing in front of you he looked like just any other guy.

“I… was.” He mumbles, “And now I’m not anymore. It’s really not any of your business.”

It takes everything you have to keep from blurting out that your book really wasn’t any of his business either, but you manage to hold your tongue.

“I’m sorry, I just— Sir, I need to talk to you.”

 “There’s nothing to talk about.” He says matter-of-factly. It’s far from what you were expecting him to say.

“What do you mean?” you challenge, your annoyance starting to turn sour. “It’s about the other day.”

Professor Park continues to play dumb, though he keeps throwing sidelong glances to his coworkers. “What about it?”

“I want to apologize.” You bite hard on your lower lip. For doing nothing wrong.

Professor Park's eyes snap up to meet yours, inky dark irises wide in shock. “Y/N—”

“Apologize?” Professor Park's friend— Jake, you think— butts in, raising an eyebrow. “What happened?”

All the color leaves Professor Park's face, even the blush that was slowly trailing from his cheeks down his neck. He awkwardly clears his throat and averts his gaze, putting on a show of cupping his ear and pretending to be confused. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over all of this noise! If you have a question, I’ll be in my office tomorrow afternoon. Go on and have a good night.”

“Wait, Professor—!”

“Have a good night!”

It takes you a long time to find your way back to the bar, drunk, defeated, and stewing in your own thoughts. You’re pleasantly surprised to see that Giselle and Karina have been sat waiting for you all this time, but you don’t have it in you to feel happy or grateful as you plop yourself back onto your empty barstool. Their irritation quickly shifts to confusion and worry, both shooting you odd glances as Karina tentatively hands you another cocktail.

“Are you okay?”

“Did you get lost or something?”

You take a long sip, the disgusting sweetness and the bitter liquor overpowering your senses enough to calm your racing thoughts. “I think I’m going to go and talk to Professor Park tomorrow.” is all you say.

“If you fuck him, please put in a good word for me.” Giselle slurs drunkenly in reply. “I need to pass that fucking class.”

“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you, Miss L/N?” Professor Park whispers in your ear, his deep voice dripping with honeyed venom. The fabric of his dress shirt ghosts over your back, his body so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He has you trapped against his big wooden desk, bent over it obscenely with your ass in the air as you whimper and squirm. Your skirt and panties pool at your ankles, leaving your most intimate areas exposed for him to view. Your leaking pussy quivered from the icy cold air, your hole clenching desperately around nothing and aching to be filled.

“I’m sorry!” You mewl, voice wavering.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you sorry for?” he presses, so deliciously condescending in the way he feigns ignorance, “Apologize to me properly and tell me what it was that you did.”

“I’ve been bad, sir. I was reading during your lecture, and I’m sorry—”

“Oh, you weren’t just reading.” Professor Park scoffs, straightening himself up and off your back. He rounds the desk to circle you like prey, his slow methodical steps echoing throughout the quiet of his office. They echo in your ears and strike a dizzying mix of fear and anticipation in your heart.

“I-I was reading smut and…” your face burns hotter than the sun, and you close your eyes and take a deep breath to will yourself to have the courage to admit what it was you were caught doing. “…And I was touching myself.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He stops to stand at your side, his mere presence hovering above you enough to make you shudder. “Tell me exactly how you were touching that slutty little pussy.”

His words go straight to your core, making you squeeze your thighs together in need. Just a little friction was all you needed, and the edge of his desk granted a great opportunity… but as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t let yourself give in to desperation and grind yourself against Professor Park's desk like a dog in heat. He would notice immediately, and it would only worsen your punishment.

“I was… I was rubbing my clit through my panties.” you admit ashamedly, “Grinding against my fingers. I was going to put one inside but you… you stopped me.”

“I could see your hand up your skirt all the way from the back of the class.” Professor Park spits, his carefully controlled demeanor cracking and his wild, untamed anger boiling to the surface. “It’s like you’re trying to get the two of us caught. You’re lucky no one else was looking… or was that what you wanted? Did you want everyone to see what a slut you are?”

“N-no!” you gasp, but the idea gets you even wetter; you wanted nothing more than for everyone to know that he was much more than just your professor, that he was yours and in turn you were his. “I’m a slut j-just for you, no one else!”

“Fuck, that’s right.” he groans lowly, his voice dripping sex. He picks up a long wooden ruler off his desk, right by your head, and points the tip at the nape of your neck. It ran slowly down the curve of your spine, a ghostly barely-there touch that left a trail of fire erupt across your skin. He stops at the plush swell of your ass, gently caressing your flesh with the cold wood. “You’re all mine. My favorite little student. You just need some discipline to put you back in your place, hm? Show me what a good girl you can be and count for me.”

He rears his arm back, poised and ready to strike. You can hear the ruler whooshing through the air, sharp and fast as he swings his arm forwards—

Your eyes snap open with a gasp. Suddenly, you’re back in your bedroom, curled up safe and sound in your bed, groggy and disoriented as you slowly come back down to reality. While you dreamt about Professor Park often, never had one felt this vivid, this real. You can still feel the echoes of his touch, the phantom pain of his ruler against your asscheek haunting you like a ghost. Your panties are soaked through completely, sticky arousal pooling in the fabric and dripping down your thighs, creating a wet spot on your sheets. You toss and turn to try and go back to sleep, but it’s no use; you’re so horny you can’t think straight, can’t ignore the dull throbbing in your core.

As your hand slides under the waistband of your panties, you decide that enough is enough.

You were at your breaking point. Your life had spiraled completely out of control in the span of just two days, all because your stupid puppy-love crush of a professor had to be nosy about your reading material. He just had to find a way to humiliate you even more than he already did, didn’t he? He could’ve just given you your book back and the two of you could have gone on with your lives. He shouldn’t have even taken your book in the first place! You could have continued fantasizing about him from the back of the class, not a worry in the world, instead of losing precious hours of sleep and mentally beating yourself up.

And after your interaction at the bar, you feel even more ridiculous. If Professor Park truly had the intention of telling someone about what he had caught you reading, wouldn’t he have told the other professors that he was with? And lying to them about you being his smartest student…  you couldn’t wrap your head around it.

It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. But even if he wants to pretend like none of this ever happened, you just couldn’t.

There was simply no other way for you to get over all of this other than finally confronting him. You needed to make the endless spiral stop, tell him exactly what was on your mind and finally put this to bed. The longer you stew over everything that has transpired, the more your fear and anxiety boils over into anger. This was all Professor Park's fault! You needed to give him a piece of your mind, or you don’t think you’ll ever be able to move on.

Professor Park doesn’t answer until after the fifth knock, his face immediately dropping once he swings open his office door to see you standing there in front of him. His hair is a mess and his clothes are disheveled, his tie half undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Anxiously he adjusts his glasses, the wide brown eyes behind them looking like a cornered deer’s. “You actually came over to apologize?” He blurts out before you can even open your mouth, genuine surprise taking over his features. “I didn’t think you—"

“Actually, no, I’m not here to apologize!” you declare, the words spilling out before you gave yourself the time to second guess yourself. You had lied awake until the sun came up thinking about what to say, and you weren’t going to let those wasted hours go to waste. “I’m here to tell you, sir, that going through my book was an invasion of my privacy! And that it’s none of your business what I read! I’m an adult, not a child, and I can do whatever I damn well please!”

Professor Park blinks owlishly, staring at you in stunned silence for so long that your newfound confidence falters and you begin to shuffle nervously.

“Oh. Um… alright.” He finally says.

“Alright?!” you echo incredulously, your irritation coming back in full swing. “You’ve been avoiding me for days and all you have to say for yourself is alright?!”

Professor Park's eyes flicker around anxiously, and it suddenly hits you that you were yelling at him in a public hallway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes you do!” you shriek. This really wasn’t how you were planning on any of this going, but it was far too late to turn back. You open your mouth to continue your rant, face burning hot with unbridled rage, but Professor Park quickly grabs your wrist and roughly pulls you into his office. The sudden act shocked you into silence, your eyes wide and mouth agape as he drags you all the way back to his desk. 

“Listen.” He growls, his voice octaves deeper than you’ve ever heard it before. “You’re acting way out of line right now. Don’t you dare ever talk to me like that, you understand me? I’m still your professor, even when we’re not in class. You’re to treat me with respect—”

“Then you treat me with respect first!” you retort, though you do manage to calm yourself down enough to lower your voice. “Playing dumb and refusing to talk to me after humiliating me in front of everyone! What was even the point of doing that? Was it just for your own sick pleasure?!”

“Y/N.” Professor Park sighs, the second time you’ve ever heard him call you by your first name— the first was at the club, but you were far too distracted to dwell on it. “I know you have some sort of feelings for me. You’re not very good at hiding it.”

Your entire world comes crashing around you, though you suppose that you shouldn’t be too surprised. You had just let yourself hope beyond reason that he would never pay you any attention.

“What I’m trying to say is… Y/N, you need to stop it. Get rid of the book. I can’t be with you, it’ll never work, okay? I’m your teacher, and ten years your senior. There’s plenty of college boys around campus for you to ogle over instead.”

“You say you can’t but… do you want to?” you ask quietly, barely above a whisper.

Professor Park doesn’t meet your eyes. “I could get in a lot of trouble, Y/N. You could too.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You challenge, a hopeful spark igniting in your chest. He didn’t say no… and you may be looking too into things, or just clinging onto hope, but that was more than enough proof to you that your professor was hiding some feelings of his own.

“We can’t do this.” He mumbles, his voice growing wilder, more defiant.

“Sure we can! I’m an adult, you’re an adult… did I scare you away with my book or something? Look, it’s okay if it wasn’t up your alley. There’s nothing wrong with being vanilla, Professor. You don’t have to, like, spank me or anything—”

“But I do!” he interjects suddenly, his head shooting up to look at you with wild eyes. His entire face was bright crimson red.

“You… wait, what?” you must have misheard him. That was the only explanation, surely; There was no way he actually—

“I can’t stop thinking about it! I thought there was no way you’d be into anything like that, that I needed to stop thinking about you and move on like a professional, but then you go and pull this, and now I can’t go a single second without thinking about putting you over my knee! It’s driving me insane! I can’t even look at you!” 

“Professor—”

“Sunghoon. God, just call me Sunghoon. I can’t handle you calling me that right now.”

You open and close your mouth a couple of times, surely looking like a fish out of water— This was the absolute last thing you expected to come out of your professor’s— Sunghoon's—mouth. Your eyes bulge out of your head, your face burns hotter than the sun… your pussy clenches pathetically. It felt like you were in a dream, almost, which might have been why you suddenly felt so brazen— if you wanted him, and he wanted you, who were you to deny him?

“Then do it.” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He looks just as shocked at your proclamation as you were. “If you want to do it that bad, do it.”

He moves in a flash, giving you no time to prepare— within seconds has you thrown over his lap on his office swivel chair, your hair hanging in your face as you blink wildly at the floor. Sunghoon brushes one of his big hands against you skirt-clad ass, barely a brush of his fingers, but you still gasp all the same.

“Do you really want this?” He breathes, voice low, his breathing hard—the outline of his cock presses hard against your stomach through his slacks, making it considerably hard to focus on the words that came out of his mouth.

It takes you a moment, but you manage to choke out a whiny “Yes, sir, please.”

Sunghoon stutters out an uneven breath, his fingers inching down to the hem of your skirt, teasing the tops of your thighs for just a moment before pulling the fabric up to expose your ass, a noticeable wet spot present on your panties.

“So pretty…” He coos. You can feel his cock twitch against your stomach, those long knobby fingers trailing along the edge of your lacy thong. “Is it okay if I take your panties off, bunny?”

You whimper and nod your head— Sunghoon lands a gentle love-tap to the junction of your thighs with an airy chuckle. “Use your words like a good girl.”

This couldn’t be happening. You had to be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something, anything except truly living through this fantasy come to life— Boring, bland Professor Park, the biggest prude you thought you knew, was just way too good at this, at making your legs shake and your pussy throb all the while barely touching you. In just an afternoon your reality had shifted from thinking that he had to be the world’s biggest loser virgin to thinking that he was even sexier than the professor in your book.

You weren’t sure how to feel about it, but your cunt did. 

You must have stayed silent for too long, because without much warning Sunghoon lands a much harsher spank to the top of your asscheek. “Bad girl!” he admonishes, and you can hear the teasing, rotten grin in his voice “C’mon baby, use your big girl words. Tell me how much you want it.” His hot breath fans over your ear— you couldn’t hold in your moan even if you tried, the broken whine sounding weak and pathetic even to your own ears. 

“P-Please, sir… please take my panties off. Please spank me.” you whimper, your face beet red and your pussy drooling— his deft fingers stroke slowly up and down your folds, feeling the wetness seep through the cotton fabric of your panties. You bite your lip to keep from screaming.

“That’s my good girl.” You could hear your panties rip as he tears them off of you in one solid motion, the biting cold air meeting your hot soaking cunt and making both you and Sunghoon hiss. He admires the slick leaking down your thighs for a brief silent moment, deep breathy voice cooing at the way you arch into him and his touch, before he straightens back up and lands a stinging, eye watering spank deliciously close to your core. You yelp at the sting.

“That’s for being a fucking tease,” he states, soothing your reddening flesh with a soft caress of his palm. “Being so fucking sexy all the time and driving me crazy because I thought I could never have you.”

You hadn’t realized that this was confessional. Shooting him an evil smile over your shoulder, you giggle, “You could’ve just asked.”

Another spank, this time with even more force. Your hips buck with a shrill cry spilling from your open, panting mouth, your eyes watering— you had no idea Professor Park was this strong. He refuses to give you any time to prepare, never warning you when the next hit to your ass will come. “I didn’t say you could talk back to me.” He growls.

You’re on the verge of tears from the red-hot stinging in your ass, but you still giggle at his words. “You’re kinky.”

He just rolls his eyes, spanking you again, albeit a little softer. “And this one’s for being a brat. How about you start counting for me, little girl? That’s one.”

“One?! You’ve hit me four times!” Maybe you were pushing it too far, but it just came naturally to you to fight back, make him work for your submission and obedience. You relished pushing him as far as he would go; you relished losing.

Sunghoon grabs a handful of your hair and yanks hard, making you gasp loudly and your empty pussy flutter. Leaning down close to your ear, he lets out a warning growl; “I said fucking count.”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Torn between bucking your hips into Professor Park's bulge and pushing back into the touch of his hand, you give a quiet, watery whimper of “One…”

The hand holding your hair lets go, your head falling limply over his knee. “That’s my girl.” He coos lowly, stroking your head.

It distracts you enough that the next harsh slap to your ass feels even more intense than any of the others before it. “T-two…”

“That’s for being so fucking disrespectful. And in front of my colleagues too, no less. It’s like you were asking for me to ruin you.” he tsks. “You need to learn to watch your mouth.”

The urge to say something smart tugs at you again, even if just to prove his point, but another spank rains down on your sore, bruising asscheeks before you can seize the opportunity.

“T-three!”

“And that’s… that’s for pushing me to put you over my lap in the first place. You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you? And now look at you, making me risk my job to teach you a lesson.” Sunghoon's voice wavers, filling with an emotion you couldn’t quite place— it was extremely difficult to focus on his words when his fingers began to trail down the curve of your ass to your sticky, quivering folds, rubbings the tip of his thumb right over your clothed core. You moan unabashedly, shifting your hips and opening your legs to give him better access to what was peeking out between your thighs.

The fifth spank never comes. He pushes two long, thick fingers between your folds, stuttering out a low moan like he was the one being touched. He starts a rough, dizzying pace almost immediately, his fingertips searching for that spongy spot inside of you. You grind your hips back against Sunghoon's fingers, a drooling mess against his slacks.

“Pr-Professor…” you whine high in your throat — you want more, want him to speed up, slow down… his touches were driving you wild. You hadn’t been touched like this ever before.

“I told you not to call me that.” He hisses, curling his fingers against your sweet spot and making you keen. “Please, call me by my name.”

“Sunghoon!” you cry out, writhing against him. You felt a passion rising within you like the hottest fire, clouding your brain. You couldn’t think of anything except of the pleasure that he gave you, couldn’t utter out anything other than his name.

“Such a slut, falling apart just on my fingers…” he chucks huskily, enamored with the filthy wet sounds your cunt made and how they echoed through the quiet office. “I’ve thought about doing this for forever, God… you’re just as beautiful as I thought you’d be.”

His thumb, wet from your arousal, comes down to rub tight, delicious circles against your sensitive, engorged clit, your strangled wail no doubt loud enough to be heard from the hallway. The building ecstasy distracts you enough for him to push in a third finger into your tight hole. The stretch burns but you love it, your hips kicking and moans growing louder and louder as he effortlessly takes you apart. 

“...Too much…!” you manage to choke out, digging your teeth into the fabric of Sunghoon's slacks to keep yourself from screaming out in bliss. You felt full to the brim, pushed closer and closer to the edge with every rough flick of your clit and thrust of his perfect talented fingers. He teases a fourth finger around your leaking, stretched out rim, the threat of it alone enough to make your eyes roll back in your head.

“Oh baby, if this is too much there’s no way you’ll be able to take my cock…” 

The tears that had been brimming in your eyes start to stream freely down your burning cheeks, choked hiccups and sobs wracking your body, but it was the most pleasurable agony you had ever been in. Your hips move with a mind of their own, bucking against Sunghoon's cock, thick and hard as a rock, only seeming to grow bigger and bigger every time you rub against it. You relish the sharp intakes of breath he takes every time you move against him. He was starting to fall apart too, you could tell, his voice sounding a lot less dominating and a lot more whiny and pathetic with each roll of his hips up into your tummy.

“I’m gonna… gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he whines low in his throat, his hand completely soaked in your arousal up to the wrist. “You gonna make a mess for me?”

His fingers dig impossibly and wonderfully hard into your sweet spot, that white-hot band of desire in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with each perfectly aimed thrust. You wail and sob, your hand reaching back to grab a tight fistful of his shirt sleeve. “I-I-m— ‘m gonna cum!”

Sunghoon's other hand, the one that had been stroking your hair, then comfortingly up and down your back, rises up to smack your ass, the sudden burst of stinging pain making you scream, and for real this time.

 “You gotta ask first, bad girl! Gotta ask for permission b-before you cum…” His voice starts to break, his hips stuttering helplessly— the feeling of his big fat cock grinding hard against you only added to the fire in your belly. 

“Can I cum? Please, sir, can I cum? I’ll be a good girl, I promise, just let me cum!” you had no control over your mouth, hardly any conscious at all— all you could focus on was the tightening in your belly, the way Sunghoon's fingers thrusted in and out of your pussy so good… you were his brainless whore, fucked dumb on his fingers. 

“Shit, go on honey, my good girl… cum all over me, make a mess!” with his permission you let yourself topple over the edge, moaning and whimpering like a whore as you soak your thighs, his hand, his shirt and slacks with your juices. You lay across his lap twitching for quite some time afterwards, your chest heaving like you had just run a marathon… you’d never come before like that in your life, not as hard or for as long. Sunghoon was with you the whole way as you come down from your high, sweet as can be as he coos praises into your hair and pats your back, kissing your head when you raised it to look over your shoulder at him.

Slowly, you realize that you no longer feel his bulge poking at your belly. You release your iron grip on his shirt to slide your hand down his chest and abdomen, all the way down to gently cup his very wet crotch. “Sir…?”

“F-fuck... sorry, baby… couldn’t help it…” he turns his head away from you to hide his glowing red face, but you can see how his blush spreads down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“Did you just… cum?” you ask in awe and disbelief, looking down to see a dark stain spreading across the fabric of his slacks. Sunghoon only mumbles in response, refusing to answer or turn back to look at you, his blush growing an even deeper shade of red. It was all the confirmation you needed.

Professor Park came in his pants like a virgin without you even needing to touch him. Something about that alights a blazing inferno in your core, your senses overtaken with need even though you had just had an orgasm yourself.

“I want to taste it.” You breathe out, your overwhelming desire eclipsing any rational thought and taking control of your words.

“Y-you… what?” his head snaps back to you in surprise, his eyes wide and clouded with lust as they gaze headily into yours.

“Your cum, wanna taste it, want it on my tongue…” you’ve never spoken like this to anyone, your voice not feeling like your own— the words spill out from between your lips mindlessly, desperate for more of his brain numbing pleasure as you rub him through his slacks. His cock twitches underneath your fingertips, beginning to harden again from the ministrations. “Can I please suck you off, sir?”

“Fuck.” Sunghoon moans, rough and deep in his chest, the sound shooting straight to your sensitive pussy. “Yeah you can, naughty girl, come on, get on your knees and suck my cock. Clean up my mess.”

Your entire body feels limp and weak, not wanting to cooperate with you as you slide off of his lap to the floor. It takes great effort to get yourself situated, kneeling on the floor with your unsteady hands grasping at his thick thighs. He widens his legs to give you more room to get comfortable, one of his big hands instinctively coming down to tangle in your hair as your own begin to slide up the insides of his thighs towards his straining belt buckle.

Ever so slowly and meticulously you unbuckle Sunghoon's belt, the jingling of the metal buckle as it’s casted aside like music to your ears. You pull his pants and boxers down together in one rough tug, Sunghoon canting his hips to help you guide them down his thighs. His cock springs free and slaps obscenely against his belly, smearing the light fabric of his dress shirt in his thick, viscous cum. You can’t help but stop and stare, enamored by the sheer size of it— nearly as thick as a can and twice the length of one, throbbing veins making your mouth water. Cum still leaks from his angry red tip, fat and bulbous, the entirety of his length wet and shiny down to his heavy, twitching balls and neatly trimmed pubes.

You kiss the tip with a delighted grin, the contact barely-there but enough to make him throw his head back and whimper in delight. Your tongue peeks out from between your lips to slide across his slit, earning a high-pitched needy hiss from the man above you, his long fingers tightening their grip on your hair as you lick down his dripping shaft. His thick, salty cum tastes like ambrosia on your tongue, the delicious bitterness quickly getting you drunk. You can’t stop until you lick him completely clean, and even then it’s impossible for you to pull away, the feeling of his weeping cockhead heavy on your tongue far too addicting. Greedily you suck him into your mouth, relishing in the way his girth stretches your lips before swallowing him deeper and deeper until his tip knocks against the back of your throat. You can hardly fit your hands around him, let alone your mouth, fisting what couldn’t fit down your throat as you start bobbing your head. More broken tears collect on your lashes and drip down your wet cheeks, looking utterly ruined and wanton as you gaze up from between Sunghoon's legs into his hazy, unfocused eyes.

The eye contact is too much for him— his eyes roll back in his head with a whimper and his cock twitches violently inside of your mouth, the grip he has on your hair shifting from guiding your head along his shaft to tugging you off him with a sudden and disorienting strength. He pulls you off him with a wet pop, a foamy string of saliva connecting from his shiny cockhead to your needy whimpering lips.

“I’m gonna cum again if you don’t stop,” he pants, gasping for breath, “I gotta fuck that pussy first, little girl, please. Need to feel that tight cunt squeezing around me.”

“D’you wanna cum inside?” you goad, a lustful, mischievous grin overtaking your features, “Don’t worry, Hoonie, I’m on the pill. You can fill me up if you want to.”

Your words make him visibly shake, the nickname making him whimper, what was left of his flimsy resolve crumbling right before your eyes, leaving nothing but primal hunger. “Get on the fucking desk.”

You obey immediately, hardly able to contain your excitement as you stumble to your feet and bend over Sunghoon's big oak desk, wiggling your ass in the air invitingly. Your skirt was pushed up past your hips, exposing your dripping puffy hole for his eyes to feast upon.

“So pretty…” he croons behind you, his hands caressing your hips and waist. They smooth over the exposed globes of your ass, his fingers ghosting over your sticky, quivering folds. Pretty pink skirt that compliments your flushed skin, looks so delectable running through his fingers as he grabs your asscheeks and spreads them wide. “You look so cute in pink.”

he hisses in appreciation at the sight of your dripping hole quivering, sliding a finger down between your pussy lips to circle at your engorged clit. “Holy fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, accentuating his claim with a flick of his hand— your pussy squelches obscenely, the lewd, pornographic sound making your cheeks flush. “I can’t take it anymore, I have to be inside of you— you can take it, right doll?”

“Please!” you beg, hardly able to string together a sentence, “Please, sir, put it in, I need it so bad, need your cock—”

You’re interrupted by the feeling of his cockhead slapping against your entrance, Sunghoon running the leaky tip up and down your slit a few times just to hear your little whimper before burying himself inside to the hilt in one smooth thrust. He rams into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs, his long fat shaft stretching out your hole much more than you could have ever been prepared for. The burn is indescribable, overwhelming every single one of your senses in the best way, your tight gummy walls gripping his cock like a vice as the both of you struggle to adjust.

He's so deep inside of you it feels as if he’s poked through your cervix and into your womb, his big fat mushroom head snug right beneath your belly button. You’re so deliciously full that it makes your head spin, already fucked completely brainless before he had even begun to properly move.

“Does it hurt?” he asks you softly, so gentle compared to how he carved out your insides. In any other circumstance you would find it sweet that he was this concerned, but you were certain that if he didn’t start moving inside of you right then and there, you were going to die.

“More.” you croak back in response. “Give it to me.”

With a winded groan, he relents. He pulls his cock out until just the head was inside of you, giving you not a single moment to prepare before slamming back in with a force that knocks you further up on the desk. The hardwood against your cheek does nothing to muffle your loud, unabashed shriek, so he improvises by shoving two of his thick fingers past your open lips, the musky tang of your own juices filling your mouth when you suck hungrily at the digits. He set up a punishing rhythm within seconds, his hips clapping loudly and wetly against your ass while he muffles your whines and wails. His heavy balls smack against your oversensitive clit with every rough thrust, sending shockwave after shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. The desk cuts into the skin of your hips painfully, but if anything, it only adds to the burning sweetness building steadily in the pit of your belly.

“F-fuck, I’m close already!” Sunghoon puffs against the shell of your ear, pressing himself up against your back— you’re suddenly thrown back into your dream from the night before, the way the sensations were eerily similar yet nowhere near as good as the real thing. “Gonna cum inside you, is that okay? Wanna see how pretty your pussy looks dripping my cum.”

You can only drool in response, your thoughts fragmented and scattered, babbling desperate nonsense and rolling your hips back to meet his thrusts with a dizzying force. Your body vibrates with liquid fire, heating your puffy cunt and quivering thighs— faster than ever before were you hurtling towards your climax, that familiar tightening in your core growing harder and harder to bear. You wanted nothing more than to yield to the tide, let it overtake you completely, and in turn pull Sunghoon down with you.

Your professor was going to cum inside of you. The fantasies that had haunted you for months truly became a tangible reality. What did you do to make you so lucky?

“This slutty pussy’s sucking me in so fucking tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing sloppier, “Tell me you want my cum, baby, come on. Who’s cum do you want inside of you? Tell me and I’ll give it to you!”

“Yours!” you shriek with the last remaining bits of your energy, your words nearly incomprehensible to how you sniffled and sobbed around Sunghoon's fingers. “Want your cum— my professor’s cum inside of me!”

You took a gamble, but it was just what he wanted to hear. With one last aggressive thrust, he bottoms out inside of your pulsating cunt, his bulbous cockhead kissing your battered cervix as he cums with a broken cry. The sensation of his sticky, hot seed splashing against your insides is just what you need to tip over the edge yourself, your walls clamping down on him and milking him for all he’s worth as you ride out your own climax with long, surrendering moans. He hisses from the overstimulation, but he makes no movements to pull out, letting himself soften inside of you as you both struggle to catch your breaths. Thick viscous globs of your mixed cum leak out from where you’re connected, dripping down your thighs and Sunghoon's balls to collect in a puddle on the floor.

You gaze over your shoulder to watch as he slowly and carefully pulls out, a creamy, foamy white ring formed around the base of his cock. His glasses were fogged up from his heavy breathing, his hair and clothes even more a mess than it was when he had first opened the door, his pink face so irritatingly kissable when he shoots you a nervous smile.

You cant help but giggle at him.

“You’re not going to… tell anyone about this, are you?” he asks you anxiously, opening one of the desk’s drawers to retrieve a packet of tissues.

“As long as you explain to me why you told those other professors that I was your best student.” You reply smartly, your grin widening when he scowls.

“It was the only way I could think of how to explain why I talk about you so much.” He admits, a little shy, wiping down the mess between your thighs with a fistful of cheap, scratchy tissues. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather if we continued that charade so it doesn’t look suspicious when I ask you to come to my office every once in a while.”

“Will you give me that TA position then?”

“You technically don’t qualify,” He laughs, “but I thought that was a given.”

“You won’t regret bending the rules a little, I promise.” You tell him with a wink and a smile. The love-stricken grin he shoots back at you in return makes your heart soar.

“I know I won’t.”

[lnfours]

you | l.n

summary: what’s more romantic: laying cuddled up next to the fireplace on christmas eve with the love of your life, or that special item in the little black box with a bow?

warnings: established relationship, mentions of sexual content, holiday vibes, and tooth rotting fluff.

message from jordan: hi everyone! here’s to the first christmas fic you’ll be receiving from me! don’t worry, focal point is still very much in production and will most likely have a chapter coming out later this week :) i hope you all enjoy!! sending you all my love, as always 🤍

masterlist | inbox

the orange and yellow flames kept the both of you warm as you laid with your head on his chest. his fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes into the soft skin of your bicep, your head resting on his chest as you found yourself listening to the sound of his beating heart.

the one that only beats for you.

your legs were intertwined with his, and you had found yourself tracing over the indents in his abdomen with your fingernails. silky soft and tanned skin littered with moles and freckles. the same ones you made sure you pressed kisses to every time you found yourself in their path. they littered his skin like stars in the night sky. and to you, they were just as beautiful. one of your favorite features of his.

his breath tickled your neck, smiling softly when he placed a kiss to the skin where your neck met your collarbone. you felt him pull you closer against him, leaving no gaps between you. not even enough space for air.

it was the little moments like these that you cherished the most, the ones you held close to your heart. the ones you’d think of whenever someone would mention how well the two of you mesh together, that you’re the definition of his soulmate. his version of a nice, warm soup you crave on a cold and windy winter day.

simply enough, you were each other’s soul healing medicine.

“missed you,” he mumbled against the crook of your neck, “sorry i couldn’t help you bring your stuff over.”

he had told you to bring more things from your apartment to his house. and when you protested, he argued that you already had a side of the vanity in the bathroom filled with your makeup, skincare and any other possible hygiene products you could think of. you had even taken over a side of his closet.

and maybe a drawer or two of his dresser that you hadn’t told him about. instead, while in search of a pair of socks, he had found a couple pairs of your pajamas in the drawer.

the simple fact that you had been leaving your things behind whenever you’d go back to your apartment for a couple days was like little reminders to him. reminders that you’d be back in a few days time, that it wasn’t a temporary situation to you. this was real. and you were all in, just like him.

“‘s okay, max was here to help,” you said, “sorry i took over one of your shelves. i wanted to bring some books,”

he shook his head, “don’t be sorry, i like your stuff being here. makes it feel more like home.”

you smiled, tilting your head to meet the pair of blueish-green eyes you had fallen head first in love with. the ones you had seen one night out in london, the ones that you had been mesmerized by ever since.

he tapped on your arm lightly, a silent signal that he was going to move. you untangled yourself from him with a soft frown, not really wanting to reposition yourself beings the previous state had been far more comfortable. you sat up as he did, watching as he kneeled towards the tree, picking up various packages and looking at them before putting them back down. it was like he was looking for one in particular.

“what’re you doing?”

“looking for something,” he said softly, “i can’t remember where i put it- oh here it is.”

you furrowed your eyebrows when he turned around with a small little box in his hand. a black box with a white bow on the top, too neatly done to have been done by him. you squinted at him, taking it cautiously.

“it’s not christmas yet,” you questioned his actions.

“i know, but i’ve been trying to decide if i wanted to give it to you early,” he said, “but i think now is the perfect time. besides the fact that i’m impatient.”

you chuckled softly, undoing the bow on top and playfully tossing it his way. his reflexes allowed him to catch it, placing it down on the floor next to him. he took the time to take in your figure, how pretty you looked in the dim light of the christmas tree and city lights shining in through the windows. how his tshirt had ended up around your frame, hair slightly messy.

to him, you were the most perfect person in the world. the only person he envisioned a life with, who he wanted to come home to at the end of the day. the only one who understood him better than he knew himself. he thanked every god possible and counted every lucky star for the night in london that had changed his life.

“i swear, if something pops out at me, so help me god,”

he laughed, “nothings gonna pop out at you, baby. promise.”

you squinted, narrowing your eyes towards him as a sign that you didn’t necessarily believe him. you lifted the lid of the box with slight caution, and when it was clear that he was telling the truth about there being no surprises, you fully opened it. however, the gift inside the box raised more questions.

“a key?” you lifted your head, letting your eyes meet his as you held it up, “to what?”

“our home.”

you blinked at him, speechless for a moment as he smirked at you.

“wait, what-?”

“move in with me,” he said, “i’ve been thinking about it, for a while now actually, and you’re the person i want to have a life with. i want to come home and find you on the couch watching tv or dancing along to the music playing in the kitchen while you’re cooking dinner. youre the one i want to wake up next to every morning, the one i want to say goodnight to every night before i fall asleep. it’s you, not anyone else,”

you fought the tears welling up in your eyes from his sweet words as he continued, “and i love the fact that every single one of your things has a spot next to mine. i want this crazy little life that we have forever, so this is my way of asking if you’ll move in with me.”

you bit on your bottom lip as you smiled, “i mean, i don’t really go to my apartment anymore anyway, so-“

he didn’t let you finish before he was pulling on your arms to bring you closer to him, making you squeal as you landed on top of him on the floor. you giggled when he pressed his lips to yours, kissing him back. the kiss only breaking when your smiles got to be too wide.

“i love you,” he mumbled against your lips, “more than anything.”

you hummed, “i’ll always love you more, though.”

warmth spread for your chest at the idea of taking your relationship one step forward. you had known for a while that he was the one you wanted to do everything with, but knowing he was on the exact same page as you was a feeling like no other. a state of euphoria. one that made you feel giddy inside, like you were back in high school with a crush all over again. the same kind of exciting feeling that you prayed never died.

and as long as he was yours and you were his, that was never going to go away.

he flipped the two of you over so he was back to hovering over you on the floor, the same position the two of you had been in earlier in the night. you played with the hairs on the back of his neck absentmindedly as you spoke.

“even though it’s not a new home, does this count enough that we get to christen every surface of this apartment?”

he laughed softly, nose bumping against yours, fingers lightly tracing into the skin of your waist underneath your shirt, his lips brushing against yours sending shivers down your spine. the kind only he could cause.

“do we even have any spots left?”

“oh i’ve got a mental list, don’t worry.” you smiled as his head fell to your collarbone. the sound of his giggle echoing through the room, causing you to laugh too.

your eternal happy place.

“then, what’re we waiting for?”

“i like the way you think, pretty boy.”

[mariasont]

EEEEK your post prison fic for spencer is fREAking me out!!! could you maybe do one where spencer is now teasing the reader a bit? maybe he's giving her extra praise and she freaks (what would i do if he called me a good girl? 😩) (this is very indulgent to my praise kink i'm so so sorry 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️) tytyty!! i adore love and cherish you and your work 💕

I Aim To Please - S.R

a/n: shewwwwww to be complimented by post prison spencer fucking reid. im drooling!!!! but anyway babes i adore & love YOU!!!! so thank u so so sooo much for requesting 💖💖

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x shy!media-liaison!reader

warnings: spencer being hot, reader being shy girl, spencer being a little shit who loves to tease

wc: 1.5k

There were a few basic rules you had established from working at BAU. First, avoid Rossi at all costs until he’s had at least two cups of coffee. Second, never attempt to outwit Emily; she’ll see right through you and crush your argument every single time. And third—perhaps the most crucial—do everything in your power to maintain your freaking composure around Dr. Reid.

That last one, however, was proving to be a monumental challenge. It wasn’t just the way he spoke, his brain firing off at a speed only he could keep up with. It wasn’t even the way he seemed oblivious to how endearing those very quirks were. No, it was the fact that the simple act of him breathing in your direction had you scrambling to hold yourself together. And honestly you were failing miserably.

Which is why you spent most of your time holed up in your office. It wasn’t much—just a desk, a slightly uncomfortable chair, and a perpetually growing stack of case files that seemed determined to bury you. But it offered privacy, and that was enough. Here you could breathe, decompress, and occasionally allow yourself to daydream about a certain genius profiler without the risk of public humiliation.

The bullpen was proving to be too chaotic, too close to him. Your office gave you distance, a buffer. But, as you had come to learn, hiding only worked when he didn’t decide to seek you out. And Spencer Reid had a knack for finding you when you least expected it.

"Hey."

You jumped slightly, nearly fumbling the stack of press notes you’d been carefully organizing.

Turning toward the door, you found Spencer leaning casually against the frame, a file tucked under one arm and a distracted sort of smile on his face. His tie was slightly loosened, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, and—just like that—your brain completely short-circuited.

"Hi," you said, trying not to sound too startled. "Do you, um, need something?"

"Yeah." He further into the room, lifting the file in explanation. "I was looking at the local coverage of our case, and I noticed a couple discrepancies in the timeline published."

"Oh,” you said softly, quickly shuffling the press notes into a messy pile and pushing them to the side. "Well, um, sometimes reporters try to fill gaps when they don't the facts. It's... frustrating, but it happens."

You glanced up at him briefly, but that look of his made your cheeks warm. Your fingers twisted together in your lap as you tried to focus on anything other than how ridiculously self-conscious you suddenly felt.

"That makes sense. I figured you'd know."

Instead of lingering in the doorway or leaving like you assumed he would, Spencer, casually grabbed the chair across from your desk. He spun it around in one fluid motion and sat it backwards, draping his arms on the backrest with an ease that felt strangely familiar—like you had been friends or colleagues for years instead of just a few months.

"I'll reach out to them about fixing the timeline," you said, your hand instinctively moving a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You clasped your hands together to still them, offering a small, nervous smile. "It shouldn't be too hard to correct."

"Thanks," he said. "That'll probably save from giving another long-winded lecture on factual reporting."

You gave a quiet laugh, grateful for the distraction from your tasks, though you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about the company. Not that you didn’t enjoy his company—there was plenty to enjoy, more than you cared to admit. If you could manage to function like a normal human being around him, you might even look forward to moments like this.

But then he tilted his head slightly, his eyes studying you as if he were unraveling some kind of puzzle and for one terrifying second, you were convinced he could hear every single thought racing through your mind.

"So," he began, "how are you liking it here so far? The job, I mean. Is it what you expected?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. "Oh, um... yeah. It's been great so far. Busy, but... I like it."

"That's good," he said, nodding. "I know it’s not exactly the most predictable job. Some people don't expect it to be so... chaotic."

"Well," you said, fidgeting slightly with your pen. "I knew what I was signing up for. Or, at least I thought I did. It's a lot, but it's rewarding."

"That's a good attitude to have," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Honestly, you're doing a great job. I don't know how you manage to keep everything straight."

Your heart leaped, thudding in your chest as warmth flooded your face. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, especially from someone like him. You wanted to savor the moment, to bottle up the way his words made you feel, but your nerves refused to let you fully enjoy it.

"I'm just, um, organized I guess,” you stammered, your hand flying up to rub at the back of your neck.

"More than just organized," he replied easily, completely unaware of how his words were affecting you. "You've got half the team wrapped around your finger already. Even Rossi listen when you talk. That's impressive."

Your face burned. "I think that's more about respect for the job than me."

Spencer shrugged lightly, as he was watching you, like he didn't quite believe you. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just better at this than you give yourself credit for."

You let out a nervous chuckle, fingers twitching as you fiddled with the corner of the paper in front of you.

"I don't... I don't know about that."

He tilted his head, again, his brow quirking. "Do you know how to take a compliment?"

"Of course I do." You were sure your voice lacked the conviction needed.

He smirked, leaning forward over the chair. "Doesn't seem like it."

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat, tangled in the frantic web that was your thoughts around this infuriating man.

"Well, uh, you’ve only done it twice, so I don’t think that’s enough for you to judge."

His grin widened. "Oh? So you’re saying I should try again? For research purposes?"

Your eyes widened, and you blinked rapidly as if to process his words, your hands shooting up as if to physically block the implication. "I—uh—no, that's not what I meant.”

"No, no," he said, sitting up straighter and waiving off your flustered attempt to deflect. "I aim to please. If more compliments are what you’re after, I’ve got plenty.”

"Please, no."

"You're incredibly efficient. Seriously, I think you've managed to anticipate what the team needs before we even know we need it. And your ability to keep your cool under pressure? That's impressive. I mean, do you even get stressed? Because if you do, you hide it really well."

"Dr. Reid—," you squeaked, covering your face with your hands as if that could somehow shield you from the onslaught of praise.

"And," he continued, clearly now enjoying himself. "You're probably the most patient person, I've ever met. Which is something, considering you work with people who constantly interrupt and derail your perfectly planned press briefings."

Your stomach flipped, and you felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment pooling in your chest. As much as you wanted to sink to the floor, the way he looked at you sent every nerve in your body spiraling. Each word felt like it was tailored to you, peeling back the very thin veneer of control you’d desperately tried to maintain over the massive crush you found yourself drowning in.

Your head dropped to the desk with a soft thunk, muffling your groan. "Okay, okay, I get it."

He leaned forward just slightly, resting his chin on his arms atop the chair. "Now what do you say?"

"Thank you."

He smirked widened. "See? That wasn't so hard was it?"

Your cheeks burned even hotter, and you averted your eyes, trying to hide the nervous smile tugging at your lips. "You didn't have to go on and on..."

"Oh, but I did." He was still grinning. "You deserved it."

You risked a glance back at him, losing your cool by the second. That only made your face heat up more. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you haven't kicked me out of your office."

"That's only because I didn’t think it would work."

"Well," he said, turning towards the door. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't mind the compliments."

You opened your mouth to protest but no words came out. Instead, you watched helplessly as he shot you one last smile before disappearing into the hallway.

When the door finally clicked shut behind him, you let out a shaky breath and drop your head back onto the desk.

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[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller.

Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

The snow hadn't melted yet. It lay heavy and whole across the landscape, an unbroken layer of white pressed onto the earth. The mountains in the distance were pale and still, touched by the sharp blue light of morning. Everything looked hushed.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was climbing with that late- winter defiance— bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. His voice was casual, he wanted Joel to say yes. Like he needed proof they were moving toward spring.

Joel didn’t answer. He kept his gaze forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue. Then he saw something, just a break in the white, a shape that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it— something old and hardwired in his gut pulling taut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle. Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, his hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. For anything.

There it was— a pulse. Faint, but steady.

And then he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested. It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry. They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. The wind cut sharp between their shoulders, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself. Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

The room was small— bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the corners. The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still.

Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves, focused, professional. Maria stood just inside the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman—checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection— protocol, as always— and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. His jaw was tense, arms crossed.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria finally spoke. “You did good,” she said, her gaze moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. The snow outside had hardened under the afternoon sun. His boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, the wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, his voice careful, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit— especially in the cold— but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use. His movements had a practiced efficiency.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm, reassuring.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast— someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. Somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells— an elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room— took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful— like they'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands.

“You’re becoming a bit of a celebrity around here, you know that?” Tommy said, his voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, the sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house, stretching across the table in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, your hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth forming. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you should hear them. They’re convinced. You know how many people around here have lost toes? A few have lost more. And you— nothing. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“You saved me,” you said, voice quiet. “You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle? ”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s something. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started calling you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time— an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson. Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small— barely there— but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He hasn’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Tommy said, slowly . “But I told him where you were staying. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just thoughtful.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks ago. She’s been fussing over it— putting up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything until you were feeling better. It’s not huge or anything— two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dining hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I’m not saying Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We thought you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. “Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “ just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs. The space hummed with life— forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, the thrum of conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt .

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest. You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt steady, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they lingered at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency.

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running   between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen—understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way— it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift— more like a softening than a transformation— but it was there. The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not the kind that came from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure— quietly sure— that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Spring was arriving in slow intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a quiet sort of purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. It was a comforting kind of noise, the human kind. You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you. Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse. Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction— just once— so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one— just enough to ground yourself.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. The rest of the room continued on around you, but the sound seemed to stretch out, soften, as if the distance between you and him was insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause suspended between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment— his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, his voice rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor of a long-abandoned room.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before— shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like it might steady you.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“I already got food,” he said plainly.

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being warm and don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought— maybe— you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind but unreadable.

And then nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened.

You waited. A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair. 

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

You blinked. Not from surprise— exactly— but from the sting of it.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now but no less certain. “ You don’t have to thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there. You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now. Her energy filled the space immediately, like she’d walked into a room she already owned. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open and mildly amused.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said. Your voice was even, but you felt the warmth rush to your face. The sharp kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller. 

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

The sky had the muted tone of brushed steel, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The wind carried a chill that felt out of place for spring, like the season was unsure whether it had permission to stay. The air was crisp, not cold, but enough to sting faintly when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot—more than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides. Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was something careful about it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs. “He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house  with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door, soft and unhurried. A pause, and then a voice— lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened. Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile—more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure. You glanced at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly, like she was trying to gauge your intention. “He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you said, lifting the basket slightly. “Just to thank him. Nothing more.”

She watched you for a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated. 

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were perched on the front steps of Joel’s porch. The basket sat between you like a third guest. For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited.

The air was crisp, the sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation—something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, not quiet either. Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. He didn’t see you at first— his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either. His face remained unchanged, impassive.

He let out a quiet exhale—not dramatic, not performative. Just a sound that suggested he was tired. 

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch. The logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt. “Hi,” you said.

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable, the same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“I told you it was okay ,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a finality that pressed against your chest.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What are you doing here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But y ou could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“You don’t have to thank me again,” he said, cutting you off.  “What I did... Anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said.  “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, more softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath— this one heavier, but quieter. He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you. He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards. His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back—just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her gaze lingered on you for a second, something unsure flickering across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling faintly, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path. You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full. Conversations hummed softly around you—people passing mugs back and forth, chairs dragging against the floor, the scrape of metal spoons on ceramic. Outside, the light was still thin and cold.

Maria was seated across from you, her posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising gently from her tea.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it’s not about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really want to do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped. “I am healed,” you said. “Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a kind of tempered amusement.

“All right, but what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you—like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean—I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at following orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—something half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said, voice warm but steady. “That’s good to hear. I might have something in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place with care. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies—nails, paint, tools.

The space downstairs was broad and functional. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs—not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were cracked open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing faintly behind one of them. You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t hesitate. He knocked, three times, sharp and confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—something about that startled you more than it should have. 

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly in acknowledgment, a short-lived smile curving across his mouth. And then he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, his voice low.

Tommy grinned a little. “I’m bringing you help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what ?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I’ve been hallucinating, you’ve been complaining every other day about how much you’re juggling on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinating, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I thought the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget. Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away.

“What exactly is she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She’s not strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She’s not here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep putting off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things moving.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry—more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer the name carrying just a thread of insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, imitating his brother's tone.

“Joel,” Tommy said again.

Joel blinked once, as if trying to clear something from his head. “Isn’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You’ve got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His gaze finally moved—just briefly—to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops working."

Tommy turned to glance at you, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that resembled a smile. “So? What do you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you—like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door, your steps measured, not rushed. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you—Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs, the wood familiar under your fingers. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes,” Tommy replied simply.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Then he looked at Joel directly, something pointed in his expression. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle—seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested heavily on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt in a way that felt unintentional. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinking I’d want everything within reach while we were working. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way. There was something questioning in his expression, like he couldn’t quite figure you out—or maybe he just didn’t want to try.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that sharp edge of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Your voice was steady, not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work around here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anything away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely looking over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

divider by: omi-resources

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[rivalsispunk]

20 Cigarettes (DBF!Joel Miller x reader)

summary: a chance run in with your dad's best friend while visiting home for a wedding leads to something you may never be able to take back.

tags/warning: +18, mdni. Joel is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s. age gap. f!reader. unprotected piv. creampie. SMUTT. angst. slow burn. jealous Joel. drinking, smoking, swearing.(if I've missed anything let me know and I'll amend). no outbreak, non canon, mention of TLOU characters but nothing is in line with the show/game aside from the fact Joel is the dilf to end all dilfs hehe

w/c: 10k

a/n: couldn't get the new Morgan Wallen song out of my head or Joel for that matter, so enjoy this plotty smutty fic.

It’s nearly nine and The Rusty Antler is buzzing, content chatter battling with the speakers blasting a mix of pub classics and country hits. It’s unsurprising for a Friday night. The dive has always been the perfect place for locals to drink away the stresses of the week and get geared up for the weekend, everyone from tradesmen straight off the job to moms gone wild and newly twenty-one-year-olds filling up the high tops and dance floor. There’s smoke filtering in from the front deck where patrons have slipped out for a cigarette, the smog creating a haze through the bar that’s backlit but the neon beer signs hooked up on the walls. The antique Shiner sign hanging above your booth table casts a green hue over Dina, making her white Bride sash appear minty under the light.

You’d flown into Austin barely twenty-four hours ago, ready to celebrate your high school best friend’s bachelorette party, along with a couple other childhood friends and two women from Dina’s job at City Hall. You spent the bulk of the day at the local spa, getting pampered with everything from massages to manis and pedis, blowouts, the works. Dina didn’t want anything fancy for her send-off into married life.

“Just wanna do what I love, with the people I love,” she’d told you when preliminary plans were being discussed a few months back. And what Dina wants, Dina gets, which is how the six of you ended up at The Rusty Antler, the one bar that had always been your favourite since you were old enough to drink — and maybe for a few years beforehand, when you’d been able to distract the bouncer from the dodgy, fifty buck fake IDs Dina had bought from some stoner under the school bleachers. There was nothing like a night out with your girlfriends at a cosy dive with drinks and music — something you’d missed whenever you returned to Charlotte, where you’ve lived the past three years since graduating on scholarship from Duke.

You readjust the pink Bridesmaid sash that’s slung across your body, surveying the crowd.

“You got your eye on anyone special?” Molly, one of your high school friends, asks, jostling your shoulder.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p when you turn back to face the table. “That’s not what tonight’s about. I’m happy hanging with my girls and our bride-to-be.”

Dina flutters her eyelashes while she sips on her margarita. “You know, you hooking up with someone tonight would be the best wedding present you could get me.” “Your wedding’s still not for another two weeks,” you remind her. “Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “Babe, I know what Jesse did was God-awful. I fucking hate him for doing that to you. But you know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” A chorus of totally and you’re so right rouses from the rest of the group. You shake your head, heart clenching like someone has a fist around it at the mention of Jesse. Sure, it’d been a couple months since he’d confessed to sleeping with a colleague, since you’d kicked him out of your apartment, since you’d broken up, but it wasn’t that easy to just move on. It’d been a four-year relationship. You’d seen each other through your Junior and Senior years at college and into navigating the real world together. You couldn’t just turn that part of your life off. 

“Hey,” Dina’s co-worker Reese says, interrupting whatever conversation had taken over from your love life. “Do any of you know that guy? He keeps looking over here.” You follow the manicured finger she’s pointing across the room, to where a man sits at one of the bar stools, attention currently on the bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Dark, wavy hair. Carhartt jacket fighting the wide breadth of his shoulders, green flannel poking out from underneath. Worn boots rest on the foot rail that runs along the length of the rickety bar, living up to its name.

Yeah, you know him.

“Hold this for a minute.” 

You palm off your tequila soda to Molly before pushing out of the black vinyl booth, just as Dina asks, “Wait, isn’t that Joel Miller?”

Your dad’s best friend. He moved in across the street the summer you returned sixteen, after his divorce and with a bubbly, curly-haired eleven-year-old daughter in two. He and your father bonded quickly over single fatherhood and sports. They were always at one or the other’s houses, cheering on game days, grilling up regular barbecues for the neighbours, drinking beers. Now that you were well into your twenties and living interstate, you couldn’t visit home as much as you’d liked, but it gave you peace of mind knowing your dad had Joel to keep him company. It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen him, and God — what’s that saying about aging and fine wine? He must be in his early forties now, at least, about a decade younger than your dad. Time has been nothing but kind to the contractor, whose skin glows with a tan from years of working on sites in the sun. 

As you cross the bar towards him, you notice the silvery strands in his hair, almost metallic under the low lights, that sprout at his temples and weave their way through the waves he’s running a bearish hand over.  The colours match the coarse scruff that hugs his jaw and chin, patchy in places, but not unkempt.

You slip between Joel’s barstool and the next one before saying, “You spying on me, Miller?” 

He doesn’t startle, just rolls his eyes up to meet yours like he was expecting you. “Define spyin’,” he responds flatly, but you don’t miss the tilt at the corner of his mouth. “You use a fake ID to get in ‘ere tonight?”

You try to quell a grin by pushing your tongue to your cheek. It was a couple of weeks before your eighteenth birthday, your dad was out of town and you and Dina thought you’d try your luck at The Rusty Antler. The IDs had worked. You just hadn’t factored in the possibility that your dad’s best buddy would be there, too. He hadn’t ratted on you though, not in the time since, and for that you were grateful. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm,” Joel tuts, unbelieving.

You glance at his glass. “Drinking alone?”

“Just finished up with a couple of guys from the crew. Might stay for one more,” he says as his eyes rake over you, gaze stalling at the sash draped over the swell of your breasts in a low-cut, blank tank. “S’who’s getting married?”

“Dina,” you tell him, chin jutting in the direction of where your friend is using a penis-shaped straw as a microphone while she sings along to Mr Brightside. “From high school. Don’t know if you remember her or—”

“I remember,” he cuts you off. “She babysat Sarah with you a coupl’a times.” Joel shakes his head, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. “God, can’t believe y’all are at the age where you’re getting married.”

“Well, some of us.” Jesse flashes across your mind.

“Your dad mentioned you and your fella broke up. Sorry to hear.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is anything?” Joel scoffs.

Your dimple dips into your cheek at his cynicism. “You’re telling me.” A few beats pass as you watch Joel take a languid sip of the amber liquid in his glass before he clears his throat, focusing on the scratched timber countertop. You lean backwards, elbows resting on the bar, hoping to appear nonchalant despite the weird shift you immediately felt in his presence. “And what about you?”

He looks at you sidelong. “What about me?”

“You seeing anyone?” It’s none of your business, but you’re not ready to cut the conversation short just yet.

“Don’t have time for that, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Your body tingles at the nickname.

“That’s not what I heard.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “And what did ya hear?” “Dad said you’ve been out a few times with Tess from down the street.”

“Did he now?” Joel chuckles to himself. You feel the rumble of it in your own chest. “It’s nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” you regurgitate. Then, egged on by the alcohol in your system: “So, you’re just fucking each other, then?”

He splutters over his glass, hissing your name with a reprimanding lilt. 

“What?” you ask, voice laced with innocence.

“Just never heard you talk like that. Swearin’ and all.”

“Then you ain’t spent enough time with me. I’m all grown up now, you know.”

“I noticed,” he grits, voice so low you don’t hear what he says over the whump of the music.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” He glances over your shoulder, nodding in the direction of your group. “I think your friends are looking for you.” He’s not wrong. Dina and the other girls are waving you over as Brooks and Dunn’s Neon Moon begins to filter out over the speakers. 

You should want to join your friends. You should want to celebrate Dina’s last official night out before she becomes a wife. But your feet are lead, keeping you stationary on the sticky barroom floor next to Joel—your dad’s best friend, you have to remind yourself, though the title feels redundant with the way his molten eyes pour over you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But you feel it, every lick of his gaze over your bare skin branding you under the neon bleating on the wall.

“Okay, well,” you straighten up, push your chest out proudly in a way that pulls Joel’s attention to your breasts again. “It was nice to see you, Joel. Might see you around at my dad’s. I’m down for a couple of weeks, ‘til after the wedding.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joel nods curtly. “Have fun. Don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

A light laugh bubbles from you. “Of course,” you tell him, resting a palm on his shoulder. “I always behave myself.” You push away from the bar without a second glance, but Joel’s focus is on you as you fight through the crowd that occupies the dance floor stretching between him and your friends. His eyes remain trained on the way your body swings with each step, your hips straining against your impossibly short leather skirt, the muscles in your legs rippling as your red Tecovas carry you across the room. Joel shifts on his stool. Drains his glass. Tries to ignore the fact that his faded Wranglers feel like they’ve tightened across his crotch, before flagging down the bartender for another drink. God knows he needs it.

Ten minutes later, a server appears and plants a tray of shots on the table. Dina immediately reaches for a glass of the clear liquid while one of the other girls tells the worker that you didn’t order them.

The server shakes his head. “It’s on that guy at the bar. He says congratulations.”

He’s gesturing to where Joel is perched on the peeling leather barstool. He smiles, only just, holding his neat glass of whiskey in the air with a cheers, his eyes locked on yours. You return a tight-lipped smile, holding his gaze as you throw the shot backwards, acidic heat trailing down your throat. Vodka. A shiver wracks your body before fire burns at the pit of your stomach, but whether it’s from the straight alcohol or the feeling of Joel’s eyes on you as you swallow it down is anyone’s guess. 

“Thank you, Mr Miller!” Dina screeches over the music, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave. Then she turns to you, head ducked as she says, “God, I haven’t seen him in years. When did he get so hot?”

No shit, you think, then suck down the rest of your lukewarm tequila soda and push Joel Miller to the back of your mind.

***

The night quickly progresses from slamming shots at your table in the corner to dirty dance moves on the tacky floor in the middle of the dive. The bar must be at capacity, with the way that you can barely sway your hips without bumping into another patron and how the line for drinks is four people deep the whole way along the counter. Right now, Dina is at your back, an arm slung around your middle as you jump in tandem to Luke Bryan’s Country Girl (Shake It For Me). Your heart thumps to the beat of the song, cheeks aching from smiling and the joy of spending time with your best friends after so long. You’re not thinking about much aside from making sure Dina has the night she deserves, your whole body feeling featherlight under the haze of alcohol, but there’s a niggling at the back of your mind, and a heat that sears your skin like you’re being watched. A heat that has your eyes darting around the room, searching for dark eyes and a square-set jaw that belongs to a man you have no business worrying about, let alone thinking about. 

Joel fucking Miller. 

And there he is, on that same barstool—though his back is to the bar now so he has full sight of the room—watching you through the ever-changing gaps in the crowd. 

Even from where he’s sitting, Joel notices the way your breathing hitches when you spot him, how sweat prickles just that little bit extra across your chest, his own breath catching when the light hits the bead that slips into the valley between your breasts. He knows he should look away. Hell, he should’ve walked out of here the minute he saw you barrel into the bar with your girlfriends, bridesmaid sash slung across your pert, young body—far more womanly than he remembered, or cared to notice, the previous times you’d visited home. But your dad is his best buddy. Joel owes it to him to keep an eye on his daughter, make sure she doesn’t run into any trouble. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself as your earlier declaration that you always behave toys on his conscience. Still, the angelic look that accompanied that confession is long gone as Joel watches you grind against your best friend in time to the music. A smirk tugs at your glossy, full lips, and the devious undertone of it sends a hot strike through his body, stirring his cock in its already half-hard state. Joel drops his free hand over himself, hoping to hide his arousal while the other fists his whiskey glass. With a quick glance around the room, he quickly realises he’s not the only one enjoying the show. Almost every man in the bar has his attention turned on you and Dina, watching keenly as the pair of you drop your bodies low, asses gyrating to the beat. 

The song crossfades into another upbeat country hit that has the crowd hollering in approval and dividing itself into rows for line dancing. The corresponding combination begins facing away from Joel, and you lose yourself in the side steps and heel taps, clapping along to the rhythm when the routine calls for it. When the song hits its second chorus, you swing your body around to face the bar, restarting the combination, but your feet falter when you notice the loss of Joel’s attention. Now, it’s turned on a pair of men a couple of feet away from him, tension thick as the taller of the two puffs his chest. He says something to Joel that’s completely intelligible to you, but whatever it is has Joel straightening up and his eyebrows drawing together until a divot forms between them. He’s pissed—and your stomach knots. It’s no secret that Joel Miller has a short fuse, and you’ve heard the stories of him getting into bar fights back when he and your dad were young. A few when they were older, too. It’s when Joel stands from his stool, knuckles white around his glass, that you break out of your line, maneuvering around people as they hit the moves to the Big & Rich tune. Your palm hits Joel’s chest—more muscular than you were expecting for a man of his age—just as he begins to move towards the men he was talking to. Confusion crosses his dark features as he peers down at you, eyes flickering from your face to the hand on him.

He growls your name. “Move.” 

You shake your head, press the butt of your palm into him even harder. “Joel, don’t. They’re not worth it.”

“Ah, so the sexy little bridesmaid belongs to you, hey, old man?” a gruff voice pipes up from behind. The comment fills in the gaps that they’ve been talking about you, and it curls Joel’s lips into a snarl. He fights against you, one of his arms shooting over your shoulder. 

“I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth.” The gravelled edge to his voice shouldn’t make your thighs press together, but it does. Your eyes drop from his face to his other hand, and you can’t stop imagining how it would feel on you instead of clenched at his side. Keeping your palm on him, pressure hard with warning, you shift so you can face the other men. 

“I think we’re done here.”

The bald one sluices his eyes down your body and it makes you want to shed your skin. It’s slimy, disgusting—nothing like the way it felt when Joel did the same thing. “Depends. What’s in it for me?” You narrow your gaze. "Not bleeding, if you're smart."

A lax smirk crops up on his pudgy face. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her. I like that.”

You can feel Joel stiffen against your hand. He’s practically vibrating, like a raging bull waiting to be let out of his pen. You stick a finger in the guy’s face, voice steady when you tell him to fuck off, aware that one of the bar’s security guards is circling close by in case the situation gets out of hand. The bald man’s friend seems to have noticed him too, because he nudges his head in the guard’s direction and suggests they move along. And they do, thankfully, but not without another snide comment under the bald guy’s breath. Whatever.

Joel’s chest heaves, your hand rising and falling with his breath as his eyes stay stuck over your head. His heart thunders through his flannel and pulses against your palm. This is the closest the pair of you have ever been. You’ve never even hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. Not on birthdays. Not during goodbyes. A cedar scent imbued with cinnamon radiates from Joel, and for a brief second you're compelled to shove your face into his chest and inhale. To commit his smell to memory, maybe feel what it's like for him to wrap his corded arms around you and hold you to him.

Are you good?, you call yourself out, blinking yourself back to reality, the one where Joel is still rattling with anger.

“Earth to Joel.” You take your hand and click twice in front of his face. “You good?”

Eventually, his dark eyes fall to yours, and he wills himself to not let them stray further down your body. You’re all too close. “I’m fine. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” you laugh incredulously. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked about three-quarters of the way to giving that guy a knuckle sandwich.”

Joel raises a thick eyebrow with a chuckle. “Thought you said you were all grown up. Grown ups don’t call it a knuckle sandwich.”

“Grown ups also don’t try to start bar fights.”

“Touché,” Joel mumbles, and you give him a playful shove that dissipates the last of the tension in the air. You spin on a heel to face the shelves full of liquor, just as Joel offers you a drink. 

“Tequila soda, right?”

“Someone’s paying attention,” you tease with a wink that goes straight to Joel’s cock. Again. Not to mention what it does to him when you lean forward on the countertop, tits pushed up to the high heavens when your arms cross over your front. 

Snap out of it, Miller, he scolds himself. 

“But no,” you continue, glancing down at his glass. “I want what you’re having.”

“You want a whiskey?”

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” Your eyes sparkle with a challenge. 

“Go on, then.” Joel tilts his glass towards you, inviting you to a sip of his drink. Goosebumps nip at your skin when your fingers graze when you take the whisky from him, a shock travelling from your fingertips to a heavy place at the pit of your stomach. You could blame the booze, but the way your body reacts to him feels far too real to be just a buzz.

His features are soft while you take a sip and let the whiskey coat your tongue. It’s sharp, smoky. A tinge of sweetness as it sweeps to your throat and burns its way down. The warmth of the liquor seems to flood through your veins, heating your entire body from top to toe, but your face remains unreadable to Joel when you put the glass back on its cardboard coaster. You’re unaffected, like the whiskey had no taste at all. He focuses on the golden sheen of liquid coating your full bottom lip, and he can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to take it into his mouth, to tug it with his teeth. What noise you’d make when he did—would you moan, whine? Hiss his name so he’d be forced to swallow it with a kiss? His breath catches again—fool, he thinks—when your tongue darts out and licks your lip clean, and somehow that tiny gesture is better than any intimate act he’s ever had any part of in his entire life.

“It’s good,” you confirm. Joel gives a barely-there smile and nods. “Best on the shelf.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you—“ Having fun, was his question, but a wall of orange appears beside you in the form of a younger guy in a Longhorns tee and backwards cap. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” he beams down at you, all perfectly straight white teeth and confidence. You return the smile but falter on the response, your eyes quickly flitting to Joel. You’re not sure why. For permission? Maybe. But there’s a dull tug in your chest, willing him to butt in, to tell the stranger that you’re busy and to get gone.

But Joel doesn’t even move. He’s not even looking at you, for Christ’s sake, just rolls his glass around in his palm, checks his watch like he’s got somewhere to be.

Fuck it. Your smile stretches into an inviting grin in spite of the sullen mood that’s taken over the man next to you. “I’m all good for a drink but I’ll take a dance!” you tell the stranger, who introduces himself as Drew when you start leading him back towards the dancefloor. Dina and Molly hoot and holler when they notice your new addition, your best friend patting you on the butt in encouragement as you begin swaying to a half-played out Miranda Lambert track. A couple more songs pass in a blur of casual dancing and half-shouted small talk with Drew, the kind that won’t matter tomorrow when you’re both long gone, a blip on each other’s radar. You’re laughing, swaying, letting his hands find polite places to land—but the whole time, you feel it. Joel. Watching. Seething. And you don’t know why, but it irks you—that scowl he wears like it’s his birthright, the way his eyes darken as they track your every move from across the bar. So you spin around, lips curled into something just shy of a dare, and press closer to your stranger, winding an arm over your head to loop around his neck. You lean in, slow and deliberate, hips swaying in time with the music, letting yourself laugh too easily when he dips to whisper something in your ear. Joel’s jaw ticks. Blood thrums in his ears, a low roar, drowning out everything but the sight of you wrapped around someone who isn’t him—someone who can touch you without consequence.  His fingers curl tighter around his glass, the strain in his hand matching the heat rising in his chest. 

Are you doing this on purpose? he wonders. Trying to torture him?

Then the kid that stole you away from Joel flips you around, hands bold on your hips, ducking his head like he’s about to claim your mouth right there on the dance floor. 

That’s enough. 

Joel shoves his stool back and it screeches against the timber flooring. He doesn’t wait to see what happens next—can’t. He’s done, stalking through the crowd and pushing through the front door before he says or does something he can’t take back.

He doesn’t see you pull away. Doesn’t hear you mutter not tonight to Drew as you edge out of his grip, turning back toward your friends, now dancing together in a tight, giggly circle. That’s when you see him—Joel—out of the corner of your eye, disappearing into the night, shoulders drawn tight. The tension in your chest eases, but in its place comes something heavier.

Not relief. Not really. Just the hollow ache of missing the burn of his attention—like standing in the cold after stepping out of the sun.

***

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building. 

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes? 

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug. 

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.” 

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

You almost smile back, but the moment splinters as loud laughter filters into the night, followed by your friends barrelling onto the deck in a flurry of heels and half-shouted inside jokes. Molly and Reese are struggling to hold up Dina, who’s draped between them like a ragdoll, giggling uncontrollably.

“She needs fries and a bed—now,” Tana, Dina’s other colleague says.

“You coming?” Molly wants to know, attention flicking to where Joel hangs a few feet back, your own gaze following suit before returning to your friend.

"I might hang out here a little longer,” you tell her. “I’ll grab a ride with Joel.”

His heart stalls when he overhears this, logic grinding against the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He should say he’s leaving too, tell you not to wait, to go home with your friends. But the words don’t come. They falter, thick on his tongue, swallowed down with the acrid burn of smoke.

A drunken laugh bubbles out of Dina, lazy eyes sweeping over you and Joel. "You know when I said you need to get over that asshole Jesse by getting under someone else?” she whisper-shouts. “I wasn’t talking about your dad's DILF-y neighbour.”

"Dina!" you hiss, red creeping up your neck. You're not sure what embarrasses you more—Dina calling Joel a DILF right in front of him, or the fact that the thought of getting under him had crossed your mind a few too many times tonight for your sober self’s liking.

“I’m just saying,” she slurs, hiking a thumb over her shoulder, “that cute guy you were dancing with is still in there.”

“Not gonna happen,” you shut her down, before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off before addressing Joel. “I know who you are, Miller, so if my best friend turns up missing tomorrow, I'm telling the cops to come for you, handsome."

Joel barks out a genuine laugh at this, cropping his fingers in the air in salute. "You got it, Dina. See you around, girls."

Girls. It lands like a warning. You hate how it brands you, how it tries to shrink you back into something smaller, younger. But maybe it’s not for you at all—maybe it’s for him. A last-ditch effort to redraw the line he’s toeing in his head.

You watch your friends climb into a taxi at the curb before joining Joel again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It’s too late to ask, but you do anyway.

“Not at all,” Joel lies on an inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke to the ceiling of the verandah, watching until it fans out in a thin cloud against the tin roof.

“You got another one of those?” You gesture to his cigarette. He looks from you to the burning nub, trying to piece together when the hell you picked up the habit. You expect him to pull another out of the packet that’s sat beside his wallet on the railing. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate to hold out the one he’s already got lit in the small space between you. The air’s already so charged, you’re surprised the burning cigarette doesn’t set the night alight in an explosion of flames, taking you and Joel with it. You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, conscious not to touch Joel again after the bolt of heat you felt when he handed over his whisky back inside. His eyes track your movements as you bring the cigarette to your mouth and take a long drag. As your pale pink lips fit around it naturally, your cheeks hollowing out just slightly. The thought of putting something else in its place causes Joel to shift from one booted foot to the other. You pull it back to reveal lipstick stained on the foot of the cigarette before handing it back to the man next to you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your question from earlier sounds different in Joel’s gruff drawl. And honestly, you’re not really one for the habit, but after a few drinks, you don’t mind pretending for a while.

You don’t tell Joel this, though, just throwing out: “I’m an adult now, remember? I do a lot of things I didn’t used to.”

“Guy in the Longhorns tee included in that?” Joel throws back. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but fuck, if it didn’t make him see red, that kid’s hands on you, only chasing his own high. He wouldn’t have looked after you. Not like Joel wants to. Not like he could… Like he shouldn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Not when you can see it written all over him—the bite in his voice, the flash across his eyes. He’s jealous. And trying like hell not to be. And God help you, but you like it. The electric charge, the crack in his armor. It’s raw, unguarded, and only fair that you return the candor.

“I’m kind of over the whole dating thing at the moment,” you confess, taking another drag. “Don’t know if Dad mentioned, but Jesse cheated on me. Some woman from work.”

Joel’s hand flexes at his side. “He didn’t tell me that. Sorry you had to go through that, darlin’.”

“It’s… fine,” you settle on, handing the cigarette back to him.

“‘S not fine. You don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. If he couldn’t see how good he had it, how beautiful you are…” Joel trails off, takes a puff. Meanwhile, your stomach flips at the compliment, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are blazing as bright as the pink sash still adorning your body.

“Anyway, that whole situation put me off. Made me realise most guys my age are idiots. So, no, I’m not jumping into bed with the guy in the Longhorns tee,” you tell him, a hint of jest in your voice.

Joel lets out a ragged laugh. “All men are idiots. Doesn’t matter how old.”

You glance at him, taking in his side profile—all harsh lines and facial hair you’d kill to feel brush against your skin. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Flicking ash over the railing, Joel turns his head, just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

The conversation ends there, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between unhurried drags for several minutes, set to the sound of the wind in the woods at the side of the bar, and the patrons inside singing along to Closing Time, despite The Rusty Antler still being an hour or so off shutting down for the night. The fall breeze picks and it tugs at your bridesmaid sash, lifting it away from your skin like a restless ghost. A shiver ripples through you, the cool night air pulling at the hair on your bare arms. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Joel swipes his wallet and cigarette pack from the railing and shoves them into his back pocket before shrugging off his jacket, smoke pitched between his teeth. 

“Put this on, ‘s cold,” he tells you, holding the Carhartt out for you.

“Joel, I’m fine, really—”

“Not an option. Your dad’ll kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.” You bristle at the mention of your father again, but still slide into the jacket. The sleeves are far too long, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, but it’s warm and smells of Joel.

“We better get goin’. Don’t wanna get caught in whatever storm’s headed our way,” he says around his cigarette, already leading you into the parking lot towards the old half-ton he’s driven for as long as you’ve known him. He holds the door open for you, stamps the butt out in the gravel while you climb in. Then he reaches into the cab without thinking, giving the seatbelt across your chest a firm tug to make sure it’s latched. It’s automatic, protective, and you’re hit with the memory of him doing the exact same thing to Sarah, back when her feet barely reached the floor mats. You watch Joel’s eyes drop, following the path of his own fingers as they flex slightly, knuckles grazing the soft curve of your breast through you top.

Then his eyes lift—slowly—and land on yours. He freezes. 

What the fuck is he doing?

Not just the seatbelt. This. You.

Something raw flickers across his face—guilt, regret, want—all tangled up in one tight breath. “Shit,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like it burns. “Sorry. Force of habit, I just—” He hesitates. “You good? Comfortable?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I’m good,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be. Joel lingers a second longer, Then, without a word, he pulls the door shut with a dull thunk.

***

Any hope of getting home before the storm hits fades fast. Barely five minutes down the road, the sky splits open with a white-hot flash of lightning. Then the rain comes, lashing against the windshield in heavy sheets that blur everything beyond the glass. The wipers on Joel’s truck beat furiously, but it’s like driving underwater. The tail lights ahead of you become smears of red in a pit of black. Joel leans forward with tight knuckles around the wheel, a newly lit cigarette between his lips. “Gotta pull over. Can’t see shit,” he grinds, flinging the wheel to the right until the truck rests in an embankment off the highway. It seems other drivers have had the same idea, because you see the glow of more tail lights a few car-lengths ahead. The radio crackles with John Denver—Take Me Home, Country Roads coming out all staticy no thanks to the signal being interfered with by the weather. 

The window’s cracked on Joel’s side, the rain tapping a quiet rhythm against it. He cranes his neck slightly to blow smoke out into the downpour, careful not to let it drift your way. A few rogue droplets slip in anyway, dotting the fabric of his flannelette sleeve. The cab smells like rain and smoke and him, and the clock on the dash blinks 12:06 AM in soft neon, casting faint shadows over the lines of his face. You unclick your seatbelt and shift in your seat, pitching one foot up on the edge of the bench, knee bent, jacket coming away from your body just enough to expose the smooth line of your thigh. It’s nothing—careless, comfortable but Joel sees it. Feels it. That small flash of skin tightens something low in his gut. The Carhartt swallows you whole, your tiny skirt and tank top disappearing underneath, making it look like there’s nothing beneath it at all. Like you’re naked under there, curled up in his passenger seat like you belong.

He turns his head, molars pressed together when he forces his eyes back to the windshield as the cigarette burns down in his hand. The rain’s still coming down in blinding sheets, hammering the hood, masking the way his breath falters. He stares through it, jaw ticking, and starts praying—quiet, fierce—that the storm lets up. Just enough to get you home. Out of his truck. Out of his jacket. Before he does something real fucking stupid.

“Sooo,” you start after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that the storm isn’t passing over any time soon. “Tess, huh?”

Joel groans. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

You duck your head, trying to meet his gaze as you tease, "Why? The thought of her getting you all hot 'n bothered there, Miller?"

There’s a whine of leather under his single-handed grip on the wheel, then comes the glare. 

It’s lethal.

There’s nothing going on with him and Tess. Not really. A couple of lowkey dinners. They fooled around once, only barely, because he struggled to get it up. It’d been a while, and in all honesty, the fling—if you could even call it that—was born out of boredom and a little coaxing from your father. Absolutely nothing to get all hot ‘n bothered about.

You pitch your hands up in mock surrender, sitting back against the seat. “No Tess talk. Got it,” you agree before letting out a contemplative hum. You could ask him about Sarah, but you two keep in touch enough for you to know she’s top of her class at UT, killing it on the first-string soccer team and has a boyfriend Joel isn’t privy to just yet. 

"Dad said you caught a nail a few months back," you settle on.

Joel shifts in his seat, taps ash out the cracked window. The truck rocks with the wind.

“Is there anything your old man don’t tell you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not really. If he’s not talkin’ to you, he’s talkin’ to me.”

He nods, slow. “Yeah. He misses you. Talks about you all the damn time.”

Another gust rattles the truck. You press your knee tighter to your chest for warmth, cheek now resting against it while you egg Joel on. “So, the nail?”

Joel huffs. “You don’t quit, huh?” You don’t dignify it with a response.. “Freak accident. Not as bad as it sounds. Ricocheted off a piece of sheet metal and wedged itself between my bottom two ribs. Just missed my lung."

You sit upright, turning your whole body to face him. “Jesus, Joel. That's what you call not as bad as it sounds?" No wonder your dad hadn’t mentioned the full extent of it. The idea of a nail sticking out of flesh makes your stomach turn over the swell of alcohol still sitting in it.

"It's fine. Had worse injuries."

Your heart thumps once, then—

"Can I see?"

Joel turns the full weight of his attention on you now, flinging the last of his cigarette into the storm, startled. "What?"

"You've got a scar, right? I wanna see it."

He arches a thick brown. "Bit morbid, don't ya think?"

"Please?" you push, dragging the word out with a look that’s all wide eyes and pouts.

Those fucking lips. How could he refuse?

Still, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while he reaches for the hem of his flannel, two fingers crooking under the fabric that he pulls up with the white t-shirt underneath. He moves slowly—intentional. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Inch by inch, Joel reveals skin that’s warm and tan, the flash of abs dusted with a smattering of hair. The muscles there aren't tight like a younger man’s, but sturdy—strong with age and history and years of hard labor. When Joel stops, he’s hovering just above an uneven scar that’s still tinged pink at its edges. While it’s obvious against his bronzed skin, it’s small, so you shift closer for a better view, too honed in on the injury to notice the space closing between you. Joel tenses at your proximity though, every muscle in his body drawing taut like a wire being stretched to its limits.

You reach for him, for the scar, without thinking, your fingers brushing the raised crescent of his skin. It’s ragged and warm beneath your touch—tender in a way that feels too intimate for the cab of an old truck in a thunderstorm. 

For a man and his best friend’s daughter.

Joel hisses at the contact, a sharp sound swiped straight from his chest like you’ve just pressed a hot iron to his ribs. His torso spasms under your fingertips and you recoil, eyes immediately searching for reassurance that he’s okay,

“Does that hurt?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle flicks. After a beat, his hand comes up to catch your wrist, to stop you. For purchase, maybe. Whatever it is, he just needs a second to collect himself, to steady the tremble running down his spine.

“No,” Joel finally says, voice rough as gravel. “Doesn’t hurt.”

But his face says otherwise. His gaze stays fixed straight ahead, unseeing. Joel knows if he looks at you, it’ll undo him completely. Whole body still, brow furrowed. You can sense it, feel it, the way he breathes through his nose like he’s barely keeping control. His thumb lingers on the inside of your wrist, heat blooming there. It stretches all the way up your arm and burrows under your collarbone, into your skin, until every bit of blood in your body is pumping fiercely, almost like your pulse is chanting Joel’s name until it falls off your lips in a whisper. 

His eyes are turned on you now—dark, torn, hungry. You just stare back at him, held hostage by the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, his Adam’s apple jumping with a swallow. The storm still raging outside the truck is nothing compared to what’s building in the silence between you. Still, you can hear your heartbeat louder than the rain, louder than the thoughts telling you this is a bad idea.

“Joel,” you say again, but it’s strangled. Desperate. There’s a second—maybe less—where neither of you move, both of you frozen in the middle of it, on the edge of something irreversible. You know this is a bad idea. The kind of bad idea that doesn’t just unravel nights, but lives.

You don’t know who leans in first. 

Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Joel’s mouth crashes into yours like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues, need and no patience. There’s no slow build, no give, just him take, take, taking. His stubble scrapes against the skin of your top lip, his left hand knotted in the hair at the back of your neck like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He tastes like the culmination of his vices: smokes and whiskey, together creating a flavour that clings to your tongue and makes you dizzy. And underneath it, something else that you can’t pinpoint. It’s warm and wild and so Joel. Not sweet. Definitely not soft, but it’s addictive in a way that makes you lean in harder, mouth open wider, like if you kiss him deep enough, you might finally figure out what it is. With another thrash of thunder, you push up from the seat, hiking a leg over Joel’s body so you’re straddling him behind the wheel, pressing your rapidly dampening core against his growing bulge. He grunts into your mouth at the movement, his tongue circling yours while your hands find the muscular planes of his jaw. You carry on like this for a few moments, grinding and groaning, ignoring the niggle at the back of your mind that tells you this is reckless—wrong, until Joel rears back, tearing his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale. He clamps his eyes shut, panting and shaking his head, like it might rattle loose the want clawing at his ribs.

“Darlin’,” he grits, and the nickname sends a hot strike of lightning through your veins. “We gotta stop. I can’t—We can’t—Your daddy’ll put me in the ground.”

The words come low, strained—like he’s dragging them out from somewhere deep where he’s still trying to do the right thing. And yet, his palm slides up your thigh like he’s already made peace with the consequences, thick fingers curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Don’t care,” you barely get out, peppering light kisses over the swell of his cheeks, trying to draw him back into the moment.

“You should. It’ll kill him,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop you when you shed his Carhartt jacket and let it slip into the footwell. The air filtering in through the cracked window bites at your bare skin but you don’t flinch, just press the weight of your body into Joel’s lap, your legs stretched wide across his on the bench seat. Joel’s eyes drop, and you feel the burden of his stare like a blowtorch—dragging over the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the stretch of thigh your skirt doesn’t quite cover.

“Christ,” he whispers, then his mouth is back on you, on your neck this time, licking at the pulse beneath your ear. His wiry facial hair chafes the sensitive skin there, like steel wool, before he bites at the dip behind your earlobe. Hard, yanking a high pitched gasp from you. But before the pain sets in he’s sucking the sting away with a kiss, lapping up the salty but sweet residue left over from the sweat that had wicked your skin earlier in the night.

“Do that again,” you plead, rotating your hips to gain friction where you need it most. Joel chuckles at the request, lolling his head sideways to repeat the process at your other ear.

The storm outside intensifies, rain hammering the roof like a warning neither of you heed. Instead, one of Joel’s hands slides one of your tank straps off your shoulder, dropping a quick kiss there, while the other slides from the outside of your thigh to where your panties are sticking to your throbbing core. He presses a thumb down, feeling your warm arousal seep through the thin material. An involuntary whine slips out of you at the gesture, and another flare of lightning illuminates his face just enough for you to see the self-satisfied smirk yank at Joel’s lips.

“Look at you,” he says, his hot breath summoning goosebumps across your chest. “You’re fucking soaked. How long you been like this?”

The motion of your hips is instinctive, need bleeding into your voice. “Since the bar,” you breathe. “When you tried to fight assholes.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his fingers still slick and patient between your thighs, circling with maddening control. “That why you went after that kid?” he grits. “Needed to let off some steam, huh?” He leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to lay into him for puttin’ his fuckin’ hands on you.”

You buck your hips forward, silently begging for more. It’s almost sick—talking about another man while this one has you trembling with every swipe of his fingers over your clothed clit—but it only heightens the need, makes the heat lick up your spine like wildfire.

“He kiss you like I do?” he growls.

Your eyes snap to his, almost black in the dark truck, but still you feel the force of them working over every inch of your face.

“Didn’t kiss him,” you pant. “Don’t want him. Only want you.”

The confession frays Joel’s composure, and he’s yanking your panties to the side and sinking his thick middle finger inside you—fuck, darlin’ barely comprehensible around a growl when he feels you flutter hotly around him. 

“Yeah? Show me then,” he seethes, the pad of his finger already gently stroking that spongy wall deep in your core. “Show me how much you want me.” Your forehead drops to meet his, his free hand anchoring your hip. “Think you can come for me right here?”

Your cunt clamps down hard like your body’s answering him before your mouth can. Your breath stutters, thighs already beginning to tremble where they straddle his lap, the tension coiled so tight inside you that it feels like you could snap with just one more word, one more groan, one more look from him. “More,” you plead, eyes half-lidded, fingers finding the mess of curls at the base of his skull. “J-Joel, please.”

He complies by sliding a second finger into you slowly while his thumb meets your bare clit in unhurried circles. 

“Like that, baby?”

You nod incessantly, chasing his rhythm with a circle of your hips. Your head rolls backwards, exposing the column of your throat to Joel, and he wastes no time in latching his mouth, licking hot stripes up the length of it while his fingers pick up speed. He can feel your pussy tightening, your breathing becoming ragged and movements frantic. His voice comes low against your throat, lips only just dusting your skin when he tells you, “That’s it, darlin’. You’re right there. I can feel it. Keep goin’.”

“I’m so close,” you whimper, the roll of your hips faltering when Joel tugs down on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Come on, let got for me,” he spurs you on. “Show me how good I make you feel. ‘S okay, baby, I got you.”

Your body winds tighter, trembling—right on the edge, waiting for that last push. Then, Joel jams his fingers into you that tiny bit deeper, and you seize around him with a sharp cry. Pleasure snaps through you like a rubber band on release—sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. And just as you come undone in Joel’s lap, the sky splits open above you, thunder cracking louder than it has all night, lightning flashing so bright you can still see it, even with your eyes screwed shut. It’s as if the storm had been waiting for you to fall apart, building with you, breaking with you.

Loud. Wild. Merciless.

The large hand that was previously as your hip now rests at the small of your back, Joel stroking over your tank top gently while you come down from your high, murmuring something that resembles good girl under his breath. When you finally blink your eyes open, Joel’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like it. There’s a rawness in his expression—like he’s in awe, like you’ve just undone something in him he’ll never be able to put back together.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he tells you reverently as he slips out of you. You immediately miss the pressure of him there, but their absence is quickly forgotten when his fingers, slick with your release, disappear into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Taste fuckin’ pretty, too.” And that’s when you feel it, him, thick and straining beneath you, his own arousal hot and urgent even through the thick denim of his jeans.

Joel shifts under you like a man possessed, one arm snaking around your waist, the other bracing the back of your head with a tenderness that steals what little air is in your lungs. One swift motion, and he lifts you off his lap and lays you down across the the worn bench seat, your back meeting the cool leather. His burly body follows, covering yours, and you hear the metallic clank of his belt buckle under the rain still pelting hard against the roof. The air inside the truck is thick now—humid with your breath, his breath, the leftover heat of your oragsm. Even with the crack in the driver side window, the glass is completely fogged, streaked with condensation. There’s a beat of hesitation in his eyes as he hovers above you, while your cunt still pulses with need despite your release just moments earlier.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps, followed by your name, voice tattered and needy. “Need to be inside you, darlin’, but—fuck, you gotta tell me. You want this?”

Your hands find his face again so your eyes are locked, and you nod—once, certain—and that’s all it takes. His hand drops between your bodies. You feel the rough scrape of denim, the tension of his zipper giving way, and then the low sound he makes when he finally frees himself. Another hand finds your underwear, dragging them down just enough to bare you to him, just enough for him to slot himself between your upper thighs, skin to skin, his body shaking with restraint as he lines himself up at your entry.

He goes slow, nudging his swollen head inside you, the stretch of him already greater compared to his thick fingers. He must feel you stiffen at the sensation, because he stalls, eyes darting from where you’re connected to your face, searching for any sign you want him to stop.

“Keep going, Joel,” you breath—beg—ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip. I’m okay, the tiny gesture tells him, and Joel continues to press into you, excruciatingly slow, pleasure chasing away the sting of his girth as he edges closer to where you need him most. He bottoms out with a depraved groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips flush against yours, the full weight of him settling deep inside. Your moan tangles with his in another hungry, messy kiss, mouths moving like you’re starved for each other—like this might be the only time you get. Joel stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy against your lips before dragging his mouth lower, tracing your jaw, your throat, until his lips find your chest. One hand fumbles with your top, dragging it down just enough to free your breast, his tongue immediately swirling hot and wet around your nipple. The sensation makes you arch beneath him, breath catching as he sucks greedily, the other hand braced under your back like he’s trying to memorise the way your body bends for him.

“Joel,” you whine with your fingers knotted at the crown of his head. Another quick lick of your nipple and he’s peering up at you hungrily.

“What is it, baby?”

You rock your hips as much as you can under his weight. “Need you to move,” you say. Then, more definitely: “Need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, woman.” The words are aggressive, just like the way his hips snap back before driving into you. Hard. Deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. His fingers press bruises into your thigh as he anchors it high around his waist, and it’s then that Joel becomes a savage—his thrusts relentless and rocking the whole damn truck with every grind of his hips.

“God, you feel perfect. Like you were made ‘f’me,” he grits. “Not gonna last long with your pretty pussy squeezin’ me like that.” Your breathy whimpers, your pleas of yes, right there, Joel, fuck puncutate each collision of your bodies, the base of his cock nudging your clit just so when he bottoms out. That familiar pressure is already building again, your second climax clawing its way from the pit of your stomach, and Joel’s lips slide into a lax smile just before your eyes sink shut.

“Yeah, darlin’, you’re gonna come for me again.” It’s not a question—Joel just knows, and pants at your ear, egging you on. “That’s it, come on.”

You seize beneath him and flutter tightly around his cock like a vise as your orgasm washes over you with a shameleslly load moan. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck with a grunt, his hips faltering as he fucks you through the tightness around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—just like that, baby,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “Stay with me. Not far behind you.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry and open, as he pistons into you faster now, chasing his own edge. “Wanna fill you up. Will y’let me come in you?” Your answer comes in a breathless moan, a frantic nod against his mouth. “Yes—inside. Please.”

It’s all the coaxing Joel needs, burying himself to to the hilt with a strangled groan, movement stuttering as thick heat floods you. You hold him there with your legs, Joel twitching as he empties every last drop of himself inside you. The pair of you freeze there for a beat, panting into each other’s shoulders before he finally pulls out of you with a low, satisfied grunt. You’re sensitive now after your two shell-shock orgasms, the air cool against the mess he’s left behind. Your skirt’s bunched high around your waist, panties stretched to their limits just above your knees until Joel tugs them back into place. The rough drag of denim on your thighs makes you flinch as he redresses, his belt clinking softly in the quiet aftermath. It’s only when you peel yourself up from the bench do you realise that the storm has rolled on. Rain no longer assaults the truck. The windows are fogged but quiet now, aside from the whoosh of passing cars as headlights begin to reappear on the highway in the dead of night. It’s nearly one in the morning, according to the neon clock, and you follow suit after watching Joel click his seatbelt back over his body. He doesn’t look at you, just fishes a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet abandoned on the dash. It ignites with a flick of a lighter, and he inhales deeply, the glow burning amber across his face.

The truck chugs to life beneath you, engine grumbling as smoke curls into the stale cab air.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters quickly, like if he says it fast enough, he might outrun the guilt. And then he pulls back onto the highway—into the night, into whatever comes next.

***

pt. II here

a/n: pleeeeease let me know what you think!! like, share, reblog the works. i have a bit of an idea for a follow up fic, so if that's something you'd like to read, make sure you let me know that you want part 2 and whether you want to be added to the tag list for this fic!

[chlmtsdoll]

Guys I loved writing the first short n sweet inspo fic so here’s more bc that ovulation album is too good <3

WHERE ART THOU ? WHY NOT UPONETH ME ?

౨ৎ Summary: your hosting a slumber party at Art’s mansion. But you can’t quite stay away from your pull to get the man in a room where there are no others. Inspo from Bed Chem by Sabrina Carpenter 🤍

+ 18 | very much smut !, unprotected sex, age gap, (reader early 20’s) dilf!Art, size kink, first daddy kink fic (omg) semi-public sex, oral (f) reviving, pet names, this made me feel a bit slutty just writing it, needy!reader, fatherly Art ;)

A/N: the fucking edits on tiktok of Mike to Bed Chem are making me go insane ! just when I thought there was no possible way for me to be crazier over this man omfg. So I had to give the girls a fic to go w it ofc <3

It was like fate. The day you met him.

Nothing could of been more perfect when the stars aligned to bring you to accompany your solid group of trust fund friends to one of his tournaments that evening. You were like most girls your age, makeup, pop music, nice ornaments for your wardrobe — you weren’t the kind of girl that could say she knew much about sports, and certainly little to nothing to be caught landing a seat at the us open... but eventually that grew to be a substantial part of what found him to be so drawn to you.

It was that day when you’d been in the bleachers watching the blonde play like it was his life’s greatest prophecy. For the first time in your still too little years of living, you’d never felt that aroused by a man you’d only saw from the mere view of him hitting a ball with a racket.

But he was unearthly.

Built like how men used to be. Face like it came straight from heaven. Serve like he knew a thing or two in bed.

You were drunk on want, need for him. You were damn lucky your friends were loaded enough to go to all the after parties with most of the star athletes. It was insane to you that you would follow the vip and your most sports driven friends (enthusiast if you will.) to where the elites spend their time. You wanted a nice hang out. Good food. Expensive drinks. But it was between you and the universe that you’d leave with so much more.

You were in a sheer dress and kitten heels when he spotted you. Just his star studded sly smile from across the event hall, when he saw you and your friends conversing in mostly a pretentious manner like most kids your age did when they could afford the lifestyle most people only dreamed of. But not you, you were entranced, pulled away. By his wide, blue eyes that you assumed filled with the same yearn you’d been struck with. And to your quick manifest, Art was gazing right back at you.

Only sharing a couple brief exchanges with the tall and stature, modest but kindly — beautiful and magnetic man around mutual friends, before you’d both been rushed to leave. Him with his team, and you with your entourage.

Like that you were tied to the tennis star in the blink of a moment. And Soon enough — being photographed with him around the heat of the city.

Games, athlete dinner parties, press events. Even photos of you two sharing more than a couple of words, maybe even kisses, behind menus at glamorous rooftop restaurants. Magazine outlets went crazy through the roof in just a few weeks time. Milking whatever they could out of Art Donaldson and his controversially younger girlfriend.

They didn’t have enough tabs on what you two had officially been to one another and that was perfect for the two of you. Because now that time has pushed you and the blonde closer and more into each other — you’d spend days and nights locked away with Art in his new found mansion post his former divorce. Home so beautifully articulated and big enough for you to be extra generous with your time with the dream boat of a man.

It would go down in history what the two of you had done in every room.

Now, a gorgeous weekend ahead of you after your week that was always filled with Art treating you to the finest cooked dinners, at home date nights filled with breezy smiles and full closeness to balance your dates out on the town. Going wherever you felt just to hold hands under umbrellas and traffic lights. With all the new adorned love in your life, and man with too much mystic taking up your time, it had been a good minute since you saw your girlfriends, caught up or shared a drink. You were just so wound up in Art and the way he treated you like a princess to, and in your own world.

So you’d asked Art if you could host a sweet little sleepover for you and your girls at the mansion — and of course he complied. It was anything for his perfect girl since the beginning.

“I could ask the chef to whip up some,” Art spoke into you as he held your hips in his vast hands running carefully over the hem of your satin bottoms as you stood in the middle of the spacious kitchen with him.

“That’s okay, I wanna do it.” You laughed softly, as you stared up at the man. “Nothing says fun girls night like making our own home made friandises”

Art had tilted his head in slight confusion with eyes in question to your tone when you’d practice what you’d been learning in your French courses on him. It was all the most adorable to you really. Your laugh echoed.

“Treats, baby.”

“I- - I knew that,” He scoffed and your giggles were infectious with delight to him.

“It’s gonna be fun. We’ll watch movies, paint our nails, share snacking tips. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the girls.”

Art grinned at the way you lit up with excitement, and his icy eyes looked down at your figure below him. He tried not to bite down on his lip at the way you were in the pajamas usually he only saw you in. Pink lace two piece jammies. Completely recognized because he got them for you. The transparency to them was way too easy on the eyes.

Arts tongue darted out to wet his lips before he questioned, “Is that what you’re wearing ? There aren’t gonna be any boys.. right ?”

“No, silly. That of course counts out you — if.. you wanna join us.” You looked up at him through your lightly mascara coated lashes, it felt as if the flirtatiousness through your gaze just hooked Art by the belt.

“No, no. I’ll give you and your friends your space, doll.” The blonde gave you a chary little smile, “I really doubt they’d want an old man around while you’re trying to have fun.”

“Quit it ! You’re not old. And they adore you.” You stood on the tips of your toes, Art met you so you could leave a sweet kiss on his cheek, with a blush to your own.

“Thank’s for letting me have this little party, baby.”

“Course, what else would be better use for all this space ? Other than for the amusement of twenty something girls.”

Art chuckled and you surely were in agreement, because when your girlfriends did arrive it was immediately shrieks of girlish camaraderie and chatter of awe as you brought them around the place of posh and eloquent nature. Your laugh could of been heard from the other side of the place where Art had eventually been stored away for the night while your hands were knee deep in cookie dough and rainbow sprinkles. Pj sets all from the brands you and your friends never stopped talking about. Having your night filled with reruns of classic movies to sipping champagne.. and the wine, red, (your pick) was certainly slipping through you as the moments went on.

You’d been with your best friend when you two had a moment alone to catch up in one of the halls of the buoyant abode. Whispers and giggles coming from between the two of you as a glass of wine hung from your palm.

“God, he was a such a cutie.” She coo’d as you two had found a very special wall of framed photos of Art from back in his prime tennis days. The blonde around your age who seemed filled with joyfully energetic faces and awards from across the globe. A smile woke upon your face as you folded your arm to admire the man you’d now call your own.

“Sometimes I wish I’d known him then,” you simpered. “But I’m beyond lucky now. Because he’s still cute, and sexier.”

You tittered fondly and your friend laughed with you as she playfully tugged on your shoulder. “You gotta lock that down, y’know… you’ll be like- - hella famous just from being a world class tennis superstars hot young wife.”

She announced as she sipped on something burgundy and you thought with a heightened grin. She couldn’t have been farther from right. And as the months go by you would fall farther and farther head over heels for Art every day. You’d be his wife in an instant. That was the dream after all, and you could certainly say you’d been living one.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait for him to put a ring on it..” You smiled with a dazed shrug as you embarked your wine glass to your lips again.

“He better.” Your friend chirped with a proud glint and you couldn’t help but stay stuck in your thought of your boyfriend who’s been just a few rooms away for the past couple of hours while you’d been enjoying all the perks of your girls making the most of their time with you. But you couldn’t help but want Art to be nearby now, and the red wine in your system maybe hit more than just your head — you couldn’t even try to fight it.

You missed your man.

So after you’d take in a few more drinks and a bit sensually themed games with your friends, you’d made your attempt escape off to find Art. Slipping away from the girls was easy when you’d have every necessity needed to execute a very graceful grown up girl sleepover provided for them.

You’d been walking down the hall heading to where his office and master bedroom would be at the end of the home, and as you passed by the lush kitchen area, to your surprise, there he was. Muscles looked enchantingly delicious in this light as they flexed to pull on the fridge handle and when he turned, his eye line met your glance staring back his way (of course you’d both arrive at the same time.) Arts lips began to curl in an amours grin when he saw your petite figure making it’s way over to him with the same like of smile across your face.

“Hi, baby. You having fun?” He glanced down at you through his blonde lashes to meet your nod, only following up with a soft titter as you stepped closer to the man. He almost immediately picked up on the lust laced within your eye and the way you slightly leaned onto the fridge door with your aura basically gooing with sex at him now. The blonde had an eyebrow furrowed as he chuckled just a bit and he sized you up.

“Are you drunk, princess?”

“No. No… no,” you shook your head.

It had been true. You weren’t drunk. But a little wine tipsy and horny ? Definitely.

Art hummed and put the back of his hand to your forehead gently as he observed your state. “Did you eat?”

“Mhm, did you ?”

“No. That’s why I came down, not to stalk you. I promise.” The man laughed, to which you did as well and you only raised your arms so they could embrace your boyfriend’s shoulders with a soft hum.

“Y’know, if you’re hungry, you can eat me.” Your finger tips grace Arts neck unashamed as you smile into the crook, and he took in a breath, proceeding to hold you close.

“Oh- -” his chuckle matched your giggle as he noticed you’d changed again. His hands were gliding up the ruffle of the even more transparent sheer cover on you’d been dressed in. Lime tinted. The shorts were near pantie like.

“Mmm, I miss you, I want you.” You peppered kisses as close as you could to his earlobe from your height and Arts breath hitched as he was weak to your slow but enticing touch to him. Fogging up his knowledge that you’d been right in the middle of the open kitchen that was just a few ways down from the living area your friends had been in.

“Here, sweetness ? Your friends- -” Art murmurs down to your ear, but you just locked your arms just above his shoulders without a care.

“And- - ? What about them ? I need you,” you whined. “I want your touch.”

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?”

You nodded again with a naughty giggle and the blonde was smirking now, his hands roamed your body. Large and groping your curves. As much as he knew what was rightful, Art just couldn’t deny your cling to him in that damn near lingerie that had him going almost unbearably hard beneath his jeans since you walked in. Feral even. It was beginning to get miserable as you pressed your dainty chest against his, he felt your nipples grow hard and sensitive against the cloth. So into his aroma, presence, like you were a moth to a torch.

He’d fallen into your pecks merging with his now. Kissing you against where the cupboards stand like your lips were candy. Your small legs stumbling as the man towered over you “Fuck, you look amazing in that set.” Art pulled away from your plump lips to view your gorgeously perfect body. You batted your lashes once. And his attain just couldn’t be stopped. Art slid his hands across your soft ass cheeks, massaging and kneading it in his palms before leading up to laying a solid smack which made you hiss out an excited squeal-like giggle. Your fingertips slid down his ample biceps brushed with virile bristles of hair.

“If I had known you’d like this set so much, I would of worn it much sooner for you.”

Art leaned into you and he held a sly smirk, “this was your plan all along, yeah? Wearing that to get my attention so I would come out here and fuck you in the middle of your slumber party.. you’re such a naughty girl.”

You only giggled more into his skin with a slow exhale, your freshly painted french tips exploring him as he explored you. Art took his sweet time just feeling the way your ass jiggled in his palms and you felt like you’d been going weak in the knees before his tender contact turned rough when he turned you around without warning, making you gasp.

Art made sure you could feel how hard you’d gotten him as he pressed himself to your core. Facing the counter, you lost yourself in complete bliss just to the feeling of not knowing where he’d pleasure you next — Arts restrained bulge against your clothed cunt was just something else. The blonde pushed up your sheer top just a bit and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, you made a soft noise with it.

“Feel what you do to me, pretty girl.” Art nibbled on your earlobe and you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip to subtle your smile. His hands bracing your hips as he stared down at your lacy panties and your minx-like eyes followed Arts famished expression while he licked his bottom lip.

“All yours, daddy.” Your sweet voice immediately made Art go nearly lightheaded and that was it. He melted.

The man tucked both his thumbs into the fabric and pulled your panties down clean with raucousness, followed up with him getting down on his knees before spreading you with his palms and your hands reached for the marble with a soft whimper.

“That’a girl, stay open for me.. Let me taste you.” Art huffed out before he pushed one of your legs up on the counter and you breathed out at the feeling of him making your body his toy for amusement. Art took his fingers and ran them up your folds, getting them wet with the slick of your pussy. Your cheeks started to heat up just at the wonderful pad of his index running against your core like that , making you let out a soft, “oh..” by the way he moved to rub around your clit. Arts lips kissed on your exposed inner thighs, and your jaw became unlocked extraordinarily far when his tongue finally rolled on the soft tissue.

He was splitting you clean open on the counter as tiny whimpers escaped your throat. You were lost in the draw you had to the man making you feel surpassing of even the way you played it all out in your head. “Mmm, yeah- - yes” you panted and the man flicked his digit over your bud at the same time he’d been making out with your cunt. Letting deep groans flow throughout your opening. You’d been on the tip of your toes for him. Letting him suck where you pulsed till you’d been overstimulated if he wanted.

Your head had been spinning from the friction of his perfectly sculpted nose rubbing against your sensitive area. Art was known to be gifted with his mouth so much so, you almost wondered if your friends would have heard if you just couldn’t keep your moans level — but with the way Art held your hips, fucked his tongue into your cunt like you’d been his last meal, your anxiousness washed away. All you could do was let the shake of your thighs and Arts dripping oral member lead you to a crisp pleasurable cry.

“Shit,” Art took a brief exhale as he pulled away from your entrance, dampened lips of your juices going wide with a grin and he ran his palms over your slick thighs again,

“you’re so fucking wet for me, princess. You gonna take my dick? Let me make you feel good?”

“Mmm, please. Fill me up, Art. I wanna feel you.”

“You gotta be quite for me, baby.” Art stood to his feet.

You didn’t care. All you could think about was dick. Arts phenomenal dick. You wanted him to toss you over and split you open till you were sobbing on his thick member, your wine drunk friends would understand. A girl has her needs.

The risk made your blood pressure rise as the moment went on, when Art reached over you to tug your panties dangling from your thighs all the way down — he kicked them off to the side. Taking note of his own belt buckle and undoing it quickly, which you only grew more greedy by the sound of him unzipping his fly. The blondes aquamarine orbs swam with the need to pump you fuller than you’d ever taken him.

“Bend over for me, sweet girl..” Art breathed out softly as his slightly calloused hands ran from your hip up your spine while you did so, bending over fully and displaying your sweet dripping cunt for the mans lidded eyes. He sucked in his breath and his now aroused dick twitched when it unveiled from his boxers — going barmy with just how tiny and soft you looked beyond him.

“So fucking tight and small- - your amazing with the way you take me when I barely fit in, sweets.”

You bit down on your finger as you watched Art run his hands over your ass. Take your hips and line his cock up with your hole. He hissed at the way your soaking cunt wet his tip, you almost croaked out a deep moan at his gestures to tease your pussy. Just nodding along as you’d gone cock drunk before he’d even been in you. Your nails run at the marble counter as Art slowly burrowed into your drooling core. Working you open as his cock disappeared into your body inch by inch — he pushed your thigh higher onto the ledge as you whined at the stretch.

“Ah.. mmm- - fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groaned as you adjusted to the size of his warmth finally filling you full. Art was big. And he’d never want to put you, his sweet doll in discomfort for long, never. So when he started to plunge into you, he watched as your face scrunched up from ache to pleasure in time. His name sputtering from your mouth as you clawed at the counter top and he watched your pussy lips that were just throbbing around his erection like it was begging to be so sporadically fucked by him.

“That’s it baby doll,” his own groans heightened as his hips knock into your cervix, chasing that spot of yours till you were moaning and whimpering like a slut around him. Hole so full with yours and his pre-cum and you sucked in your bottom lip, tussled hair going wild on your back. You just had to look over your shoulder to watch him — see Arts gorgeous face as he snapped against you all shimmering with light sweat as he focused on the way a ring of your wetness pooled around his base.

“You love this, hu? Getting me to fuck you while your friends carry on without you- - At your party. But you just had to come.. looking for daddy’s cock, yeah? You love being a dirty, dirty girl for me.” Art rasped as he clenched his jaw with the overwhelming feeling of your tight cunt clenching him. It made your skin feel like it had been sparked with fire, so exhilarated. He put his hands in your hair to fuck into you as your jaw dangled open.

“Oh! F-fuck! I needed that big fucking dick, daddy… w-want you to cum all over me, mmm- -” you were choking out whimpers and your pretty little hole dripped with Arts pre-seed slipping from you, making it drag out when he pulled out of your pussy to turn you around and pick you up in one swift motion. Your high pitched gasp echoed as you wrapped your legs around the mans abdomen and Art set you on the counter. His lips curl up into a smirk and his eyes met your wide doe set ones. Slipping back into you he watched you cry out his name. Rutting into your heavenly body at this angle, hands go squeezing your thighs, and Art kept them apart as he took you at a wild pace. Hitting that gooey spot till you didn’t remember your own name. “Good fucking girl. That’s it- - such a sweet thing for me, taking all of my cock. It was made for you, doll.”

You couldn’t even catch your self as you’d leaned back on the counter and let Art pound into you. Your tits bounced with each thrust and you were shuttering as your orgasm ripped through you without warning. “Yes ! Ooh- - shit, yes yes yes…” you were whining out as you came on Arts dick. He held your legs spread as he grunted and watched you soak him uncontrollably. You loved it. Feeling like his perfect little gift. Art licked over his lips at the sight of your beauty, throwing your head back in bliss, he pulled out of you and pushed up your dainty little baby doll top — making space as he pumped his throbbing dick over your stomach till he himself came hard. Ropes shooting out on your candescent skin and making sure some got on your pussy just for the fun of it, he grinned and trailed his thumb up your gentle inner calf that had been dangling by his side.

You were whimpering like you’d gotten your brains fucked out to the sweetest soundtrack you’d ever heard. Art was so cinematic in moments like these, he leaned up to kiss at the nape of your neck, cheek, and lips.

“Pretty, perfect girl.. I love you.” Your gentleman muttered against your mouth. You smiled and sunk your teeth into your bottom lip as Art brought your panties up to help you slip them back over your thighs and to your feet as steady as you could. Dressing himself as well, he glanced down at you through his hooded eyes to see your impressively only slightly disheveled state. You were just always glowing, it was hard to make that go away anyways.

“You sleeping down here tonight?” Art buckled his pants again as he questioned you with a soft raised brow. You started to smirk at the way he was heading. You shrug.

“Maybe, maybe not… I’ll sneak into your room when they’re sleep, if you want.” You offered the man, the glint in your eye saying you’d suck his cock and let him have you in as many different positions as he’d like in a couple hours till you were all tapped out. The blonde only scuffed and towered over your presence that was still taken by your hoyden attitude, just to turn you back towards the doorway.

“Go host your party.” he taunted almost fatherly, to then leave a light slap on your ass that made you giggle on the way out.

[adelliet]

Harry Castillo x f!reader

WORTH THE RISK

Summary: Your best friend offered you a job at the restaurant she worked at. It was your last chance to climb out of the hole you’d been stuck in for way too long. But along with the new job came someone new.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, age gap, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), nicknames, praise kink, aftercare, prejudices, reader is poor (sorry)

A/n: Hi! So, this is not that long (I hope) than my other fic's, but it's still good, trust me. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

“Can you take that guy’s order?” your friend asked, pointing discreetly at a man sitting alone at a round table draped in a crisp white tablecloth.

You raised an eyebrow, slightly caught off guard by the fact that he was sitting at a table meant for six, completely alone. But hey, this was a fancy place, and he looked like a fancy guy. What did you know about rich people and their habits anyway?

“Sure,” you muttered, grabbing your notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. As you approached, you put on your best customer-service smile, stopping at a polite distance, close enough to hear each other over the background noise, but not so close that it felt inappropriate.

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

The man was still holding the menu, one finger resting against his lips, visibly lost in thought. It took him a second to register your voice. When he did, his eyes flicked to yours, then did a quick double-take.

His pupils dilated slightly. His previously distant expression softened. And then, just the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his lips.

You wouldn’t call him unattractive. Not at all. His sharp features were framed by a neatly trimmed brown mustache and slightly wavy hair that fell just past his ears. His eyes, deep and warm, like freshly brewed coffee, held a certain weight, an intensity that was hard to ignore. He looked like comfort. Like stability.

But you weren’t about to fall for that.

A man with money was a dangerous thing. You knew that all too well. So you pushed down any flutter of attraction, forced yourself to focus on what mattered.

He was just another customer.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet… Do you have any recommendations? Maybe the most expensive wine on the menu?”

Ah. There it was. The casual flex. You inhaled deeply, suppressing an eye roll.

“Yes, we have a few top selections. There’s the Château Margaux for $1,500, the Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon for $3,000, and—”

Before you could finish, he nodded, already deciding.

“I’ll take the Screaming Eagle.”

Of course he would.

You gave him a polite nod and jotted it down, knowing full well that this wouldn’t be the first or last time someone ordered it. Not because of the taste, but because of the price.

“Anything else?”

“Not for now, thank you.”

You nodded once more before walking away. The second you were out of his sight, you let out a deep breath, pulling a face, something between Are you kidding me? and Of course he did.

By the time you finally had the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine in your hands, you knew you had to be extra careful. One wrong move and you’d be responsible for spilling a small fortune onto the restaurant floor.

In one hand, you held the bottle. In the other, a wine glass, filled just about a quarter of the way, some weird restaurant tradition, offering a ‘preview’ sip before pouring the rest.

Anyways, you weren’t sure what did it.

Maybe it was the chaotic energy of the restaurant, the tension in the air. Maybe it was the way your manager had been snapping at everyone all night, dumping his stress onto the staff. Or maybe, maybe you were just having one of those days.

Either way, the second you opened your mouth to speak, the glass slipped from your fingers. And the wine? Right onto his lap.

“Oh, fuck—” you cursed, immediately realizing your mistake.

Not only had you just sworn, loudly, in a high-end restaurant, but you had also spilled a glass of the most expensive wine on a man who, with one phone call, could probably have you fired and blacklisted from every fine dining establishment in the city.

Oh, you were so getting fired.

“I—I am so sorry!”

In a rush, you set the now-empty glass and the bottle onto the table, grabbing the nearest napkin in sheer panic.

He just chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said, over and over. But it was definitely not okay.

Before your brain could fully process what you were doing, you had already dropped to your knees in front of him, frantically dabbing at the fabric of his pants with the napkin. It wasn’t until a second later that you realized how it looked.

How bad it looked. How absolutely, utterly humiliatingly wrong it looked. Oh, you were definitely getting fired.

“Sh— I am sorry, I—”

The panic in your voice was impossible to hide. He definitely noticed. But somehow, he didn’t seem the least bit upset. If anything, he looked… amused. Which he shouldn’t be. Not after getting drenched in the most expensive wine on the menu. Not after his server nearly touched his-

Oh god. You wanted to die.

You shot up from your knees so fast, you nearly lost your balance. Your face was burning. Absolutely on fire from the sheer humiliation of it all.

But no. You were not about to let your embarrassment control the situation. It was time to act like a real server. A professional. Definitely not a panicked, flustered mess.

“Sir, I am so, so sorry,” you started, quickly pulling out your notebook and pen, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “As compensation for this incident, you have the right to order anything on the menu, completely free of charge.”

Before you could jot anything down, you suddenly felt his hand on your wrist, stopping you.

“Sweetheart, it’s fine. I don’t want anything.”

He looked like he didn’t want anything. Unlike you, who was still visibly spiraling, he seemed completely unfazed. Relaxed, even.

“Sir, it’s my responsibility to—”

“Really, it’s nothing,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying that effortless confidence. “Money’s not an issue for me.”

Well, that was obvious.

His face held that same unwavering calm, like he could simply talk his way out of this, and honestly? He probably could. But your conscience wouldn’t let you walk away that easily. You had ruined his expensive suit pants. An apology alone didn’t feel like enough.

“Alright, sir, but there must be something I can offer you. I can’t just—”

“You know what? There is something,” he leaned back in his chair, resting his arm on the backrest as a slow, knowing smile curled at his lips. A smile that was dangerous. A smile that could strip a woman down to her lingerie with just a single glance. And god, you were so close to being one of them.

But no, you held your ground. Barely.

“Dinner,” he finally said, his voice smooth as silk. “That’ll make up for it.”

You froze. Like, actually froze. Did you hear him right? You blinked, still frozen. Did you understand him right? But when he kept looking at you with that same flirtatious expression, you realized. Oh, you definitely understood him right.

“Oh—no, no, that’s—”

“It’s the only offer I’ll accept,” he cut in, leaving you zero room to argue. Which made this so much harder. On one hand, this man, this incredibly rich, insanely attractive man, had just asked you out.

On the other hand, he was a customer. A snob. And men with money? They were dangerous. And yet against your better judgment, your head gave the tiniest nod.

“Alright,” you said hesitantly. His eyes lit up. His smile stretched wider. Still confident. Still composed. Still oozing wealth and charm.

“Great. Tomorrow, 8:00 PM. Dinner at this place. Don’t be late.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card, which he handed to you. You took it carefully. It was fancy. Even the texture of it felt expensive. A white business card with bold, black print, the name of a restaurant you had never even heard of.

You stared at it for a second, studying it. Then, finally, you nodded, shifting your eyes back to him.

“Harry, by the way. Harry Castillo,” he introduced himself, offering his hand. You quickly tucked the card, your notepad, and pen into the pocket around your waist before shaking his hand in return. It was more out of politeness than interest.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The moment your hand slipped from his, you practically fled from his presence. And judging by the heat in your cheeks, you were definitely as red as a tomato.

“Hey, what the hell just happened out there?”

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, your friend was on you. She looked way too eager, like she was dying to hear whatever mess you’d gotten yourself into, just so she could laugh in your face. Honestly? You couldn’t even blame her. If the roles were reversed, you’d laugh at her too.

“That guy just asked me out to dinner,” you admitted, breathless but also, exasperated. Your tone completely threw her off.

She glanced back through the small window in the kitchen door, looking at the man in question before turning back to you, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head, leaning back against the nearest table. She let out a short huff, then took a step closer. “Him? He asked you out?” There was a clear emphasis on who asked who, and that, unsettled you.

“I can’t believe it either—”

“So why aren’t you screaming right now?! He’s probably a multimillionaire, and instead of jumping for joy, you’re—what? Having a meltdown?” She grabbed your shoulders, looking way more excited about this than you were.

You just sighed, shaking your head, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t know… it doesn’t feel real.”

You shrugged, finally meeting her eyes. And she got it. She understood why you weren’t letting yourself be excited. Because you’d been broken one too many times. And if you just expected nothing, you wouldn’t be disappointed.

“I get it,” she said, softer now. “But listen to me-he means it. That guy comes here all the time, and not once has he asked a server out before.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m serious!” she insisted, turning you toward the door, both of you peeking through the window. “And, ugh, god, he’s so sexy.”

You nudged her playfully with your shoulder, but deep down? Yeah. You agreed, he was sexy. Maybe a little older than what you’d typically go for, but still, workable.

The two of you watched him, not-so-subtly, until more men approached his table. Black suits. Slicked-back hair. Money so rich you could smell it all the way from the kitchen.

And just like that, the excitement. That tiny flicker of hope. Gone. Your stomach dropped. You turned away immediately. Your friend lingered at the window for a second longer before following after you, now completely confused.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Frustrated. “I knew this was bullshit,” you muttered, adjusting your uniform, glancing at her again. But she still didn’t get it.

“The guys sitting with him,” you nodded toward the door. “I guarantee he made a bet with them. A bet to see if he could land the most pathetic desperate whore in the area.”

Your friend’s face went blank before she groaned, rubbing her hands down her face in pure frustration. Then, she fixed you with a deadpan stare. “You cannot be serious right now.”

You stared at the floor, still fussing with your uniform, still seething.

“Oh my god. Do you have to overthink everything? Babe, that definitely didn’t happen—”

“You don’t know that.” You cut her off. She could see how pissed off you were. But more than the anger, it was fear showing in your eyes. Fear of another failure. Another rejection. And whether she believed it or not, you just didn’t have the capacity for that.

Not again.

She sighed, then pulled you into a comforting hug. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held you, tightly. Then, when she finally pulled back, she started speaking.

“Listen. Go to that dinner. Take the opportunity. And if that asshole hurts you in any way? I swear to god, I will break his fucking face.”

You laughed, even though you knew she meant every word.

“Thanks,” you murmured, smiling as the two of you hugged again. And despite the doubt clawing at the back of your mind, despite wanting to pretend like you never even got that stupid little card, you decided to take her advice.

To ‘Take the opportunity’ or however she said it.

The evening air was cool, streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting a warm golden glow over the quiet city. The sky was a deep navy blue, speckled with the first few stars peeking through the clouds. A gentle breeze kissed your skin as you stepped out, the distant hum of traffic blending into the soft rustling of leaves.

You looked breathtaking.

The black dress you wore wasn’t anything extravagant, but god, did it know how to hug your body in all the right places. The way it shaped your waist, the way it flowed down your thighs, teasing just enough skin to be dangerous. Every curve was perfectly framed, every movement of yours had a new level of grace and temptation.

And your makeup? Flawless.

Even after all the failed attempts, the frustrated groans, the “I’m not going!” breakdowns, the questioning-your-entire-life-choices moment, you pulled through. And damn, you looked stunning. Before stepping out, there was one last thing left to do. Selfie, and a private one for your best friend.

Her reply never miss.

A text so filthy you nearly threw your phone across the room. Something about how she’d absolutely devour you if she were into women. You gagged. You laughed. You loved her.

But right now, it was 7:50. According to Google Maps, the restaurant wasn’t too far. Except, you didn’t have a car. And a taxi? With what money? So, your only option was to power-walk like your life depended on it and pray you’d make it in ten minutes.

Even though you felt like every second of running had stripped away another layer of makeup and drained the last bit of life from your body, you made it.

You stood before the entrance. And yes, this was the place. And damn, it looked the part.

Marble stairs. Massive wooden doors that looked like they belonged in a palace. Golden accents along the walls. Flower-shaped lamps. A fountain right at the entrance. It was the kind of detail that made you feel both impressed and slightly terrified.

With a small stumble in your heels, which thankfully, no one seemed to notice, you approached the reception desk.

“Reservation under… Castillo,” you said softly.

The receptionist smiled, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

“Of course. Table fifteen. He’s already here.”

“Thank you,” you murmured before making a sharp turn toward the restroom. A quick pit stop was absolutely necessary.

Facing the mirror, you launched into full recovery mode. Fixing makeup, fluffing your hair, making sure you didn’t look like you had sprinted here. A touch of gloss, a final tug at your dress, and there you were again. Put together. Ready.

Then you stepped inside the dining hall and everything shimmered.

The chandeliers sparkled like frozen light. The pristine white tablecloths, the waiters in their spotless uniforms, the golden silverware—it was overwhelming in the best and worst way. Moving carefully, like someone who both belonged and absolutely did not, you scanned the room. Searching.

And then, there he was. Harry Castillo.

Sitting effortlessly poised, elbow resting on the table, finger near his lips, just like yesterday. He looked composed. Unreadable. Devastatingly attractive. You inhaled deeply and walked toward him.

“Hey! Sorry I hope I’m not late,” you said, voice softer than you intended. It took him a second to register your presence. But when he did…

His entire demeanor shifted.

The moment his gaze landed on you, his thoughts simply ceased to function. That dress. The way it sculpted around your curves. The delicate line of your neck. The subtle, hypnotizing sway of your chest as you moved, yes, he noticed. It was right then that he realized: keeping his thoughts entirely proper tonight? Yeah. Not happening.

Fuck. If this was your backup outfit, he'd kill to see what plan A looked like… without the dress.

“You look stunning,” he murmured, standing immediately like a gentleman from another era. Taking your hand, he pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. A shiver ran down your spine.

For a fraction of a second, you forgot how to breathe, and when you finally managed words, they came out in a breathless, “Thank you.”

You settled into your seat, praying the chair wouldn’t make an awkward screech, and picked up the menu, doing your absolute best to not embarrass yourself in the first five minutes.

“Was it a long trip?” he asked, reaching for his glass of water.

“Uh… no,” you lied smoothly. Absolutely no way you were going to tell him you walked here, face half-melting and muttering curses under your breath.

“And you?” you asked in return.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nah, I live just around the corner. I know most of the restaurants around here.”

“I believe that. This place is… a different level.”

He nodded, leaning in just slightly. “Yeah, but you know what? People forget that food is just food. Great company is what makes it unforgettable, even in the smallest, messiest little pizza joint.”

That was surprisingly sweet. And unexpected.

“So you’re telling me you could’ve taken me to a kebab place by the train station?”

“Exactly. And if I’d known you’d show up looking like my most expensive investment, I’d have worn a tux.”

You laughed, glancing down at the menu. The tension in your shoulders was starting to ease. For the first time tonight, you felt… comfortable.

“I swear the food here’s good,” he added. “But if you ever want real pizza—I know a guy. One tooth, slaps the dough with his bare hands.”

“That sounds… hygienic.”

“It’s the best pizza in the city. But yeah, I only take people there if I know they’ve got a strong immune system.”

You laughed again. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to play a role. To impress, to overthink, to be perfect. You just felt like yourself. And that was refreshing in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Have you decided yet?”

You shook your head, lips pressed into a tight line. The menu was a battlefield of options. So many dishes, so many exotic names, and those prices? Just looking at them made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to come across as some broke girl who had no idea what foie gras was, but also not like a high-maintenance snob who’d order truffle oil on a toothpick just to impress.

Making a good first impression was hard, though technically, you already blew it the moment you spilled wine on his very expensive pants and ended up scrubbing his legs like some panicked Cinderella with a death wish.

“I get it,” he said with a slight nod. After a few seconds, you let out a quiet sigh and finally gave up. “Pick for me. I’m sure you know what’s good way better than I do.”

He looked up at you with the sweetest puppy eyes you’d ever seen, and your heart melted.

“Are you sure? It’s only polite to let the lady choose.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Castillo,” you said with a soft smile and a small tilt of your head.

“Well then,” he replied, closing his menu with a confident snap, “let’s hope you won’t regret it.” And just like that, he turned his full attention to you.

The dinner went surprisingly normal. Actually, scratch that—wonderfully.

Harry wasn’t the snob you half expected him to be. He didn’t name-drop luxury brands every two sentences, didn’t mention his bank account once. In fact, he didn’t flaunt anything at all, except maybe the way he actually listened to you.

Of course, you couldn’t tell him everything.

Like the fact that your restaurant job was the only thing keeping you from ending up on the street. Or that your family had basically washed their hands of you. Or that you’d once come dangerously close to selling weed just to afford rent.

Those charming little details didn’t need to make it to the dinner table.

But your favorite color? Rose type? Chocolate preference? You gave him those happily.

By the time you were halfway through your second glass of wine, your tongue was definitely loosening up. Your boldness had grown legs and was strutting confidently across the room.

“Mr. Castillo,” you said, setting your glass down, eyes twinkling. “I have a question for you.”

Harry turned toward you instantly, his posture subtly shifting as if bracing for something wild.

“This…” —you made a slow circle with your finger, gesturing at everything around you— “this whole thing. Is it… a bet?”

He blinked a few times, clearly not expecting that. Then a slow smile curled on his lips. But when he saw how serious your expression was, his smile faded slightly. “No… Why would you think that?”

You hesitated, then shook your head and waved it off. “Never mind, it’s nothing—”

“No, wait. If something made you think that, I want to know.” He wasn’t letting it slide. And honestly? That little fire in his eyes? Kind of hot.

You paused. Should you say it and sound like a complete idiot? The wine in your bloodstream whispered, screw it.

“I saw you yesterday. With a couple of guys. And I just… thought maybe you bet with them about this. About… me.”

Harry laughed. Not just a polite chuckle, he actually laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was deep, warm, and ridiculously contagious.

You couldn’t help it, you started laughing too. Not at the situation, but because his laugh was so good, it practically reached inside you and pulled it out of you.

“Oh no,” he said, still smiling, “those were some of my coworkers. And I promise you, we don’t do things like that.”

The relief hit you like a wave, and you nodded slowly. Sure, he could be lying. He could be playing a game. But in that moment, you chose to believe him. No overthinking. No spiraling.

Just a beautiful dinner with a man who made you laugh, who looked at you like you mattered, who, somehow, made you feel like the main character in a life that wasn’t always kind.

And tonight? Tonight felt like it was finally giving you a break.

You laughed. You weren’t even sure what at anymore, but laughter had become the most natural reaction to anything that came out of his mouth.

Harry was… different. Unpredictable. Smart. And most of all, he listened. Not the fake ‘I’m nodding but thinking about steak’ kind of listening. No. He actually paid attention. Remembered things. Asked follow-up questions.

And the more you opened up, the easier it felt. Like you didn’t have to be anyone else to be enough.

You laughed at your own awkward moments, told him stories from your childhood, even admitted you used to eat sand when you were little, with chocolate ice cream, of course.

And he listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

And one thing you had to admit, throughout the whole dinner, you caught him stealing glances at your chest more than once. At first, he tried to be discreet, quick flicks of the eyes when you were sipping wine or looking at the menu. But later on? Yeah, he didn’t even pretend anymore.

But it wasn’t a gross, sleazy kind of stare. No. It was something else entirely. It was elegant, intense… reverent. Like he admired you, every curve, every breath, the way your collarbones caught the light, the subtle movement of your chest when you laughed.

It didn’t make you shrink. It made you pulse. Around nothing, yet. And if something shifted down there, let’s just say a full-blown waterfall was now a national emergency.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted you gently. “But we’re closing in ten minutes.”

One of the waiters had appeared beside your table. He spoke softly, his voice almost trembling. You didn’t blame him. You were, in a way, just like him, same position, same nervous awe around someone like Harry.

“Oh!” you gasped. “God, we’re so sorry! We totally lost track of time.”

Harry looked at you with a smile. But not the usual charming, practiced one. No, this one was warm. Genuine. The kind that makes your heart flutter… and maybe something else too.

You both started gathering your things. Harry reached into his coat, pulled out a wad of bills and tossed them on the table, no counting, no hesitation.

You almost choked. What you’d give for that amount of money? Better left unsaid.

“Thank you. Keep the change,” Harry said, patting the waiter gently on the shoulder.

You gave the poor guy a quick smile and followed your dinner date like he was leading you into battle… or heaven.

He walked with ease. Command. Confidence. You? You felt like a princess being led by her knight out of the ballroom. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in ages, you actually felt like you yourself.

The moment you stepped outside, cold air slapped your skin.

“Are you cold? Where’s your coat?” Harry asked, brow slightly furrowed.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, unintentionally pushing your boobs up a bit more in the process, bonus points, apparently.

“Oh… I forgot it at home,” you said innocently. Truth was, you didn’t own one. Couldn’t afford it. But he didn’t need to know that.

Harry gave you a look. The kind that didn’t need words. Then, like a man on a mission, he took off his jacket.

“Oh wait, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes I do,” he cut in gently. “Can’t have you freezing, can we?”

Before you could argue, he was already draping the warm fabric over your shoulders. No asking. No drama. Just… doing.

And suddenly, you were warmer. Not just from the jacket, but from the man himself. And yeah, another point for Harry Castillo. And damn, was he stacking them up fast.

You pulled your phone out of your purse, pretending to check the time, but in truth, you were stalling. “I should probably go,” you murmured, still a little breathless from the whole evening.

Harry tilted his head. “Let me take you home. I’ve got a car waiting.”

Shit.

Panic crawled up your spine like a vine. You couldn’t let him see where you lived. It wasn’t horrible, but it also wasn’t this. Not this golden-drenched world of chandeliers and silk napkins. You bit your lip.

“Actually,” you blurted before you could stop yourself, “what if we went to yours instead?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly—just a flicker—but enough for your face to burst into flames.

“Wait, no—I didn’t mean it like that!” you rushed out. “I mean—God, I’m not trying to come off like… like one of those girls. I’m not, I swear, I just…” Your words tangled into a panicked mess. “It’s just complicated. My place is, well, complicated.”

Harry blinked once, then twice, and slowly, smiled. The kind of smile that made your stomach dip and your pulse skip a beat.

“I get it,” he said softly. “Believe me, I’m not one of those guys either. I don’t usually bring someone over after the first night.”

You exhaled in relief, feeling like your entire soul unclenched.

“That’s why,” he continued, stepping closer, “I booked us a suite for the night. Neutral territory.”

Your heart did a front flip.

It sounded crazy, no, was crazy, but in that moment, it somehow made sense. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way he said it with zero pressure in his tone, like it was just a comfortable, no-expectations solution.

The drive was smooth and silent, your heart hammering against your ribs the closer you got. And then the hotel. Oh. My. God.

From the outside, the hotel didn’t just whisper wealth, it screamed it, elegantly. The building towered above the street, wrapped in sleek black glass that reflected the city lights like diamonds scattered across velvet. The entrance was framed by golden accents that shimmered under the glow of artfully placed spotlights, and a long crimson carpet stretched from the sidewalk all the way to the rotating glass doors, guarded by men in tailored suits and pristine gloves.

It wasn’t just a hotel. It was an experience. And you were suddenly part of it.

As soon as you stepped inside, you were swallowed by soft lighting and opulence. The marble floors gleamed under your heels, catching little stars from the massive crystal chandelier that cascaded from the ceiling like frozen rain. There were velvet armchairs in deep emerald green, tall indoor plants trimmed like they belonged in a palace, and staff that glided across the space like well-trained shadows, every movement graceful and hushed.

The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air, sweet, musky, seductive. Even the air conditioning felt richer here.

You couldn’t help but glance at Harry, who walked beside you with that calm confidence like he owned the whole damn place. And honestly? He might as well have. And of course, everyone at the front desk knew him. Knew his name, his favorite drink, his room preference. Harry Castillo wasn’t just rich. He was a regular.

When you reached the elevator, the doors opened with a soft chime, revealing an interior wrapped in mirrored gold and black marble. You stepped in first, and the second the doors slid shut, something shifted.

The air between you thickened, like velvet, like smoke, like something unnamed but entirely understood. It was silent, except for the hum of the elevator. And yet your heart beat like a drum.

Harry stood next to you, close but not touching, his cologne crawling over your skin like a secret. His reflection in the mirror caught yours. He smirked slightly, nothing cocky, just that quiet kind of power that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you. You could feel it in your chest, in your stomach, between your thighs.

The elevator didn’t just take you up floors. It lifted something else. Something electric. Something that buzzed under your skin and begged to unravel.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, Harry stepped forward, pulling a sleek black card from his wallet. In one smooth, practiced motion, he swiped it through the lock. There was a quiet click, and the door unlocked.

“Ladies first,” he said, voice low and velvety. You stepped inside and your jaw nearly hit the floor.

The suite was massive. Not just hotel-room massive, penthouse massive. The kind of place you only see in movies or on Instagram when influencers casually spend the night with billionaires.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, revealing the glowing skyline of the city. Thick ivory curtains were pulled back like theater drapes. The bed wasn’t just king-sized—it looked like it belonged in a palace. Silk sheets, a gold-accented headboard, and pillows that probably cost more than your entire rent.

A marble bar gleamed in the corner with tiny gold bottles lined up like jewelry. Plush velvet sofas sat near a sleek fireplace, and a massive flat screen was mounted on the wall. There was even a balcony, shimmering with the reflection of city lights.

Jesus Christ.

You turned slowly, breath caught in your throat. “This place… I don’t think I could afford it even if I lived five lives.”

Harry stepped in behind you, quietly shutting the door. He leaned against it with that signature casual confidence. “Do you like it?” he asked, watching you, not the room.

You turned to face him, still half in disbelief. “I mean, yeah. It’s like stepping into a dream. I didn’t even know places like this existed outside of Pinterest.”

He chuckled, stepping further inside. “I figured if we’re not going home, we might as well do it right.”

You nodded, heart fluttering in your chest like it had a mind of its own. “You really know how to set the mood, Mr. Castillo.”

“Well,” he said, smirking, “I try.”

You both wandered through the space, giggling and pointing at ridiculous features like the heated floors or remote-controlled curtains. He poured you both glasses of champagne from the minibar, something expensive you couldn’t pronounce, and you toasted to, whatever this night had become.

Then it happened.

You turned too quickly mid-laugh, champagne in hand, and your heel caught the edge of the rug. You stumbled, not dramatically, but enough to make your stomach lurch. You gasped and instinctively reached out for balance. Harry was already there.

One hand caught your wrist, the other your champagne glass, and in the span of a breath, your bodies were inches apart. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell his cologne. Your laughter faded.

The air between you thickened. Your heart thudded in your chest as your eyes met his. Time slowed, or maybe just stopped. You weren’t thinking anymore. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t holding back.

You leaned in.

So did he.

The kiss was slow at first, gentle, uncertain. But it deepened quickly, growing warmer, more assured. It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t rushed. It felt like everything that had been building between you had finally reached its breaking point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was release. Tension melting. Electricity sparking. Breath shared between two people who, for some reason neither of you could explain, felt like they needed this moment. And maybe each other.

The kiss deepened with every passing second, slow and simmering, yet charged with a hunger you hadn’t realized was burning under your skin all night. His lips were soft but confident, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had, maybe longer.

His hands slid to your waist, holding you gently but firmly, and yours found their way to the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

There was no fumbling. No rush. Just the smooth, dangerous rhythm of something that felt inevitable.

He pulled you closer, guiding your body against his with a quiet, reverent care. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, or maybe it was your own pulse echoing everywhere, especially in places it had no business being so loud.

It was too much. Too good. Too fast.

You pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, your fingertips pressing lightly against his chest. He looked at you immediately, concerned, respectful, but still burning.

“I—I can’t,” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. “I mean… I don’t sleep with someone on the first date. That’s not… me.”

His expression didn’t falter. He didn’t pout or try to convince you. Instead, he smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made your knees weak all over again.

“I don’t either,” he said softly. “Which is probably why I don’t go on dates often.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your nerves starting to untangle. Then he leaned in, kissed your forehead gently, and looked into your eyes like he was seeing straight through you.

“But… maybe tonight we both break a rule.”

You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, your hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled him in, youd lips met again, hungrier, messier. Passion had cracked open the surface, and now it poured out like wildfire.

You felt wanted. Desired. Seen. And above all—you felt alive. Tonight wasn’t just a night. It was a beginning you hadn’t expected. And it was burning.

Your heels tapped softly against the polished floor, the long black dress hugging every curve as you let him guide you toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but reverent—like he couldn’t believe you were real, and didn’t want to risk you slipping away.

He guided you backwards, one slow step at a time and you let him lead.

The soft lighting from the minibar flickered behind him as you moved through the luxurious apartment, every step closer to the bedroom thickening the air between you. Your hand slid up to his chest, feeling the warmth through his shirt as your fingers moved to the buttons, undoing them one by one, never breaking the kiss.

One hand tangled in your hair and the other settled firmly on your waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of your dress. You gasped softly, and he took the chance to deepen the kiss, growling just enough against your lips to send a jolt straight through you.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he muttered between kisses. You smiled into his mouth, pulling him closer.

“I could worship this mouth all night,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, “and still not get enough of you.”

With each step back, your bodies collided, heat to heat, and he couldn’t stop touching you. His hand slipped behind you, running down your spine as the zipper of your dress gave way under his fingers.

“You’re stunning,” he breathed, his voice lower now, thicker. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?”

His hand slid down to your hip, gripping it just enough to make you bite your lip, and his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and grazing teeth just enough to pull a shaky moan from you.

“I want to ruin you,” he whispered, “let me take care of you.” Every word made your knees weaker, every kiss made your pulse wilder.

Your dress slipped off one shoulder. His bowtie came undone and fell somewhere behind you. Buttons popped open under your fingers as you walked, kissed, stumbled your way to the bedroom.

And just before the bed, he paused. Pulled back. Looked at you like you were carved out of stardust.

“You have no idea how good you look right now,” he said, his hands gliding down your waist, then gripping your thighs. “So fucking good. Like a dream I didn’t know I had.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he kissed you again and lifted you effortlessly into his arms. The world tilted, and the next second, you landed on the bed in a pool of silk sheets and undone kisses.

Looking up at him, shirt halfway open, hair slightly messed, and desire radiating off his skin, you knew. You weren’t just about to be touched. You were about to be fucked, in the most sweetest way possible.

You still technically had your dress on, but it was a complete mess by now—half-unzipped, one strap hanging loosely off your shoulder. Harry didn’t look much better; his usually perfect hair was tousled, and a few buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his toned chest.

But what truly caught your attention was the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his tailored pants. It knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched, and you felt your mouth go dry, yet somehow flood with need at the same time. You tried to say something, anything, but words failed you. You were completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

Harry caught your stunned expression and simply smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that made your core pulsating ever more. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned closer, his fingers brushing against your skin as he carefully slipped the rest of your dress down. The fabric pooled silently around your ankles, forgotten.

The moment you laid there, almost fully exposed to him, he dropped to his knees without hesitation. Soft, open-mouthed kisses landed against your legs first—hot, wet, and breathtaking. His lips traveled up slowly, lingering in places that made your whole body shiver and gasp. Some kisses were featherlight and ticklish, others deep and lingering, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.

By the time he reached your hips, your entire body was burning, vibrating with anticipation, and you realized just how desperately you craved every single touch he gave you.

As his mouth traveled over your body, Harry’s hands didn’t stay idle. They roamed your curves with a deliberate, possessive touch, sometimes gliding smoothly, other times gripping firmly enough to make you gasp his name and let out a soft, high-pitched squeal that made him chuckle low in his throat. Every reaction you gave him only seemed to encourage him more, fueling a dark gleam in his eyes.

Every so often, he murmured things against your skin, his voice rough with arousal.

“You’re unbelievable… so damn beautiful,” he whispered into the hollow of your hip, sending shivers rippling up your spine.

“I wanted this the moment I saw you.” His words fell like hot velvet, wrapping around you and making you feel even more helpless under his touch.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing and worshipping your skin with kisses, he leaned in again, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly reached behind you to unhook your bra.

The moment he threw it away, he let out a low, appreciative breath. His hands immediately found your breasts, cupping and caressing them with a mixture of reverence and hunger, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks until you whimpered and arched into him, desperate for more.

Harry took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of you like you were the most exquisite treasure he’d ever laid eyes on. His kisses grew hungrier, his hands a little rougher, but always careful, always worshipful.

When he knelt again to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his gaze flicked down and caught sight of the wet patch soaking through the delicate fabric. A wicked smirk curled his lips.

“Already this wet for me, darling?” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn with embarrassment and excitement all at once.

He peeled the panties down torturously slow, making you shudder with anticipation. Once they hit the floor, you were completely bare for him, trembling under the weight of his gaze. Harry looked at you like you were something rare, precious, something he could never get enough of.

And despite how exposed you were, you had never felt more wanted, more craved, than you did in that moment, laying there trembling, your skin marked with his kisses and your heart racing wildly in your chest.

“You have the most beautiful pussy I've ever seen,” Harry’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and molten with desire, as his hands slid slowly up from your ankles, gliding along your calves and thighs. His touch was firm, claiming, yet never rough. When he reached your inner thighs, he gripped them tightly, split them, grounding you, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

It wasn’t painful—far from it. It was commanding, reassuring, a silent way of saying you’re mine right now. Your breath hitched, your body trembling with anticipation. You were already so sensitive, so worked up, that even the brush of his fingers made you whimper.

Soft, desperate sounds slipped from your parted lips almost constantly now, tiny moans and gasps that Harry drank in like a man starved. His smirk deepened, pride flickering in his gaze at just how undone you were under his touch.

He gave you one last, heated look, a look so intense it made your stomach flip, before lowering himself between your thighs, disappearing beneath you with a predatory grace.

The moment his mouth met you, you nearly sobbed. His tongue was hot, deliberate, and devastatingly slow. He tasted you with a reverence that made your head spin, his hands squeezing your thighs tighter whenever you tried to move away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“F-fuck Harry—“ one hand of yours flying to his hair, gripping it as if it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

Harry wasn’t in a hurry. He explored you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue through your folds, pausing only to plant slow, sucking kisses that left you panting his name. When you cried out particularly loud, his hands tightened just a little more, keeping you firmly against his mouth.

His tongue was thorough, not missing a tiny spot, licking all your juices from just the surface of your labia. From time to time, he looked at your expression, at your tightly shut eyes, eyebrows furrowed upwards, how hard you were trying to be quiet by biting your lower lip, and how you were trembling under his touch.

You could feel his pleased growl vibrate against you, the sound shooting straight through your core and making you arch off the bed. The world blurred around you, your only focus the man between your thighs, the relentless, exquisite way he worshipped you with his mouth.

Harry groaned low in his throat as he pressed his mouth harder against you, his tongue slipping inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your entire body jolt.

You let out a desperate, broken moan, as he moved his tongue deep and slow at first, teasing, exploring, savoring every reaction he dragged out of you.

Every time he curled his tongue just right, your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth. His hands on your thighs tightened their hold, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, utterly at his mercy.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against you between strokes of his tongue, the vibration of his voice sending new waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. “You’re doing so fucking good for me. Tasting so sweet…”

You couldn’t even form words. Only desperate whimpers and high, keening moans fell from your lips, one after another, growing louder the deeper he went. Your whole body trembled beneath him, your fingers tugging harder at his hair in a silent plea for more, for everything.

Harry’s cock strained painfully against his trousers, throbbing with need, but he didn’t stop. No, he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. Watching you fall apart under him, hearing those beautiful sounds pouring from your mouth, feeling the way you clenched around his tongue—it was better than any release he could imagine.

His tongue moved faster now, plunging and flicking, occasionally circling your clit just to hear the wrecked cries it tore from you.

“Fuck, you’re so good, you know that?” he panted between kisses, his voice rough with hunger and awe. “So fucking perfect for me, angel. Look at you…”

You glanced down through heavy, lidded eyes and the sight of him between your thighs—his dark hair tousled, his lips slick and red, his eyes burning with adoration and hunger—nearly broke you.

The pressure in your core tightened unbearably. Every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth against your sensitive skin, every whispered praise in that low, sinful voice pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Your moans turned into cries, your body tensing, hips rocking against his face as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were right there, teetering on the brink, completely and utterly lost in him.

It was messy. It was wet. It was dizzyingly perfect. And Harry seemed addicted to every second of it.

Your body was trembling uncontrollably, every muscle tight, every nerve alight with pure, overwhelming pleasure. With a final, deep stroke of his tongue, Harry sent you flying over the edge.

You cried out his name, back arching off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair. Waves of ecstasy crashed through you, one after another, leaving you gasping, moaning, trembling beneath him.

Harry didn’t stop. He slowed, soothing you through the aftershocks with soft kisses and gentle strokes of his hands along your thighs, grounding you, worshipping you.

“There you go, beautiful,” he whispered, voice wrecked but so full of love. “Tasted even better than I though… fuck, you’re everything.”

You could barely catch your breath, your entire body humming, still quivering. Harry pressed a few more soft kisses to your thighs before slowly rising, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

It was only then that he began undoing the rest of his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. His skin was flushed, muscles flexing under the low light, and you couldn’t look away.

When he kicked off his pants too, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, the sight of him nearly made your heart stop. Something primal lit up inside you.

The exhaustion from before was gone, replaced with a burning need so fierce you didn’t even recognize yourself. Hormones raged through you, clouding every thought except for him.

When he crawled on top of you, you barely gave him a chance to react before you grabbed him and flipped him onto his back, your body moving on pure instinct.

Harry let out a surprised, delighted laugh. “Oh, so I’ve got a little dragoness here, huh?”

You just smirked down at him, your eyes dark with lust, and then you began your own form of sweet revenge.

You kissed down his chest slowly, teasingly, making sure your lips barely brushed his skin, feeling him shiver under you. You trailed even lower, biting gently at his hipbone, smiling when he let out a low, desperate groan.

His hands fisted the sheets, muscles straining as he tried to keep himself still for you.

“Tease,” he rasped, but there was nothing but pure worship in his voice. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane, baby.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, painfuly slow. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed and so ready for you, making your mouth water.

You took your time, pressing soft kisses along his thighs first, deliberately avoiding where he needed you most. He kept murmuring under his breath, calling you “so good,” “so beautiful,” “my perfect girl,” between ragged breaths.

Finally, finally, you let your mouth wrap around him, slow and deep. But only at his pink tip, already leaking with pre-cum.

Harry threw his head back with a broken moan, one hand flying to your hair but not forcing, just holding, like he needed you to stay connected.

Then you went deeper, making him hissed and jolt. You moved at your own pace, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, occasionally pulling off just to tease him with slow licks along his length. Every time you did, he cursed under his breath, voice rough and needy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart… fuck, keep going,” he gasped, hips trembling as he fought not to thrust into your mouth.

You loved it. How undone he was for you, how he melted under your touch, how every sound he made was raw and real and just for you. The more you moved, the louder his breathing grew, the more his thighs tensed under your hands. His praise became broken, desperate:

“So good… my good girl… my sweet, sweet girl—ah, fuck—don’t stop—”

You could feel him getting closer, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring, his dick twitching inside your spongy mouth. His hands gripped you tighter, his voice wrecked and pleading.

“D-darlin' I am gonna cu—“ but before he could finish his warning, he threw his head all the way back and with every force in his body he tried not to move his hips upwards and pushed himself deeper into your mouth.

When he finally came, it was with a loud, wrecked cry of your name, his whole body shuddering violently beneath you.

It was messy and hot and overwhelming, and you didn’t mind it one bit. You stayed there, swallowing every bit of him. He tasted sweet yet bitterly, but the combination itself was tasty. You felt his fingers stroke through your hair in shaky, adoring motions as he tried to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ, baby…” he panted when he finally managed words, looking down at you with a gaze so full of love and awe it made your heart ache. “You were absolutely insane…” you chuckled, before pulling him out of your mouth, slowly, but he still groans. The sudden cold air touching his swollen tip, it's always a shock.

You slowly licked your lips and fingers clean, tasting him, savoring the salty, intoxicating flavor of him. Harry’s gaze darkened instantly. He looked absolutely wrecked, completely undone by the sight of you. Wild, messy, glistening just for him.

Without warning, he couldn't help himself and he surged forward, grabbing your face and kissing you hard.

The kiss was filthy and desperate, your mouths colliding, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you both tasted each other fully, the unique mixture of your essences fueling the fire even higher.

Harry groaned low in his chest, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough. His dominance returned in full force, his hands strong and sure as he rolled you onto your back, covering your body with his own.

His eyes locked with yours, burning with love and raw hunger. He cupped your cheek, breathing heavily, giving you a moment.

“Are you ready, beautiful?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough. “You’re doing so good for me. I'm so proud of you.”

You nodded breathlessly, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. He kissed you once more, softer now, full of unspoken promises, before positioning himself carefully at your entrance.

His tip brushed youe folds, your juices served as a natural lubricant, so it wasn't really hard for Harry to go in. The first push was slow, cautious, his body trembling with restraint. You whimpered at the initial stretch, clinging to his shoulders.

Harry immediately started stroking your cheek, murmuring against your skin. “That’s it, sweetheart. Doing so good for me. Let me in, yeah? Breathe, baby… I’ve got you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, from the intensity, from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to him. He moved slowly, giving you time, whispering soft encouragements, letting you adjust to the fullness of him.

You felt like he was endless. He kept pushing deeper and deeper, reaching places you could only dream of, stretching you out so much, that he left no room for anything else, barely for air.

When he was fully inside, he stilled, pressing kisses along your jaw and neck, both of you panting heavily, your bodies trembling from the connection. For a moment, it was pure intimacy, your bodies fitting together perfectly, hearts beating wildly against each other, soft whimpers escaping both your mouths.

Harry rocked into you with slow, shallow thrusts, just enough to keep you connected, to let you feel every inch of him.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re mine.”

But as the minutes passed and your body relaxed around him, the pace shifted.

Harry’s movements became deeper, stronger, pulling moans from your throat you couldn’t have held back if you tried. The bed began to creak with the force of his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room alongside your gasps and desperate cries.

Harry didn’t let up with the sweet words. If anything, he poured them over you even more, his voice hoarse and wrecked with feeling.

“My beautiful girl… so tight, so good for me… fuck, taking me so well.”

Inside, you felt completely lost—lost in him, in the pleasure, in the overwhelming love radiating from every touch, every thrust. You clung to him like a lifeline, nails digging into his back, head thrown back in ecstasy as he hit deeper, harder, dragging whimpers and desperate moans from you.

Then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Harry shifted one hand between your bodies, expertly finding your clit with his fingers. You gasped, your body jolting under him, the added stimulation sending electric shocks of pleasure through your entire being.

“That’s it, baby… let go for me,” he murmured against your neck, his voice shaking with how close he was too. You were spiraling fast, the pleasure building higher and higher, unstoppable.

But then Harry suddenly slowed, breathing heavily, and with a gentle grip on your hips, he flipped you over onto him, guiding you into his lap.

“You’re so amazing,” he said, smiling up at you, still breathless. “Ride me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You were shaky, overwhelmed, but Harry’s hands on your hips steadied you, supporting you as you sank down onto him again.

The new angle was deeper, more intense, and when he reached down and found your clit again with his fingers, you nearly sobbed from how good it felt. He was doing regular circles, at the same speed as you were bouncing on him, creating a perfect balance that won't hold you back for too long.

You moved together, messy and desperate, the sounds of wet skin and desperate gasps filling the room. Harry’s praises continued, slurred and broken with pleasure:

“So good… so fucking beautiful… look at you, riding me like a goddess.”

You clung to him, barely able to keep moving as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your nails dug deeply into his shoulders, definitely leaving a bruise there, but he didn't care. He takes it as a souvenir from this night. You screamed so loudly, your core clenching around his twitching dick, every muscle, every nerve in your body tensed and you swear in one particular moment, you saw white stars.

When you finally came, your entire body locked up as you shattered around him. The clenching of your walls around him pulled Harry over the edge right after, his hips jerking up into you, his arms wrapping tightly around your trembling form. He buried his head in your shoulder and growled loudly, his voice stammering and jerky.

He held you close in a bear hug, not letting go, grounding you as you both rode out the aftershocks together. Breathless, sweaty and completely ruined.

Your body feels like it’s melting into his. The aftershocks are still rippling through you both, and neither of you moves for a long moment. Harry’s chest rises and falls against yours, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breathing uneven.

Slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are soft, a little dazed, full of something so raw it makes your heart ache.

“Hi,” he whispers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. You laugh quietly, feeling shy and overwhelmed all at once. You reach up and brush a strand of hair off his forehead.

Harry kisses your fingers and then, with a soft grunt, carefully pulls out of you, making sure he’s gentle, murmuring soft apologies against your skin when you wince at the sensitivity.

Before you can even blink, he’s scooping you up into his arms, carrying you like a princess, strong and secure. You squeal softly, burying your face against his neck, and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest.

The bathroom is warm and steamy within seconds. You step into the shower together, the hot water raining down, and he pulls you back against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He treats you like you’re made of glass, tender, slow, patient.

Neither of you says much.

It’s just quiet touches, soft kisses along your damp skin, the shared breaths between you. He washes you gently, his hands steady, his touch reverent. You tilt your head back against him, letting your eyes close, feeling completely weightless in his care.

Every once in a while, he whispers something into your ear. Sweet things, praises, promises you can barely catch over the sound of the water. You feel worshipped. Safe.

When you’re both clean, Harry grabs a towel and dries you off himself, smiling softly the entire time like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Without a word, he lifts you into his arms again, carrying you back to the bed.

He lays you down gently, crawling in next to you immediately, not letting you go for even a second. He pulls the covers over both of you, wrapping himself around you like a protective shield.

Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat, feeling your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Harry’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your back.

“I’ve got you.” he whispers against your hair and without minutes, you fall asleep wrapped in him, both naked, both tired but both happy.

The morning sun beamed into your room, which still smelled like sex. It hit you right in the face, so you had no choice but to wake up. You opened your eyes, sunlight spills across the room, highlighting every little detail: Harry’s messy hair, his relaxed face, the way he’s still smiling even in sleep.

And suddenly, the guilt hits you like a tidal wave and you can't breath. You slept with him. On the first night. Harry Castillo.

He belongs to a different world—wealth, fame, endless connections—and you’re barely scraping by, struggling just to keep up with bills. What if he wakes up and realizes? What if he thinks you used him?

Your chest tightens painfully. You need to leave. Before you ruin everything. Slowly, carefully, you begin to untangle yourself from his arms. The cool air prickles against your bare skin as you quietly pick up your clothes from the floor, trying not to make a sound.

Just as you slip into your dress, you hear his sleepy voice behind you:

“Where are you going?”

You freeze. Turning around, you see him blinking up at you, completely disheveled and adorably confused, reaching out a hand to pull you back into bed.

“I… I have to go,” you whisper.

He frowns, sitting up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His bare chest is bathed in the soft morning light, and he looks almost too good to be real.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “Just stay…”

You want to. God, you want to. But the guilt is too heavy. It weighs down your every breath.

“I… I have to,” you say again, voice shaking. You grab your heels with trembling fingers, your heart breaking with every step away from him. But Harry is already getting out of bed. He walks straight to you, no hesitation, and cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Tears well up in your eyes before you can stop them.

“I feel awful,” you manage to say. “I feel like… like I used you. I don’t want you to think I’m only here because of who you are, because of your money, your name, your connections. I don’t want to be that person.”

For a long, terrifying second, he says nothing. And then Harry smiles. A soft, heart-melting smile.

“I would never think that about you,” he murmurs. “Not for a second.” His thumbs brush away your tears, his touch achingly tender.

“From the moment I saw you — messy apron, tired smile, kind eyes — I knew you were different. I knew you were good. You have no idea how rare that is.”

He pulls you into his arms again, holding you tightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I’m not letting you go just because you’re scared,” he says quietly, meaning every word. And this time, you let yourself stay. You bury your face into his warm skin, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, and you finally allow yourself to exhale, to trust.

When he finally pulls back a little, his smile is soft and teasing.

“You’re not seriously thinking about sleeping in that, are you?” he says, glancing pointedly at your half-buttoned shirt and crumpled jeans.

You let out a breathy laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “No,” you murmur.

“Good,” he grins as you drop your things on the floor, not caring where they land. Holding intense eye contact, you start removing your dress.

He helps you, his face once again filled with surprise as he sees you bare—like it’s the very first time all over again.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whimpers, brushing his nose against your neck and making you laugh.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lifts you up and throws you both back onto the bed, your laughter echoing through the room.

When you wake up, again, you blink sleepily and stretch, only to find Harry already awake, propped up on one elbow, smiling down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. You can’t help but smile back. He leans down and kisses you, slow and sweet.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m making you breakfast.”

You pad after him into the kitchen, wrapped in nothing but his white shirt, that hangs down to your thighs. Harry looks completely at home, hair messy, only wearing boxers, barefoot on the cool floor.

He moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times, making pancakes from scratch, humming under his breath. Every so often he steals a glance at you and smirks when he catches you staring. You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching him.

And somehow, sitting there in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, laughing with him like you’ve known him forever, you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.

Hi!! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! This was my very first fic about Harry Castillo and I’m absolutely freaking out because he’s just so RAAA. Anyway, if you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day,

Love ya🦋🩵

[dilf-docs]

Strobbing Lights, Circled Calendars

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: of course you're bound to see him here -- harry castillo, one of your dad's bestfriends and main sponsors of this gala. you'll need a mountain of champagne to make it through the night without losing your temper, but harry has never made it easy.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, (eventual) smut, foes to hoes, (one sided) enemies to lovers, angst, rich ppl (yes that's a warning), slowburn, reader may be a bit of a cunt (sorry if this x reader fic is mischaracterizing u), ft. dbf!harry (love this trope so much and had to squeeze it in, my bad)

word count: 3,898 words

side note: I KNOW the movie isn't out yet but the mental illness and hyperfixiation combo is killing my ass lately. besides, i alr posted this in wattpad (oc version tho), and thought why shouldn't i post it here too; we all deserve rich gentleman pedro AMIRITE ++pls i wanna see ur comments and reblogs, lemme know what u think!!! :,) we're still far far away from that type of interaction wINk WoNK so for now, enjoy(??) their annoying banter and try to get my vision okBYE

part: prev | masterlist | next

Your parents divorced when you were a kid.

Your birthday had been a day before, the sun casting it's rays as your feet walked barefoot through the marble frigid floors; it could've been an omen about the cold to come. Around you, staff scrubbed floors with remanents of confetti. Some balloons were still standing in the garden. There was some leftover cake in the fridge.

"Y/n. You're awake"

Your father's gaze was one of pity. You were too young to understand that.

"Where's mommy?"

You hadn't even opened the mountain of presents awaiting in the living room and Sofía Reyes was gone.

She never came back.

Maybe that's why you hate your birthday. Maybe that's why you hate marriages. Love. It was a cruel lie sold to you and then taken away, to be locked behind a part of you that died the day you turned eight. You were forced to grow up, devoid of the loving touch of a mother who didn't hesitate to leave you behind like the discarded dolls you tore that day, futile attempts of replicating her touch with the maids, a sea of faces who failed to last long, characters broken by your desperate wails and short temper.

All you had was the rage of an unloved child. Hate.

Hate turned into resent, then barely a quiet rage, enough to carry you through cold interactions and your father's second, third, fourth, now fifth marriage. Enough to fuel the determination that had driven you to excel in your classes. Conquer. Crush. No one dared to mess with you. And that's what made you raise to the top: the best of the very best. Paired with your father's money and contacts, a few years later and you were New York's most sought after divorce lawyer.

It filled you with a wicked pride. A cruel sense of satisfaction of some sorts. May be the power of ending what once was love, and now had dwindled into apathy, bitterness or just the cold silence of a foretold death, ending with just the twisted knife of your signature. In a way, it made you feel like a god: capable of doing and undoing what people considered sacred. You laughed about that. Forever was, indeed, the sweetest con.

You didn't believe in love.

And you were final about it, just like with everything else.

"Mrs. Wallace is outside" your secretary's voice chimes in. You told her to stop using the phone and instead come to your door directly: you never know when you could answer and it'd be your dad, the last person you want to hear ask you about anything going on in your life. "Should I tell her to come in?"

Your latest client. About to end a marriage of almost two decades because her husband cheated. The goal? Keep her lavish lifestyle, which meant winning a part of his money.

Of course, she had come to your office for help.

"Yes. Thank you"

You search for her file in your computer, feeling disoriented all of a sudden.

"Um, I'm sorry, Caro" she stops on her tracks at your office's door. "What day is today?"

"June 17th"

It's today.

Carolina quirks an eyebrow, and you hate the way she squints her eyes, as if to decipher you.

"Should I clear your schedule for the rest of the day?"

A beat goes by.

"No" you resume your typing, probably to avoid her gaze or to busy yourself. Maybe both. "As a matter of fact, pack it up as much as you can"

She sighs, turning her heels, not before looking at you one last time.

"Happy birthday, Ms. Beaumont"

She leaves you alone, closing the door softly after her. The Reyes is silent, as the room. You shake your head, typing your thoughts away.

There is nothing to celebrate.

The door flings open, the loud click of heels against your office floors. You just hope Mrs. Wallace doesn't ruin your handmade carpet from Morocco with her shoes.

"Hello, Y/n!" her voice may be annoying, but at least she took the weight of your last name off. "Ugh, I've been dying to see you"

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Wallace"

"Drop that. Just Mia" winking while placing her Hermès on the chair to her side. "And it's all thanks to you"

Mia isn't an awful person, just annoying. Annoyingly rich.

You pull out a stack of documents neatly organized inside a carpet.

"Okay, so I just need you to check this documents-"

"No need" she's quick to dissmiss coolly, in that elegant yet frigid way of her kind. Then, her red lips (try to) form a smile through her botox injections. "Do me a favor and entertain this soon to be divorcee, dear. Show me your client list, maybe set me up with another hot-"

You let out your first real laugh in a while.

"Oh, you're funny Mia! But I'm not a matchmaker" you lean back in your chair, giving you a perfect peek of your degree, diploma and doctorate. You smile, satisfied. "See those behind you? I don't bring couples together. I tear them apart"

She stares at you, dumbfounded.

"That was cold" Mia deadpans.

Bit ironic, innit?

You shrug, unbothered. "It's my job and I'm the best. Which is why you came to me, right?"

She nods, slowly.

"Well then!" you clasp your hands together, startling the blonde woman. "Let's get back to what matters, shall we? I promise you that pathetic excuse of a husband you have named Mark will pay"

There's only two things you know: money and heartbreak. Born into New York's posh society, all your life you've been surrounded by the lavish of the elite world: a world that smells like unaffordable cologne, brands, burnt cigars, exclusivity and superciliousity.

You're as familiar with extravangance and parties as you are with big lonely houses and no one to call when you're down. It is all a blur of strenuous music of bars and drinks down, but when it's quiet, it's all about the silence like someone has died.

It's the price to pay, you think as you look down, to the tiny passerby walking on the bustling streets. You like to wonder about their lives and if they're happier than you, a secret torture kept hidden between you and the glass walls of your office at the firm.

You're already thinking what movie you'll choose for tonight as Joaquín, your personal chauffeur, drives up to your apartment.

He opens the door for you, lending a hand.

"Have a good night, Ms. Y/n"

For some reason, be it his respect for your chosen aphony or the familiarity not to be confused with warmth, you let him address you by your name, unlike the rest of your staff.

"Thank you" a word so small and repetitive yet foreign in your lips.

No congratulations, but his last look over the shoulder and nod may be. He probably is the only one who has seen the faces of distate as you answered your phone through his rearview mirror, displeased at the words of supposed affection of your acquaintances.

As you step inside, the bright lights and minimalist decoration wash over your tired form.

"Ms. Beaumont" it's your concierge. Your feet are killing you, and all you want is to take a bath and order some sushi. Not more human interactions for the day. "There's someone waiting for you"

Just what you needed.

"It's nine, Clark" you seethe his name, rolling your eyes. "Who could possibly need me?"

"Hey, little one"

Never have those words felt more out of place. He has never felt more out of place.

"Dad" you force a smile. He takes some strides across the lobby until he's stading in front of you, close as to see the new spots on his skin but not enough to be at hug's length. It's not like you ever did. "You could've called, you know?"

To say those two words I could care less about.

"It's important" he makes a gesture of remembering. "Oh! Happy birthday, by the way" you didn't expect less, "how much is it?"

Of course he didn't cross half Manhattan to congratulate you.

"Twenty-six" you reply, nonchalant.

"Time flies by, does it?" he tries to sound nostalgic, but it falls flat and artificial, as a rehearsed speech. It all felt like that, anyways.

"It does" you cut his bullshit off. "What do you want?"

He laughs, loudly. "Ah, that's my girl! Look at you" he points your suit, making your cheeks flare up between anger and embarrassement. "In this tight attire, talking like a bussiness woman!"

Your father looked as if you had slapped him in his face when you told him you wanted to be a lawyer. He could've cut you off, but you were his only family. I will make you proud, you assured him. At the end of the day, above all, you were still a daughter. So you used his money and your skills to build where you stand today. Despite it all, he still found ways to put you down and make you feel eighteen again, as the weak little girl who quietly cried herself to sleep, Yale acceptance letter tucked harshly in the trash.

But he started this.

Your father would never understand this choice was his fault.

"Now, let's talk, then" you snicker a small finally in there. "Impatient one, as always. Aren't you? Here, take a look for yourself"

He hands you an envelope. It doesn't take you two to put the pieces together.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Annabelle is sick" he's quick to explain. "I want you to come with me"

Sick could mean many things: the flu, sick of me... Maybe he'll show up in a few months at your office to end his fifth.

You quirk an eyebrow, annoyed. "Do you want me or need me to?"

"Whatever suits you" he adopts that posture of his, as to indicate the conversation is over. "I just need you to be there"

Not an option. You eye the envelope again, tearing it open. The first words you see, big in bold are Open Bar. You place the invitation inside again, not bothering to read the rest. That's enough for now.

"I will be"

If you knew all that was to come, you would've declined.

The image of your father on the lobby of your apartment, one he just hadn't bothered to visit since you moved in two years ago, has been in your mind since last night.

Why was he there? It must've been important.

"What do you mean you were busy?" your friend, Rachel, huffs. You roll your eyes at her over the top voice for a simple conversation at brunch. Your head pounds, probably for tonight's event or the guilty bottle of wine emptied alone now turned hangover.

"I was working" you reply, stuffing a bit of salad on your mouth to avoid a gag.

"You're always working" she's quick to counter. "You're supposed to have fun in your birthday! And, you know, reply to your friend's texts"

You look at a spot on the white tablecloth.

"You know I'm not one to celebrate my birthday. We can go out any other day you'd like"

Rachel twirls a loose strand of her curly ginger hair, absentminded.

"You still ignored me"

You stiffle a laugh. "Should I apologize?"

"You never do" she leans back on her seat. "By the way, what's that?"

Your phone chimes in again, as on cue.

"Ugh, it's Nessa. No idea? My personal stylist, Rach" you turn off your phone, annoyed. "I don't get the point of validating my appointment. If I booked it last minute, urgently, why would I cancel?"

Rachel wiggles her brows, teasingly.

"Is it for a date? Please tell me it's for a date"

Last time you went on one, it was last year; you just didn't want to go to Rachel's New Year's Eve party alone. You haven't spoken to Barret (or was it Baxter?) ever since.

"It's a gala" you sigh.

"That's pretty much the same to me" she raises her glass. "Any cute boys going?"

"I didn't check the invitation. My dad forced me to go" you yawn. "Is it important, anyway? It's for amFAR. Won't be the first nor the last of the year"

"Figures. My dad is going" she casually mentions, diving back to her forgotten croissant.

"Wait" a beat. "If my dad and your dad are going, then-"

"Harry Castillo" you seethe.

He's in the back, surrounded by a crowd, wrapped around his finger. He may be aware, by his charming smile. All the world, licking at his hand for scraps of his precious attention, hovering around as dirty flies over the most exquisite banquet. Harry is like the sun: everyone can't help but orbit around him, drawn by his light.

But he was never like the others.

Which is why you despised him.

Him, who is now walking towards you with purposeful strides and a polite smile.

"Ah, David!" his voice utters in a deep tone. It's cheerful, too cheerful for a gala full of the cold echo of cutlery and rehearsed smiles. "How's Annabelle?"

"Sick" he smiles, but it sounds scornful. "Do you remember my daughter, Y/n? She's here on behalf of her"

Your father offers the same tight smile your way. Behave, as if you were the same little kid who cried to be taken home.

He lets out a boisterous laugh. "Of course I do"

Him, who knew exactly how to get under your skin: could be the way his brown orbs shine with sincere warmth as he leans forward, or his tone, charged with an autority that demanded respect. Like the world owed him a favor just for existing. But it is too the way he takes in your hand, chapped lips pressing against the soft of your skin, the sound of a kiss as he whispers your name like he owns it: as if Harry Castillo was the only man capable of saying it.

You can feel his moustache scratch your palm. Can feel his cologne start to invade your nostrils. Your mind. Your common sense. Your head spins, but you haven't even had a drink yet.

What is happening and why does he look at you like he knows?

"Always a gentleman, my friend" your father bursts your train of thoughts.

"Someone has to" he replies, velvet voice laced with something you can't quite place.

Why does he affect you so much, down to the marrow of your silver bones?

"Don't you think so, Y/n?"

"What?"

"The world needs more people" your father speaks, "like Harry"

More people with gelled curls pulled backwards. With expensive cologne that enters the room before they did, as intoxicating as their presence. With more new spots on their skin, blooming as the grays that have started to sprout between the chocolate of their hair.

More people who preferred a dinner and conversation over a club and a drink. Who took their time to search all of Manhattan for the perfect bouquet. That kissed with a force so inebriating, your cheeks turned vinious and body went limp.

More people who still believed in love. Good old-fashioned lover boys.

You purse your lips. "Sure thing. Would be wonderful"

Harry Castillo gives you his best smile. "I'm glad you agree"

You so desperately need a drink.

Outside, the world seems quiet.

Just at your feet, cars zoom and people walk, sounds beating raw with the hearbeat of a city that never sleeps.

But up here, you like the con of a lull night.

For a moment, it's like the world let's you breath, and no matter how much you love the club's strobbing lights and loud beat, or the sharp edge of words thrown in the court's enclosed space, you would still choose this fleeting moment of calm.

Your heart has never felt at peace.

"You have a bit of a habit of running away, don't you?"

Your breath steadies a bit. Like you expected this to happen.

"And you have one of prying into other people's bussiness"

Just like that, your wall is up again, long gone the sense of silent ease.

He chuckles, lightly so. "It's kind of what I do for a living. Guess old habits die hard"

Speaking of which, he pulls out a cigarette from his pocket.

"Do you mind?"

You look at him, puzzled. He pats his pristine suit, then shoots you an apologetic smile.

"I seem to have forgotten my lighter"

"I quit"

He raises an eyebrow. "Good for you" but his tone is full of mockery.

Like he doesn't believe you to be capable of holding to your promises.

Surrendering to Harry felt easy, not humiliating. It's not like you would be the first, nor last to do so.

"I still carry some for emergencies"

It's the same lighter he's seen all this years, accompanying you on lonely balconies and packed rooms, yet looking as new as the day you were given so, because you had a knack for caring too much.

It had an S, a B and an R, but even as he heard some things, he never dared to ask why you treasured it so much.

"Is this an emergency enough?"

The corner of his lips curve upwards at the same time he leans closer. You recognize the Myrrhe Mystère he's bathed his honeyed skin in.

You flicker the light once.

"Come closer and find out"

You flick it again, and it's just him and you, in that terrace, the wind blowing hard but not enough to kill the flame: for a moment, barely seconds, the blaze bathes his auburn eyes in a warm glow, as if they were the very same fire in your hand.

"There you go" voice impossibly soft.

This is hate: the way your breaths seems to mingle with your pulse, paused. Afraid to reveal more than meets the eye. The way your voice reduces to a whisper, as if speaking loudly would give your thoughts away.

This is the real reason you hate him: because no matter how many roads you take, the world is a sphere, and at the end of the day, it all leads to Harry Castillo's irritating, irksome and exasperating way of haunting your mind when you give him just a small space.

But that was him. Demanding. It was never enough. He needed more: even in the scope of your thoughts. Consuming. As the cigarette that hangs from his lips.

"Thanks" he pulls back, taking a drag. "Aren't you a doll?"

You remain emotionless. You try. Try, try, try.

"Dolls don't speak. They just look pretty"

Another drag. Slow. Your eyes drift to the shape of his mouth.

His eyes find yours, smirking. "Then you're already halfway there"

You give him your back, already done with this conversation. But he isn't: something about rich people and not knowing how to lose. You know it all too well, carry the disease yourself.

Harry Castillo always needs to have the last word. Like the last bullet of a gun.

It's got to land.

"You know, you're just like your dad"

The bitter aftertaste of champagne bubbles up your throat. You turn around, with pounding head and heart.

"I'm his daughter" you reply.

"I mean you're shit at pretending"

You laugh, incredulously. "Oh, aren't you a know it all? What, is that your job too?"

"Sometimes, we enjoy doing things that aren't our duty. Nonetheless, they capture our interest"

You feel a myriad of things: angry, humiliated, brave, stupid. Briefly reminds you of Rufus, your dad's old hunting dog. When he got sick, he got mean and angry. Bit the hand of his owner and licked it after.

"And what could I possibly offer to capture yours?"

He smiles. You feel him walk closer, cut the distance between your cold bodies, until the green of his ring becomes clear in your visual field.

"Your inability to keep your lies alive"

You forget how to breath until his arm brushes past yours. He kills the cigarette with a learnt casualty, the flame going out with a hss. His body remains rooted in place, caging you against the cold metal until it presses on the bare back your dress shows.

"Fuck you, Harry" you seethe.

How he always managed to ruin your day was a mystery, but it's always been like this: the push and pull, until someone gives in.

Small cuts until the wound is too big to ignore.

Dards thrown against the biggest of dartboards to exist, where every hit hurts.

"S' not the first time I've been told so" he chuckles. "Not by you, either. Looking forward to that"

The bewilderment in your face must be obvious by the way he smiles, sadly so. He starts to walk away, back to the on-going party.

"Hey! Where are you going?" you shout, "this isn't over yet"

You think he mumbles a You can't have it all.

"I can" you feel your body shake with vitriol. "Don't you know who I am?"

Why do you keep letting him get away with it?

You tell yourself each time that this is it, but it's impossible to ignore how he always makes you lose the mask you have carefully crafted.

He's like a mirror, but where light meets his reflection, you meet the darks of his shadow. It's like his sole purpose it's to remind you of the filth within you and the heavy weight of the crown with your father's last name. The more you stare at his eyes, the easier is to pick apart the flaws you know but don't feel in yourself to change.

It's like he knows you. Like Harry truly sees you for who you are: past your silver spoon, your spiteful remarks meant to wound, night life, expensive brands and opulence.

Worst part? He doesn't seem to mind the crisp of your rotten skin. You don't, either: a burnt child loves the fire.

"I do" he replies, his soft remark washing over your ember flaming anger. "But do you?"

You let him walk away. It's too much. You look at the the expanse of water surrounding the island, all to not drown on his eyes and the thoughts in your head he always makes you second-guess.

Pathetic.

Then, one final time, he turns around, glancing at you deeply, as if remembering something.

"I know it was yesterday but, happy birthday, Y/n" whispered in a fragile breath that gets lost in the sea of buildings and smog of Manhattan.

It lingers. Like his perfume over your clothes and the smell of the smashed cigarrette against the railing. It too lingers like the weight that's pressed over your chest and you can't name.

He doesn't wait for an answer. You don't have one.

And then he leaves.

You look to the skycrapers, coldly trying to replicate the beauty of the stars above, trying to reach the sky but falling short.

Trying, trying, trying.

You close your eyes and breath.

Falling, falling, falling.

Two words. Almost two decades of hating it. All it took was Harry Castillo's mouth to utter them as if it was important.

You shake your head in disbelief.

Because, for the first time in a lifetime, your birthday feels like it matters.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / 🏷: @io12n @dowscal @oscar-isaac @joelscowgirl @jxvipike @klarkapascal @lostinmyownmaze @folklore-barnes @alinacecee @sukitruqui (comment if u wanna be tagged!)