#Confessions of a Window Cleaner | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dakusan · 8 days ago

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UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #lee know #lee know x reader #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho skz #tethered tuesday

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absurdthirst · 5 days ago

Text

Materialistic Love {Harry Castillo x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 17.7k

Warnings: Unbalanced power dynamics, boss/assistant relationship, Harry's an idiot, self-consciousness, self image issues, sex, oral (male and female receiving), unresolved feelings, jealousy, Harry isn't the romantic he pretends to be, heartbreak, break ups, anger, confrontation, fighting in the streets, making love, confessions, marriage

Comments: Harry's assistant before he had that surgery, you managed to have one night together before he seemingly brushes you aside. Making you watch as he starts to court Lucy.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Harry Castillo MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Castillo Private Equities, Harry Castillo’s office, how may I help you?” Despite advanced technology, the availability to reach anyone at any time on their cell phone, plenty of clients still preferred to call into the office. Finding comfort in having a secretary, or in your case - executive assistant, field their phone calls. You don’t mind it, it’s a part of your job. One of the many hats you wear. “Can I speak with Harry? It’s Tom.” You recognize the older man’s voice and smile. He calls nearly everyday, driving Harry crazy since he retired and more time on his hands. “Let me see if he’s available, Mr. Feldman.” You wait for him to agree to be put on hold before buzzing into Harry’s office. “Mr. Castillo, Mr. Feldman is on line one for you.” Your voice cuts into the large office overlooking downtown Manhattan and your boss groans. “Not again,” he sighs, making you stifle a giggle. “Put him through and then come in here. I need to go over the schedule for this weekend.”

Right. His brother’s wedding. You forward the call to Harry’s desk and pick up your tablet to slip into his office, preparing to make notes and assure him that everything is ready.

“Mr. Feldman. How are you?” Harry says when he picks up the phone, his patience for the older man is waning but he reminds himself of the money and that makes him plaster on a smile so it can be heard down the phone. “Harry, how are you? Heard Peter is getting married this weekend. That’s excellent news. When will I be hearing about you settling down? Or are you playing the field like I did back in the day?” Tom chuckles and Harry offers him a polished laugh, “I’m still looking. You’ll be the first to know when I find her.” He promises just as you walk into his office and he raises his eyebrows, playfully rolling his eyes and you stifle your giggle. You come to sit down in the plush leather chair opposite his desk while Harry puts the phone on speaker so you can take notes.

You cross your legs and there’s a moment where you swear that Harry’s eyes flicker down but he’s swiveling around to stare out of the large wall of windows. Tom starts to talk about the investment he’s considering, making you take notes and nod along quickly as he talks about his fears and hopes. You study Harry, wondering what he is thinking about as he encourages the older man.

Harry exhales when he says goodbye to Tom, glad to keep the call shorter than normal. “I gotta get that man into some hobbies.” He comments, setting the Montblanc pen down. “So what’s the schedule for the wedding?” He asks, knowing he can rely on you to tell him what has been planned when he’s not really been involved in the wedding apart from the bachelor trip and his best man speech.

“Your tuxedo will be picked up this afternoon from the tailor.” You tell him, going through your list. “The navy blue Armani is back from the dry cleaner, that’s for the rehearsal dinner.” You scroll down the screen. “Rehearsal is at 4. Then a cocktail hour followed by dinner at 6. Your brother has set up an after party at the penthouse. You are encouraged to attend as best man.” Your eyes flicker up to him and then back down at your screen. “The morning of the wedding there is a brunch scheduled with your parents at 10. I picked your black Tom Ford with a light pink shirt and maroon pocket square for that.”

Harry doesn’t know what he’d do without you. You run his life, his closet, and he doesn’t know how he’d handle his life without you. You run every aspect of it. “Remind me to elope if I ever get married.” He teases, “Peter is nervous. Thinks he’s gonna mess this up somehow.” He says, “do you think you could talk to him?” He asks teasingly, “you know exactly what to do in every thing else.” He smirks at you, twiddling the pen in his hand. “What are you gonna do while the wedding is happening? Take the day off?”

“A day where I’m not running a million errands for you? Absolutely.” You snort, shooting him a playful grin. “I’m going to go from my bed to my tub and then back to my bed.” You try not to think about Harry and a bed, because that was something that has long since been forgotten. “I have a hot date with Netflix and maybe some take out.”

He chuckles, “put the take out on my card. And anything else. You deserve a day off. Me? I’ll be putting on my best face to be happy for Peter.” He tilts his head, “I’m gonna deal with my parents telling me I need to get married for a few months after the wedding. That’s why my mom put me at the singles table.” He rolls his eyes and sets the pen down.

There’s a flash of bitterness, of hurt, but you bury it behind a commiserating smile. “Perhaps you will meet someone.” You encourage. “Peter met Charlotte through that service.” You remind him. “And now he’s getting married.”

Harry snorts, “I’m not at that stage.” He confesses, “maybe once I see him married I’ll change my mind but I want to meet someone organically.” He says, “I am not in a rush. My mom is. I’m not.” He chuckles softly, “oh can you book that sushi place for tomorrow? I’m going to dinner with Darren, he wants to meet to talk about his investments.”

“Absolutely.” You keep your face polite and neutral as you make a note. “7 o’clock?” You ask, knowing that is when he prefers to eat dinner. You also know that he will want a bottle of sake immediately brought to the table. Little things that make his life easier, that’s the entirety of your job. “Should I pull the current portfolio and have it sent to your apartment tomorrow afternoon so you don’t misplace it?”

Harry smiles at you, tilting his head, “what would I do without you? Yes, that would be excellent. I need to talk to him about this dentistry practice in Tribeca that wants to expand and needs the funds.” He says and you make a note of that. “Done and done.” You reassure him, standing up after he turns towards his computer. “Oh and can you order something for my parents? It’s their anniversary next month.” He says as you make your way towards the door. “Neimans or Saks?” You ask and he turns to look at you, eyes flickering from the screen, “whatever you think. You know exactly what I like.”

You do.

****

You groan, pulling Harry closer and letting his tongue flick against yours as your hand slides under his jacket and the warm cashmere sweater to touch the broad expanse of his back. Unable to believe that this is finally happening. The long days and nights spent together boiling over where he is pressing you against the wall of his apartment and ravaging your mouth.

He groans as he kisses you, his hands sliding down your back until he is squeezing your ass, pulling you against him. “Fuck, I have thought about this so many times.” He confesses, bumping into the wall as he guides you towards his bedroom. Your shoes are left on the floor, his kicked off a moment later and you push his jacket from his shoulders. “Baby, tell me I can touch you.” He pleads, kissing along your neck.

“Yessss.” Your head tilts back, fingers threaded through his hair and your core is already dripping with arousal. “Wanted you for so long. Touch me.” You beg. “Let me touch you.” You reach for the edge of his sweater and push it up, ducking down to kiss up his stomach and across his chest. He’s so fucking attractive. Yes, he’s shorter than some men, but it doesn’t bother you.

“Fuck.” He groans at your kisses and grips the hem of his sweater to pull it over his head, exposing his upper body to your hungry eyes. His fingers fumble to find the zipper of your dress, needing it off so he can see you like he’s secretly imagined since you started working for him. “Can I?” He asks when you kiss his collarbone and you nod, letting him drag the zipper down just as you stumble into his bedroom.

You giggle, euphoric that both of you are so eager for this. “God, yes.” You whimper, loving the feeling of his large hands on your bare skin as he peels the dress back. “Fuck,” your fingers fumble with the thick, Italian leather belt you had bought him last year when you were on that trip with him to Milan. You love when he wears it. “I- I can’t-“ you huff, too eager to be patient.

Harry smirks, pleased that you clearly want him as much as he wants you. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t thought about this since the moment his mother hired you. He chuckles and bats your hands away so he can remove his belt, tossing it across the room and your fingers immediately fumble with his pants, his cock hard and pressing against the zipper of his pants. “Baby, shit.” He grunts when you squeeze him and his hands slide up your back to find the clasp of your bra, just as eager to have you naked.

It’s a flurry of clothes and hands. Kisses with teeth and tongue. Both of you craving what the other can give you. You somehow end up on top of him after you’ve tumbled to the bed, breasts pressed against his chest and his arms are solid around you. “Let me.” You nip his bottom lip before you start to kiss down his body, smirking when he inhales raggedly because he’s guessed what you’re gonna do.

"Shit. Honey, you don't have to do that." He murmurs, watching you as you kneel between his legs. "Fuck." He pants when you hook your fingers in his briefs and pull them down his thighs so his cock springs free to rest on his belly. The head is already leaking and the sight of you between his legs is almost too much to take.

You hum as you wrap your fingers around the surprisingly long cock. You knew he was thick, but you had expected him to be average in length. “Baby, I want to. Imagined doing this more than once and I know you want it.” You tease before you lower your head and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.

He groans, eyes fluttering closed until he forces them open so he can watch you. “Jesus.” He grunts, watching as you take him deeper into your mouth, your jaw stretching wider. You moan around him and he loves it, loves watching you as you seem to enjoy sucking his dick. “So good. You look so pretty.”

You doubt that. No one ever looks pretty if they are really sucking a dick. You take him deeper, groaning around his length as his thighs tense and he reaches down to caress your cheek. Your eyes meet his and you love how dark they are are. How expressive they are.

He pants, “fuck. Imagined this so many times.” He confesses, “way more than I should’ve.” He slides his hand down to your jaw, “I don’t wanna cum down your throat, sweetheart.” He confesses, “but you are gonna make me if you keep it up. It’s been too long.”

You would let him, but you pull off his cock with a popping sound and a cocky smirk. “It would have been alright if you did.” You promise, kissing back up his body.

He sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist and he rolls you over so he is hovering over you. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, nudging his nose against yours until he starts to kiss down your body. “I. Want. To. Taste. You.” He murmurs between kisses until he takes your nipple into his mouth.

“Harry.” Your eyes flutter closed and you whimper again as he suckles. Your hands slide against the silk sheets, your pussy clenching around nothing. “Fuck, baby, you- you don’t have to-“ you promise. “I’m soaking wet.”

“I want to. Imagined it enough times.” He groans, kissing down your stomach and he pushes your thighs apart. He groans at the sight of your glistening folds and you whimper when he inhales your heady scent. “Wanna taste you.” He groans as he dives in to slide his tongue through your folds.

“Oh fuck.” You moan loudly, surprised that he wants to do this. You had honestly expected him to be a little more of a taker than a giver. Not that you mind at all. Your thighs clench down around his head and your hips rock up to his mouth. “God, baby.”

He loves the way you moan, your thighs squeezing his head, and he flings his arm over your body, needing to feel more of you so he lifts your thigh up onto his shoulder. His tongue flicks over your clit, needing to hear you moan his name again.”You’re so good.”

He chuckles into your folds, “I try to be.” He smirks and dives back in, sucking on your clit until he slides his tongue lower so he can push it into your cunt. “You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs against your folds, nudging his nose against your clit.

You whimper his name, fingers twisting into the sheets. It’s been so goddamn long since someone has touched you and this is amazing. Lifting your head, you look down to see his perfect curls framed between your thighs as he tongue fucks you.

You whimper his name and his cock twitches against the silk sheets. The way you tangle your fingers in his hair moments later has him grinding against the mattress. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.” You murmur dreamily and he grunts, needing to feel it.

He’s trying to drive you crazy and he’s good at it. The sounds this man makes as he devours your pussy has your thighs shaking. “Dear God.” Your free hand cups a breast and you tilt your hips up. “I’m so close.”

He needs you to cum on his face. His hands squeezing your thighs as he silently orders you to cum for him. When you fall apart, he groans, eagerly lapping at your slick and he fucking loves how you taste, unable to get enough of it.

It’s like you are floating in the clouds, the pleasure making you sigh as he works you down. Your fingers softly ruffling his hair as he laps at you. “I want you inside me.” You confess, smiling blissfully at him.

He grins, kissing your thigh, and he shifts to hover over you. “You want me inside of you, baby?” He murmurs, kissing along your neck until he’s kissing your lips. “Condom.” He murmurs, reaching for the nightstand.

You watch as he opens the foil packet, moving to his knees so he can roll the rubber down his cock carefully. Pumping himself a few times as he caresses your thigh. “Are you sure?” He asks, biting his lip. You smile and nod, reaching for him to drag him down to you.

He grunts, gripping his cock to guide himself to your pussy and he starts to slowly push into you. “You’re fucking perfect.” He murmurs, kissing your jaw as he stretches you out on his cock. “So good for me.” He mutters, lost in the feel of you.

You moan, legs restless as they rub against his. Needing to move as he fills you and stretches you out. It’s been awhile since you’ve had sex, breaking a very long dry spell. “So good.” You promise, chasing his lips down for a kiss.

He slides his tongue into your mouth, starting to rock into you. He’s slow, wanting to savor this moment and help you adjust to him. “God, you feel good.” He murmurs against yours.

Your arms and legs wrap around him as you start to slowly rock with him. Humming in approval at the slow, thorough way he fills you up before slowly pulling back. “You are perfect.” You promise breathlessly.

You whine, loving how he is moving inside you. “Harry.” You moan breathlessly. “More.” You beg. “Wanted this for so long.”

Your nails dig into his back and he fucking loves it. Groaning your name, he buries his face in your neck and continues to rock into you. “Fuck, me too. You feel so damn good, baby.”

It feels like everything is suspended around you. Nothing exists beyond this bed. Your phone buzzes somewhere in your purse, but you don’t even hear it. You wouldn’t even care if you did. All you care about is the way he feels inside you. His cock pushing against your walls and spearing into you with measured, determined thrusts. He’s pacing himself, and you, but you want him to just give you everything right now. “Harder.” You beg, kissing along his shoulder. “Fuck baby, I love it.”

He wants to take his time, slowly fuck you and he wants to fuck you hard, hear you scream his name. He’s torn but when you beg for him to go harder, he obliges. His hand squeezing your thigh to push it back into your stomach as he rocks into you faster, harder. Skin slapping skin.

Your moan turns into a squeal, gasping as he pushes deep. Your fingers claw into his shoulders as he works in and out of you. It’s heavy, thrilling and every time your pussy clenches around him, you want more.

He adjusts his hips, needing you to scream for him, and he knows when he finds the right spot when you cry out in pleasure. “That’s it, baby. That’s it.” He groans, “need you to cum for me. Wanna feel it. Tell me what you need.”

“More.” You pant out, barely able to get the word out. Holding on for dear life. “Close.” You promise, feeling the frantic way that he is pounding into you. It’s perfect. His hips shift up and you let out a choked cry, eyes widening in surprise when he spears up against something wonderful.

When you cry out, he fucking loves it. He focuses on that spot again until finally, you fall apart beneath him. He groans, pressing his lips to yours to swallow your cries of pleasure, and he continues to fuck you through it. “That’s it, sweetheart. Shit. You feel so good.” He murmurs against your lips.

You might have just ruined his silk sheets but you don’t even care. Panting into his mouth, you love how dark eyes eyes are. How needy they are, filled with a sense of pride that he made you come apart. “Your turn.” You grin and kiss him again.

He smirks, “wanna see you ride me.” He grunts, shifting you to straddle him and his cock falls from your dripping pussy. “Ride me. Wanna watch you and wanna cum inside you like that.” He demands, slapping your ass as you drape yourself over him.

You giggle quietly and lean over and press your lips to his as you reach between your body to wrap your fingers around his cock. Lifting your hips to position him at your entrance again. “You want to watch my tits bounce?”

He nods, hands sliding up to cup your tits as you slide back down onto his cock. “Fuck. You look so pretty like this.” He murmurs, caressing your skin until he pinches your nipples. Loving how you clench around his cock. “Fuck. Love that.”

You moan, tilting your head back and leaning back so your hands are braced on his legs. Letting him see every inch of you. Knowing that his eyes are focused on where your pussy is taking his cock. “Love how you feel.”

He groans, his hands shifting to caress your thighs as you rock yourself on his cock. “Shit, sweetheart.” He hisses when you clench around him and his hand slides up until he is pressing his thumb against your clit.

“Oh shit.” You hiss, biting your lip but a full throated moan breaks free. He fucks like a man who is intent on making the woman in his bed crawl away from it and beg to be let back in. “God.” You whimper, starting to bounce on his cock in harmony with the circling of his thumb.

His thumb continues to rub your clit, needing you to cum for him one more time. He wants to hear it, see it. “You look so good riding my dick. I love it. Fuck, wanna see it every damn day. I want to see you cum again, baby. Give it to me.” He demands, shifting his legs to plant his feet on the mattress so he can thrust up into you.

“Harry!” You squeal out his name, lurching forward to brace your hands on his chest as he starts to fuck you again. His thumb is still circling the swollen nub above where he is drilling up inside you. “God baby, I’m gonna cum.” You promise, thighs burning and shaking until you are crying out and collapsing into him for a frantic kiss as you soak his cock.

He groans into your mouth, unable to hold back anymore. He wraps his arms around you, thrusting up into you. “Fuck. I’m gonna cum.” He grunts, “I can’t - shit - can’t hold off. Fuck. I- you’re - shit.” He growls as he thrusts up into you, spilling info the condom.

You love how wrecked he looks. Kissing along his jaw and over his sharp and distinguished nose that you have admired since you met him. “You’re so perfect.” You giggle, stroking his jaw and pressing your lips to his softly. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He nudges his nose against yours, gently rolling you to the side so he can slowly pull out of you while securing the condom. “Me neither.” He murmurs, watching you settle back against his pillows as he ties off the condom and gets up to dispose of it in the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror, eyes wide and hair mussed and he wonders if he did the right thing.

After he pads into the bathroom, you stare at the ceiling. Giggling to yourself as the warm, fucked out feeling settled into your body. Heart slowing back down and your blissful sense of euphoria absorbing back into your system. “Wow.” You hum, wrapping your arm over your breast and sit up, keeping the sheet pinned over you.

Harry comes back into the bedroom, grabbing his briefs to pull them on, and his eyes find yours. Yours are sweet and soft, that fucked out look on your face makes his heart clench, but he realizes in that moment, that his parents wouldn’t approve of you. They want him to climb the ladder, have social status as well as financial status. They want access to the best of the best the 1% has to offer and he only gets that by marrying the right woman. You come from nothing, you have no connections beyond restaurant reservations. It doesn’t matter how he feels, his family won’t approve of you. “You should get some sleep. We have an early start. I’m going to answer some emails.” He says, grabbing his shirt to pull it on before he pads off down the hall to his home office.

You frown slightly, aware that Harry has been good at compartmentalizing, but something seems off. After a moment, you slide out of the bed and find your panties to slide on, following him out of the bedroom. You silently walk down the hall and stand in the doorway. “Should I leave?” You ask, frowning slightly when you find him pouring a drink at his bar.

He turns to look at you, “no. No. You don’t have to go. It’s late. Sleep here. I’m just gonna do some things.” He says, shaking his head and he struggles to look at you as the guilt claws at his insides. He shouldn’t have slept with you. “Go back to bed.”

You swallow harshly, reading the guilt and regret in his face. He can barely look at you. “Okay.” You nod and your heart hurts, but maybe it’s just his way of refocusing. “Just don’t work too late.” You caution. “I’ll be waiting.”

Harry nods, watching you pad back down the hall to his bedroom, and he makes his way into his home office. The computer screen is bright as he logs in, emails in his inbox but he ignores them to open a new tab. He glances at the doors to his office, his mind replaying the moment you called him perfect. He’s not perfect, far from it. He knows how others see him, the whispers behind his back. “He’s rich, he’s handsome but -” It’s always ‘but’ and they end it with “he’s so short.” He swallows harshly, typing into the search bar, “leg extension surgery.” He has been thinking about it, talking to Peter about it, and he thinks it’s time to look into it more. It’s time to do something about it.

When you get back into the bedroom, you go into the en-suite and clean up, finding the extra toothbrushes and cleaning your teeth. Crawling back into the now too big bed and wondering when Harry will come back.

Harry doesn’t come back to bed until you’re asleep, almost falling off the edge of the bed. He sighs, not wanting to wake you as he slides into the bed, silk sheets pulled over him as he lays on his pillow. His mind reeling as he listens to you breathe deeply, deciding then and there that he’s going to do it. He’s getting the surgery.

He’s asleep when you wake up. Turned away from you and curled against his pillow. Making you creep out of the bed to take your clothes and slip into the bathroom to shower and dress. Unsure of how this morning will go, you wonder if he will fire you.

Harry wakes to the smell of coffee brewing, his arm stretched out across the bed but you’re gone. He figures you’ve gotten ready so he makes his way into the en suite to get ready for the day. He needs to speak to Peter. He comes into the kitchen to find you pouring out the coffee. “Good morning.” You offer and he nods, “morning.”

He’s dressed and apparently already eager to get the day started. “You have an eight AM meeting this morning with Presley Howell.” You tell him. “I’ve reserved the conference room and ordered the bagels and lox he likes. The room has already been adjusted to 73 degrees, just as he enjoys it and there are several room temperature waters already on the table.” You had done that last night, considering that the last time you didn’t adjust the air in the room, Mr. Howell had left with a sniffle that he claimed came from how cold the 70 degree office was.

Harry nods, impressed as per usual at your efficiency and he’s reminded once again of why he can’t lose you. He needs you to run his life. He needs you to remember all of the small details. You hand him the coffee and he takes it, “thanks. You’re the best. Oh, can you book an appointment for me and Peter to see Dr. Feldman. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon on the upper east side.”

You frown slightly and nod. “Of course.” You answer, curious as to why he would want to make an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon but he would have told you if you needed to know. It seems like the passion from last night is to be forgotten. “That’s my job.” You murmur.

He nods, sipping his coffee. “Thanks. You’re the best.” He smiles at you, “you ready? I don’t want to be late for Howell.” He says, setting the cup down. His housekeeper will make the bed and clean up the kitchen when she comes in in about an hour. “Sure.” You nod, confused about why he is acting like nothing has changed between you but he doesn’t notice that. “Let’s go then.” He orders, “easier for you to ride with me since you’re here.”

You follow him quietly out of the apartment and to the elevator. Not saying anything when he presses the button for the ground floor. “As soon as the meeting with Howell is over, get my brother on the phone.” He tells you before shaking his head. “Nevermind, just tell him to come to the office. Better that we talk in person.” You wonder what is going on but you just nod. “Yes sir.”

Harry doesn’t say anything as you slide into the car and he looks out the window as New Yorkers start their commute to work via walking and the subway. “Also, can you arrange for lunch to be brought in for me and Peter? I’m sure we will be talking for a while.”

You tighten your jaw, but he doesn’t see that. “Would you like sushi or Katz Deli?” You ask practically, trying to forget that this man had fucked you silly last night and now he’s pretending nothing has changed between you.

He hums, knowing his brother will want to have something substantial. “Katz.” He decides, “make sure they don’t skimp on the sauerkraut for Peter.” He reminds you like you don’t know. He knows you are wondering what the hell he is thinking after last night but he can’t bring himself to talk about it. He needs to bury it and he needs you to do that too.

“Of course.” You make a note, having their normal orders memorized and you will get a sample of assorted sandwiches for Howell. It will be a little too much, but the other staff would enjoy anything left over. There’s a change of clothes in your coat closet that you keep for emergencies, along with a bag when you have to take last minute trips. You’ll change and put last night behind you when you get to the office.

Harry walks into his office with you following behind him. It’s early, no one is here, and he strides straight into his personal office, leaving you to get changed and wait for Howell to arrive. “Double espresso when you’re done.” He orders when he sits down in his chair. Peter has an office too but he likes to work from home more often than not since his clients are more international.

The executive bathroom is right next to Harry’s office, so it’s easy to slip in and change. Tidying your hair and applying professional make in just a few minutes before you walk down to the break room. Instead of ordering coffee out everyday, Harry had a professional espresso machine installed and had a barista train everyone how to make coffee that was far superior to anything they could get at a Starbucks. At the time, you had considered it a perk, but now you are a little bitter as you brew his double espresso to deliver to his desk.

Harry looks up when you enter his office, and he takes a second to admire how pretty you look, even after putting on a change of clothes in the bathroom. He thanks you softly for the coffee, eyes flicking back to the computer screen so he doesn’t say something stupid.

You turn on your heel and you head back out to your desk. You try to ignore the hurt that you feel, try to understand that he had changed his mind on what he wanted for some reason. It’s honestly ridiculous to think that Harry Castillo would want his assistant. You scoff to yourself as you start taking care of the little things that you always do. Making his life easier because it’s what you do.

Harry sighs, picking up his coffee to take a sip, and soon, you come back in to tell him Howell has arrived. “Take him to the conference room. I will be there in a moment.” He says, adjusting his tie.

“Yes, Mr. Castillo.” You walk back out to where Mr. Howell is waiting and smile. “This way, sir.” You guide him out of the office towards the luxurious conference rooms. “May I offer you a coffee?” You ask as you walk him into the specially selected room. It’s warmer, and you are happy that you aren’t sitting in on this meeting.

Mr. Howell nods, “yes, thanks. No cream, one sugar.” He orders and you nod, making your way down the hall to prepare his coffee. Harry soon makes his way into the conference room, reaching out to shake the older man’s hand until he sits down. When you come in to set the coffee down, he watches you avoid his eyes and Howell smirks, “lucky guy to have such a gorgeous woman working for you.” Harry narrows his eyes slightly at the comment but knows he can’t call him out if he wants the business so he says, “she’s an excellent employee.”

You don’t miss his comment, walking out of the room and you decide that you aren’t going to quit. You won’t pitch a fit or demand anything from your boss and lover for one night. You will simply forget it ever happened and go back to just being his assistant. However, you won’t ever let Harry Castillo back between your thighs again.

****

“So we are doing this?” Peter asks, raising his eyebrows at his brother as they finish their lunch. “If you want to. I want to.” Harry responds and Peter nods, “let’s do it. I’m sick of getting overlooked. I want more. If this is what it takes, I’ll do it.” He says and Harry smiles, relieved that his brother has agreed to this.

“Will you come into my office?” Your intercom comes to life a few moments after Peter leaves, making you wonder what the hell they had talked about in Harry’s office. “Yes sir.” You answer and stand up to straighten your skirt and brush down your blouse. You’ve been dressing sharper than normal over the past few weeks, completely professional, but enough that you can feel eyes on your ass as you walk through the halls. You open the door, notepad in hand. “You wanted to see me?” You ask as you close the door, seeing that he had cleared away the lunch they had shared already.

Harry nods, watching you walk in and he tries to not drag his eyes along your form. His mind flashes with the image of you naked beneath him and he swallows harshly. “I need you to clear my calendar for August.” He says, looking back at his computer. “An entire month?” You choke, shocked, and he nods. “I am having surgery.” He announces and you frown, “surgery? I didn’t - what for?” He sighs and looks at you, “I am going to have limb lengthening surgery.” He confesses, “me and Peter are doing it together.”

Your eyes widen. “You can’t.” You gasp, making Harry’s eyes narrow slightly as he frowns at you. “Can’t?” He huffs sharply. “That- I’ve heard it’s dangerous.” You stammer slightly over your words, heart pounding as you think about Harry hurt or worse from a botched surgery. He snorts and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. “My surgeon is the best there is.” He dismisses casually. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be better.” You want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t need to be taller, but it’s obvious he won’t listen to you.

“I need to do this.” He reasons with you and himself, “I can’t keep trying to be worth more than I am. I’m too short. I see it in women’s eyes. How I’m treated at bars…concerts, hell, even the airport. I’m never going to be valuable unless I am taller. I am never going to get a valuable woman unless I am taller. I need to be valuable. I need to find a woman who is valuable. It’s the only way to make my parents happy.”

Your heart shatters, hearing him talk about love and conflating it with value. Your lips press together and you realize that he would never change his mind, that what had happened between you had been one time fluke. “As you wish.” You lift your chin. “I will clear your calendar. Anything else?”

He shakes his head, “that’s it. Thank you.” He murmurs, watching you as you spin on your heel to storm out of his office. He knows he just hurt you but he couldn’t stop himself. He knows he could never be with you. His parents would never allow it. They want him to find a girl who can help his status, the business, and give them a daughter-in-law to brag about. His secretary? That would be a scandal to them.

Sitting stiffly at your desk, you type on your computer and make phone calls. Clearing Harry’s schedule, ordering groceries to his apartment for the recovery and making sure that the small portions of his life that he never thinks about are taken care of. Finishing up right before it is time to go home.

****

Harry hisses as he settles into his pillows, the pain meds keeping the majority of the agony at bay but he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this much pain before. He grunts, feeling exhausted, and he has a long road ahead for recovery. He was in the private hospital for a week and now he’s home. “Shit. Where’s my glasses?” He calls out, needing them to read his emails.

“I don’t know.” You call back, rolling your eyes as you huff. You were in his kitchen, making him something to eat with his next dose of pain meds. The high powered narcotics worried you, but his pain levels were intense. Even as irritated as you were with him, you’ve been the one taking care of him since he entered the hospital for the surgery. “I’ll find them in a minute.” You go back to stirring the soup. “Why didn’t you fix your fucking eyes while you were at it too?” You scoff to yourself.

He huffs, deciding that he will book laser eyes surgery next so he doesn’t need his damn glasses all the time. One thing at a time though. No woman ever said they wouldn’t fuck him because he was wearing glasses. He grunts, trying to adjust himself as he holds his phone in his hand. You’re here and you are looking after him since Peter is at his mom and dad’s. He didn’t want to stay there, liking his own space too much, so he asked you to come help him while he recovered. He offered you extra vacation days in exchange for your help.

You hear him curse, rushing into the bedroom with a tray of food. “Damnit, don’t hurt yourself.” You huff, slapping the tray down and hurrying over to him. You put your arm around him and help him sit up better. “Did you tear your stitches?” You ask quickly.

He shakes his head, “no. I- I didn’t.” He reassured you, seeing that you’re frustrated with him. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, “I didn’t - if I could do this alone, I would do it. I’m sorry you’re here babysitting me.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone.” His guilt makes you soften, adjusting the covers over his legs and patting the sheets smooth. “I’ll get your meds and then I’ll find your glasses for you, okay?”

“I promise you, I’ll get you a vacation wherever you want to go after I’m healed. It’s the least you deserve.” He promises as you adjust his pillow. “Thanks for this, sweetheart.” He murmurs, catching your hand before you pull back to grab the tray.

“You know I would do anything for you.” You mean it because he’s your boss, but you squeeze his hand gently. He’s softer right now, probably because of the pain meds, so you won’t hold it against him.

He looks up at you, “do you think I’ve made a mistake? What if this is all for nothing?” He asks and you frown, “what do you mean?” He swallows harshly, “what if no one wants me even after I go through all this? What if no one loves me even if I’m taller? I can’t - I can’t do this if it’s all for nothing.”

You swallow harshly, knowing that he wouldn’t believe you if you told him how you felt now. Instead, you sit down gently beside him, careful not to touch his legs. “Someone is going to love you.” You promise, smiling at him. “Someone valuable to you, someone you think is worthy of you.” It’s a bitter pill that sits in your stomach, but you’ve swallowed it. “You’re handsome, rich, kind….” You shrug. “And now you’ll be taller. You’ll be a 10 out of 10.”

He stares at you, remembering how it felt to kiss you, and he almost leans closer but he doesn’t. “Will I?” He asks, his lower lip pouting and you nod, caressing his cheek. He leans into your touch, “it has to be worth it. It has to be.” He murmurs, the pain killers making him drowsy.

“It will be.” You promise, smiling as his eyes skip closed. The food can wait a little while, and you wait until he’s practically asleep before you let go of his hand and find his glasses where they were in the bathroom.

****

Harry grunts when he shifts out of the bed after getting a visit from the nurse to check him over. The physical therapist helps him, guiding him through the motions until he’s on his feet and - “shit. I- this feels weird.” He confesses and shouts your name, “come here.” He orders, wanting to see how you will look now that he’s taller.

You had stayed in the living room while the nurse and the physical therapist were with him, wanting to give him some privacy. But you rush into his room when he calls you. “Oh my god!” Your eyes widen when you see him on his feet. He is taller, much taller than he had been before. Even though you liked him when he was shorter, you can see the difference in his confidence immediately.

He looks at you, seeing how your eyes widen, and he grins. Relieved that this was worth it. He feels strong, like a presence in the room and not the butt of someone’s jokes like he was in high school. “What do you think?” He asks, straightening his back and his PT tells him to relax a little but he remains stiff to emphasize his new frame.

“You’re taller.” You tell him honestly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. You honestly don’t care that he’s taller. Might even resent it a little. “What do you think?” You ask, knowing that is the most important thing.

He nods, “I feel…different. But in a good way.” He decides, “I still have a long way to go but this is - I feel like this is what I was meant to do. I don’t regret it.” He declares, “I had to do this.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” You smile at him, but it’s a stiff, professional smile. Not the genuine ones you had given him when he’s on his pain meds and being soft. “I’ll go fix your after PT smoothie.” You tell him.

He watches you go, sighing softly until he gets started on his PT routine.

****

“I met someone.” Harry announces when you set his double espresso down on his desk. “Oh?” You ask, eyes wide and he smiles, “At Peter’s wedding. Her name is Lucy. She matched Peter and Charlotte. Wanted to recruit me but I don’t want her to set me up. I want to date her.”

It’s been eight years since his surgery. Eight years since the one night you slept together. You’ve dated since then, had a serious boyfriend for a year, but it seems like Harry could never find someone good enough. “Oh really?” You lift a brow and hum. “Congratulations.” The ache still surprises you, but you don’t acknowledge it. Neither one of you has ever brought up that night since then and you know that it would be foolish to be upset because he had found someone to date.

“I want to book a nice place for a date. Can you pick somewhere? I only know where to go for business dinners.” He snorts, “but I know you know what’s trending. Also, can you take that new cashmere sweater to the tailor? It needs to be taken in a little at the waist. He knows what I need.”

“Yes sir.” You nod as you turn away from him, happy that he doesn’t see your frown. Striding out of his office when he calls you again. You turn at the door and he grins. “Somewhere expensive.”

He’s excited to see Lucy. She seems apprehensive to date him but he knows it’s because she wants him to sign up for Adore. He doesn’t care about the checkboxes anymore. He doesn’t care about making his parents happy, about finding a woman from a rich family who has a good salary. He wants someone he can trust, someone who is his friend and confidant. He could’ve had that with you but he was stupid, scared of judgement, and of his parents disapproval. Looking back, he was a fool but you moved on, dated and had a boyfriend. Clearly that night meant nothing to you and he can’t afford to lose you as his assistant. Lucy is real, she’s not a socialite or social climber. That’s what he wants.

You frown as you flip through the options of upscale - expensive - and exclusive restaurants that would impress a socialite. You’re annoyed, irritated really, that you are scheduling his date as if this was just another business venture instead of a woman he would potentially sleep with. It’s like he’s rubbing it in your face. Since he’s had the surgery, he’s never once had you schedule a date, although you know he’s taken women home. You know that he’s moved on and it’s so fucking ridiculous that you haven’t. Snatching up the office phone, you grumble to yourself as you dial the number to make a reservation.

****

“Thank you for agreeing to come on this date with me.” Harry says to Lucy, dressed in the sweater you laid out for him in a restaurant you chose. Your touch is on everything but he focuses on Lucy. ”I only said yes to this so you’d realize you’re wrong and you’re not actually interested in me.” Harry freezes for a moment, wondering if she’s realized something happened between you and him. “My instincts are usually right.” He tilts his head, wondering where she’s heading with this. It’s endearing that she doesn’t see how beautiful she is. It reminds him of you. “You’re sure that you’re more right about this than a professional?” Lucy counters and Harry leans forward, “oh sure, you’re the expert, but I trust my gut.” The waiter pours the expensive wine as Lucy looks at him, “okay, we’ll see.” Harry nods, leaning back as he lets his gaze take in her face, trying to ignore the comparison in his mind between you and her. This is his chance to try and get over you. You don’t want him. He needs to focus. “You look really good today.” He compliments her and she smiles, “thanks.”

****

The date goes well, Harry pays the check, and bids Lucy goodbye with a kiss on the cheek. “Can I call you? For another date?” He asks and she nods, “sure, I’d like that.” He smiles and they part ways, his instinct is to grab the phone and call you, tell you how it went, but that won’t help him accomplish what he needs to. He wants to get married, even if that means he never falls in love.

Sitting on the couch in your tiny, overpriced New York apartment, you try not to check your phone every two seconds. Ordering yourself some Chinese and pretending you had a normal night to relax seemed foolish when all you are doing is wondering how Harry’s date is going. You hate it. Hate how you are wondering and hate how you can’t help but be jealous. Picking up your tablet, you check your emails and wonder if you shouldn’t just quit. It might be time.

The next morning, Harry strides into the office, pleased about how his date went, and he finds you setting his espresso down on his desk. “Thanks.” He says, shifting to unbutton his jacket before he sits in his plush executive chair. “How did it go?” You ask even if it comes out a little pained. Harry looks at you, wishing he could see how you feel in your expression but it’s neutral. “Really good. I want to see her again. Can you look into another romantic restaurant? Book it for Friday?”

“Sure thing.” You shrug slightly. “I’ll book something a little more intimate. I’m sure by date three you want her in your bed.” You walk out of the office and close the door with a quiet click, even though you want to slam it.

Harry watches you go and sighs, not sure of what he wants. Part of him wants you to scream at him, tell him you want him, that he's making a mistake...but he was the one who pushed you away. He taps his fingers on his keyboard, thinking about how he should look forward to another date with Lucy.

Date two is an intimate little thing with a half booth. You made sure the light is low and soft and the bill would be high. You had also made sure to order more of Harry’s toothpaste for the apartment and made sure there was an extra toothbrush, just in case.

The third date takes a week to arrange since both Harry and Lucy are busy with work but eventually, he speaks to her on the phone and she agrees to see him on Thursday night. Harry calls you into his office, "I need somewhere romantic for our third date for Thursday at eight. I want flowers too. Whatever you think is romantic and a big gesture." He says, knowing he will likely be taking Lucy back to his apartment after this date.

Plastering a fake smile on your face, you nod. “Of course, Mr. Castillo.” You find it ironic that he would have you schedule his romantic dates, not having a clue what to do. So when you go back to your desk, you order the most over the top arrangement you can find. It’s massive and you smirk when you think about him lugging those flowers to the date.

Harry struggles as he carries the flowers into the restaurant. You clearly decided to get the biggest bouquet in NYC but Lucy’s eyes light up and that makes it worth it. He shoves them on the floor by the table, helping Lucy into her seat and he orders a nice bottle of wine. This place isn’t cheap but he wants to show her what he can offer her.

****

“Hey, Chris.” You hope you don’t sound desperate. Sitting at home would drive you crazy and you have already stayed at work beyond anyone else. The offices are dark and the building is quiet except for the hum of a vacuum down the hall. You need to just go out and forget about today. “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to catch a drink tonight?”

Chris snorts down the phone, “are you still in love with your boss?” He asks and you let out a nervous giggle. “Yeah I thought so.” He answers, “I guess - if you wanna catch a drink as friends that’s fine.”

“I need to get over him.” You tell him and yourself as you bite your lip. “I need to move on. He’s dating some matchmaker.”

He lets out a chuckle, “oh of course. But you won’t. You never will. That’s why we broke up. A year together and you were still in love with him.” He sighs, “I don’t want to be with you while you love him, I won’t be your rebound or whatever it is you need. Let’s just - let’s go for a drink. You can vent to me about what an asshole he is and then you can go home.”

You hate that you are using him, but you agree. Choosing a bar that’s not too far from the office. “Twenty minutes?” You ask softly, appreciating that he’s giving you a chance to sort out your feelings.

He sighs, “sure. I’ll see you at that bar on the corner of 5th and 42nd.” He says and puts the phone down. He sighs, knowing he can’t bring you back into his life when you’re still in love with Harry.

Shutting down your computer, you go into the executive bathroom with your bag, touching up your makeup and making it a little smokier for the nighttime. Reaching for the earrings in the front pocket and you realize you haven’t worn these since the night you had gone home with your boss. “Fuck it.” You huff, trading the practical studs for the gorgeous hoops. You apply a new lipstick and look at yourself in the mirror. “Get over him.” You tell yourself sternly.

****

Meanwhile, Harry listens to Lucy list why she’s not enough for him, and he understands. He had similar thoughts about you but that was when his mother wanted him to have a socialite for a wife. Now, she’d settle for anyone. Lucy is smart, beautiful, confident, and she understands an arrangement. He leans in, “you are valuable.” He says and her eyes soften, making him smile and he wants to take her home tonight. He needs to erase the image of you beneath him from his mind. “You want to come back to mine?” He asks after she compliments the way he pays the bill. She nods and he stands, picking up the ridiculous arrangement to guide her out of the restaurant. When he has her pressed against the wall of his apartment, his mind flashes to you in the same position, and he pushes that aside. He can’t have you. He needs to focus on what he can have.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home with me?” You ask. “I’m not talking about anything more than sex.” You promise. “We used to be great at that.” You’ve had a few drinks and you’ve vented to Chris, but you want someone to want you.

Chris sighs, shaking his head, “no. I - Jesus, I loved you but you didn’t love me. I can’t do that again. It took me a while to get over you and I don’t want to backslide. You need to figure your shit out. Harry has that girl. Get online, I don’t know - try a damn matchmaking service for yourself. Don’t let him stop you from living your life when he clearly doesn’t care enough to stop himself from living his own.” Chris reaches for your hand to squeeze it. “I want you to be happy.”

It’s harsh and straightforward, but you can always count on Chris for that. “For the record, I didn’t not love you.” You promise softly, looking down at your joined hands. “And I regret letting you go. But you’ll find someone better than me. You deserve it.”

Chris nods, bringing your hand up to kiss the back of it. “You deserve it too. We weren’t meant to be but that’s okay, I don’t want half of someone’s heart. I want it all. I’m selfish.” He smirks and you giggle, “thank you.” He winks at you and lets go of your hand, “another drink?” You nod and he gestures to capture the attention of the bartender.

****

Harry looks up at the ceiling, Lucy asleep next to him, and he turns his head to look at her. His stomach twists, remembering how you looked in his bed. Lucy is beautiful and he looked after her in bed but she wasn’t you and that makes him feel so guilty. He wants to try and make this something, even offering to take Lucy to Iceland. All so he can forget how he feels about you.

The request to pick up the engagement ring almost made you scream. You stared at him in amazement when you heard him. “Engageme-“ you choke off the word and swallow harshly. “Congratulations. I will pick it up and include it in your bags for Iceland.” You tell him woodenly. “Your itinerary has been programmed into your calendar.”

Harry doesn’t know what he wanted you to react like in that moment. Maybe to scream at him that he’s making a mistake? That he shouldn’t marry Lucy? When you simply nod and agree to pick up the ring, pack it in his luggage, he realizes that that night meant nothing to you. He nods, offering you a stiff smile, “thanks. You’re the best. Oh, and I hope you booked yourself somewhere nice while I’m gone? Peter can handle all the in person meetings. He knows that I’m getting engaged so he is taking on the brunt of the work. You can take that deserved week off.”

Your smile is tight and you don’t tell him that it won’t be necessary. You are resigning just as soon as his flight takes off. That gives you a week to cry and mourn the loss of a relationship you never actually had before you find another job. “That’s very kind of you.” You murmur. “I- I better go get your ring.” You tell him. “I- goodbye.”

Harry frowns, watching you rush out of his office, and he sighs, rubbing his cheek. “What the fuck am I doing?” He murmurs, knowing he has to do this because his parents are expecting him to get married.

****

“You don’t love me and I don’t love you.” Lucy says and it cuts deep in Harry. She sees right through him, noticing the scars on his legs, and the final nail in the coffin of the relationship comes when Lucy tells him she doesn’t want to marry him. Part of him is upset that all of his planning was for nothing, the sacrificing of his work time, the dates…it was all for nothing. He nods, sleeping on the sofa until he hears her leave the next morning. He stays on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling once the door shuts, and his first instinct is to call you. He fumbles to find his phone, hitting your contact.

“Shit, shit.” Your eyes widen when Harry’s number flashes up on your phone. You hadn’t expected him to call you so soon. You had just hit send on your resignation email. “Mr. Castillo.” You manage, your voice a little shaken. “Has your plane been delayed?” You had spent the night awake, carefully composing the letter to express gratitude and appreciation for the opportunities that working for him afforded you. However, you had stated that given the history between you, you could no longer be his assistant when he was engaged to be married. You assured him that you had arranged for interviews to be conducted for your replacement, their resumes were already on his desk for when he returns from Iceland.

Harry hears the panic in your voice and he’s confused. “I’m not going. Lucy - she - we broke up. Can I - can I see you? I just - I need to talk to someone.” He murmurs, knowing you could say no since he’s given you the time off but he needs you more than ever.

Despite the fact that you just resigned, your feelings for Harry immediately override every bit of common sense you have. You sigh softly. “Of course.” You murmur. “Let me get dressed and I can be there in twenty minutes.” You haven’t gone to sleep, but that doesn’t matter now. You want to know why they broke up.

Harry shakes his head against the phone, “I’ll come get you. I need - I want to go to Prospect Park. I need to think and I want you with me.” He confesses, “I’ll pick you up on the way. I’ll be twenty minutes.” He says and hangs up the phone before you can say no. He calls his driver and rushes to get ready to see you.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” You huff at yourself, throwing the bed covers off and climbing out of your bed. “You should have told him no. You should have told him to kiss your ass.” You walk through to your bathroom and decide that if you are going to see him, you’re at least gonna leave a lasting impression.

Harry rings your buzzer, your building entrance door is locked. “I’ll be right down.” Your voice comes through the intercom and he shifts from one foot to the other while he waits for you. When you appear after opening the door, his breath hitches. God, you’re beautiful. “Were you going somewhere? Did I interrupt something?” He asks, worried now that you agreed to meet him because of your job.

“No.” You shake your head and slightly sidestep his hand when he guides you towards the car. You can’t have him touching you right now. “I was planning on spending the day in my pajamas and watching movies.”

“Oh. Well, thank you for coming out. I just needed to see you.” He murmurs, tugging on the collar of his sweater. He opens the car door for you, his driver informed to not get out, and he shuts the door behind you when you slide in. He rounds the back of the car to open his own door and he settles in beside you. The driver pulls away from the curb and Harry is silent for a moment, deciding to check his phone quickly. He frowns when he sees the notification in his emails subject ‘Resignation’. He opens it, skimming the email, and he turns to look at you. “You’re resigning?”

“Yes.” You couldn’t deny it, not when your email is on the phone screen. He makes a sound of disappointment and you sigh. “You weren’t supposed to see the email until you got back from Iceland.” You admit. “Since you had said you weren’t checking emails or working.”

He frowns, “why? Am I - have I done something wrong? Is it the pay? The hours? I can pay you more. You can work less hours, hire your own assistant. I don’t understand.” He spirals a little as his chest tightens while he imagines you quitting and out of his life.

You snort, shaking your head and getting angry because he’s so fucking stupid. “I slept with you.” You remind him. “I can’t fucking work for you and plan your dates and buy the flowers you give them and pick up your engagement ring while planning your romantic vacation.” You lean forward. “Stop the car.” You order the driver. “I’m getting out.” It was a mistake to see him. You realize that, and you need to leave before you say something stupid.

The driver stops and Harry tries to stop you but you’re out of the car before he can even respond to you. He shakes his head, fumbling to unlock the door and he gets out of the other side. You are shutting the door and he calls your name across the roof of the vehicle. “Just stop. You can’t say that and get out of the car.” He growls, striding around the back of the car as you walk across the street. He reaches for your arm to stop you and a car honks at him. He growls at the driver, “goddamn it.” His eyes are wide as he looks at you. “That night meant nothing to you.” He reminds you, “what are you doing? What do you want?”

“That night meant nothing to me?” You look at him like he’s crazy as you fling those words back at him. “I slept with my boss and immediately after he acts like nothing has happened! Arrrrrrghhhh!” You practically screech as you throw your hands up in the air. You know people are looking at you, there are a few cars honking but you don’t even pay them any attention. “You are the stupidest smart man I’ve ever met in my entire life!” You are screaming and looking insane, but you can’t stop now. “I am so fucking in love with you that I just pretended it didn’t happen because I thought that’s what you wanted! I can’t even have a relationship because they figure out I’m in love with you.” Tears are streaming down your face, ruining the careful look you had created. “I didn’t care that you were short! I didn’t care! I liked you shorter! You were you and I loved you just as you were! But I can’t-“ you choke out. “I can’t watch you date. To make the reservation while you flirt and woo and fuck someone who is everything that you said you couldn’t have!” You slap the top of the car. “You didn’t want me, but then you were going to marry a matchmaker. Fuck you, Harry! Fuck you!”

He is shocked, flinching like you’ve slapped him, but your words register and he blurts out, “you love me?” You laugh humorlessly and go to walk off but he grabs your arm. “Hey buddy? What the fuck are you doin’?” The driver of the car shouts out the window and Harry growls at him, “just wait a fucking minute.” He looks at you, “I love you. I didn’t know it when we slept together but I know that now. I was buried under the pressure. To be the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect businessman. My parents lectured me about picking a good girl to marry - someone of value - someone who would help me climb the ladder. I didn’t know what I wanted at that time. That’s why I left you in my bed after we - then you acted like nothing happened and I thought that was for the best. Less complicated. Meeting Lucy - she wasn’t what my parents wanted but she was someone to marry. She said the next person she dates she is going to marry. I thought she’d be an easy pick to get my mom off my back. She was everything they wanted except rich and I convinced them that it didn't matter. Turns out, money doesn’t matter. She didn’t want me and I didn’t want her. She dumped me and I realized - it was all for nothing. Leaving you in bed, the surgery, the dating. It meant nothing because it didn’t change how I felt about myself. I’m still 5 foot six and wanting the most incredible woman to be mine. I fucked up. I did. I understand if you want to go, to quit your job, but I want you to know this one thing: you are valuable. To me. You always have been.”

You stare at him in shock, in anger. “You can’t just say that to me.” You cry out, shaking your head. “This is insane! How do I know that you aren’t just falling back to me after Lucy left?” You demand. “You now love me? After ignoring that night for eight years?” You laugh bitterly. “How the hell do I know that you aren’t just afraid of being alone?” He opens his mouth but you cut him off. “When I was dating Chris, I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t love you. But he knew. You know, I expected him to propose, but he broke up with me. Because he knew that I was in love with you.” You tell him.

Harry’s chest tightens with jealousy at the thought of you engaged to Chris, and he glances over at the cars honking at the two of you. That’s when he realizes this is what Lucy has been talking about. Fighting in the street. You’re the only person he would do that with. “I know what I want. It’s you. I just didn’t realize it until now, tried to act like I didn’t want you. It didn’t work. You’re the only woman I’d fight in the street with.” He declares and you frown, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You hiss and he grins at your reaction, “that I love you. I’m in love with you. I want you. I want to marry you and be with you until I’m old and wrinkly and you are still the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. I want you for the rest of my life.”

You don’t understand, but you don’t resist when he reaches for you. Pulling you close and cupping your cheek gently. “I hope you mean that.” You whisper, hope flaring to life inside your chest again. “Because I don’t want to go back to what we were.”

“Never. I love you. I want you.” He promises, leaning in to press his lips to yours. Car horns honk and people are yelling at you to get out of the way but Harry doesn’t care. He caresses your cheek, deepening the kiss.

You sigh softly, melting against him as you let yourself get close. The feeling of his body wrapping around you is one that you could quickly get used to. Pulling back to look him in the eyes. “I love you, Harry. You’ve always been perfect to me.”

He presses his forehead against yours, "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize." He nudges his nose against yours and the car horns continue. "You wanna come back to mine? I don't want to let you go yet." He murmurs, taking your hand in his to guide you back to the car.

You ignore the angry curses of New Yorkers that have been slightly inconvenienced by your little fight. Too stunned by how all of this is turning out. “Are you sure?” You ask, “she just broke up with you.”

Harry opens the door for you, “I’m sure. She wasn’t you. I didn’t really want her, I just wanted to please my parents. I am sick of pleasing them. I want to do what I want and right now, I want you. I want to show you how much I love you.”

You bite your lip, lifting a brow slightly. “Didn’t she spend the night last night?” You ask. Harry frowns as he slides in beside you. “Yes?” You snort and shrug. “Then we might want to go to my place unless you want to change the sheets.”

"We didn't have sex last night but yes, let's go back to yours." He reaches for your hand to kiss the back of it. "Yours." He murmurs, "and we don't have to, you know, I just want to be with you."

You are surprised by the fact that they didn’t have sex. But maybe it was good, considering that they had broken up. “I wouldn’t rule it out.” You admit with an amused smirk. “I remember really liking sex with you and it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.” You snort, shaking your head. “Tried to get Chris to sleep with me a few weeks ago, but he turned me down.”

Harry knows he can’t be annoyed by that. You didn’t belong to him. “I really liked sex with you and I- I’m sorry. You deserved to be loved, to be touched, and I stopped you from experiencing that.” He sighs and leans in to kiss your cheek, “I want to show you how I feel…if you’ll let me. If not, I understand. We can take it slow.”

“Don’t you think we’ve been taking it slow for the last eight years?” You ask, reaching for his hand and lacing your fingers through his. You squeeze gently and look into his eyes. “I want you.” You confess softly. “I always want you.”

Harry smiles, squeezing your hand, “I want you.” He murmurs, leaning closer so he can nudge his nose against yours. You tilt your head and he kisses you softly, wanting to show you how he feels, that he doesn’t want you for just sex. “I don’t want to take it slow.” He confesses against your lips.

“You’ve always been impatient when you want something.” You tease and you’ve noticed the driver has stopped in front of your building again. “We are here.” You murmur softly. “Good thing we hadn’t gotten far.”

Harry thanks the driver, tells him to head off and he will call if he needs him. He takes your hand after getting out of the car, helping you out, and he lets you find your keys in your purse. “I never liked you living here.” He confesses, “wanted to suggest you let me buy you a place. Somewhere safer.”

You snort softly. “It’s safe enough.” You murmur, although it’s true that there are better areas. “And I think people would talk if you did that now.” You joke as you open the door to the lobby so you can go in. You have a second floor walk up so you head for the stairs. “They will think that I’m a kept woman.”

He snorts, following you upstairs, allowing his eyes to drift down to your ass. “You are going to be.” He says without hesitancy, “besides, you’ll move in with me eventually. Whenever you want. Tomorrow if I had my way.” He smirks, playfully reaching out to smack your ass.

You gasp in surprise and turn around to grin at him. “Tomorrow, huh?” You huff softly and roll your eyes. “Why the rush? You have a deadline you need to meet?”

“No. I mean, we wasted eight years. I don’t want to waste anymore time. I want you. You’re going to be my wife.” He promises, “and you’re gonna get everything you’ve ever wanted.” He watches you as you take the last step and spin to look at him as he stands three steps down. You’re taller and he swallows, remembering how you were there for him when he had his surgery. “I love you.” He murmurs, dark eyes looking at you.

“I love you too.” You promise, and when he reaches for you, you stop him. “But I need you to know something.” You tell him, making him frown slightly. “I don’t give a shit about your money.” You promise. “I don’t care that you’ve had the surgery. I don’t care if you start balding.” He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, a move that would make you laugh if you weren’t trying to tell him something serious. “I don’t care that you really don’t have a romantic bone in your body.” He lifts a brow and you just lift yours back. “I love you. I love the way you treat people, the way you listen. The way that you focus completely on them as if they are your whole world.” You smile softly. “I love the way you will dance with little girls and little old ladies at weddings. I love you. Not the version of you that you wish you were.”

He stares at you, feeling like you have cut him open and exposed his guts. It's shocking but incredible. To not feel like he has to perform, to be perfect. You see all of his flaws, know his deepest secrets, and you still love him. "I promise -" He reaches for your hands, "I promise that no matter what the future holds for us, I will never be anything but myself with you. I won't insult you - our relationship - but pretending to be what I think you want me to be. No matter how ugly it gets, or how good life is...I promise you you will have me. As I am."

You smile, lunging forward to grab you and pull him close for a kiss. Needing to kiss him. To seal those vows. “I love you.” You promise breathlessly. “And I’ll stand by you forever.”

He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your thighs and he lifts you as he walks up the last three steps. "Let me show you." He carries you to your front door, lowering you slowly until he's pressing you into the wood. His lips pressing against yours while his hands squeeze your ass.

It’s that same kind of magnetic energy that you’d had the first time you slept with Harry. Wishing that you were already inside as you press against him, already breathless from the way he surrounds you. It’s not because he’s taller, it’s because he’s got a presence that just makes you melt. “Harry.” You whimper quietly. “I need to get us inside or we will strip each other down right here.”

"You act like that's a bad thing." He teases, letting you spin with your keys in your hand, fumbling to unlock the door. He leans in to kiss your neck, his hands squeezing your hips.

You almost drop the damn keys, cursing yourself as Harry chuckles behind you. He takes your keys, smugness oozing from behind you as he slides the key into the lock and twists it open. “Distracted?” He asks and you huff. “You’re a tease.” You whine as you spin around and drag him inside after throwing the door open.

He chuckles, “you love it,” kicking the door shut with his foot, and he glances around your apartment. It’s small but the decor is all you. It’s homely, cute. You press yourself up against him after tossing your purse down and his attention is back on you. He kicks off his shoes until he grabs your waists pulling you into his chest. “Would a tease want you naked so he can bury his face in your pussy?” He asks, reaching for the hem of your shirt.

“Fuuuuck.” You moan softly. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had someone do that?” You had decided to give up dating and sex after Chris had ended things, so it’d be awhile. You unclip your bra and let it slide down your arms. You have no shame, no hesitation.

He groans, eyeing your tits, and he immediately cups your breasts, squeezing them. “You are - I jerked off so many times imagining these.” He confesses, pinching your nipples as he walks you backwards towards your bedroom. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast and he slides his hand down to your waist, his head ducking down to wrap his lips around your nipple.

You whimper his name, cupping his head in your hands. His mouth feels magical and you wish that you hadn’t waited eight years for this to happen again, but that can’t be helped. “Oh fuck.” You groan when he flicks his tongue over the nipple again.

He bites down on your nipple, the bed hitting your legs as he stumbles into your bedroom. He lowers you down to your bed, his lips releasing your nipple with a pop as he switches to the other side. His hand slides down to pop the button of your jeans, slowly pulling the zipper down.

You should probably slow him down, sit back and talk about things rationally. But you don’t want to. You don’t want to think about anything other than his hands on you and what he will do next. “Baby, baby I need you to strip down.” You beg softly.

He grunts, shifting back from your chest, and he reaches for his sweater, pulling it over his head. Your fingers immediately find the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them a little slower and he watches you until your eyes meet his. “I love you.” He murmurs, grabbing your hand to press a kiss to the back of it.

“I love you.” You promise softly, leaning up to push his shirt off his shoulders. “I shouldn’t admit this, but I’m so fucking glad she didn’t know what she had.” You murmur.

He shrugs the shirt off his wrists, tossing it to the floor, and your hands find his belt - the same one you bought him all those years ago. “I didn’t know what I had. I should’ve taken you to the wedding.” He admits his mistake, knowing he should’ve trusted his gut, his heart. “It’s always been you. I just didn’t realize it yet.” He sighs, shifting to pull your jeans down your legs.

“As long as you realize it now.” You murmur, leaning back to let him strip your jeans off and you lift your hips, dragging down the lacy panties you had put on this morning to feel good about yourself.

He swallows harshly, kneeling between your legs as you spread your thighs for him, exposing your already wet cunt. “Shit.” He murmurs, “you’re so beautiful, baby.” He slides his hands along your thighs, shifting to lay between them. “I am going to taste you, make you cum on my tongue, and then I’m going to make love to you.” You whimper and he presses a kiss to your thigh, looking up at you, “that sound like a plan or you want something different?”

“It sounds like the only thing I want to do today.” You promise, pussy dripping and quivering with need. “Besides rescind my resignation.” You bite your lip. “If my boss lets me. He might be glad to get rid of me.”

He chuckles, breath puffing over your slick folds, “he doesn’t accept your resignation. You’re never allowed to quit.” He decides before he slides his tongue through your folds. You moan his name and he groans, loving your tangy arousal as he flicks his tongue over your clit.

Your eyes slide closed, a breathless giggle coming out of your mouth as your chest heaves. “That’s good.” You promise. “So good because I’m enjoying the perks of staying.”

He smirks against your pussy, pleased that you’re staying, and his hands squeeze your thighs as he pushes them further apart. Tongue lapping and flicking at your folds until he pushes it deep into your cunt, his nose pressing into your clit while he tries to devour you like that will keep you in his life forever.

You’ve imagined him in your bed so many times but you’ve never expected to actually look down and see him there. “Oh fuck.” You whine, walls clenching around his tongue “Harry, I-“ your hand slides up to cup your breast. “I imagined this so many nights.”

Harry can’t believe this is happening. He has woken up many times during the night imagining you like this again, his cock aching for release. He never thought he’d get to have you again. Groaning, he dives back into your folds, his hand trailing along your thigh until he can push his finger into your dripping pussy while he flicks his tongue over your clit.

You moan softly, loving how thick his fingers are. They have always been elegant, but right now they are devastating inside you. Your walls are soaked, slicking up his fingers easily as he pushes them deeper.

He curls them, trying to find that spot that makes you cry out and when he finds it, he grins against your bundle of nerves. Your cry vibrates through you and he moans, loving how it sounds and he pumps his fingers a little faster. He wants you to cum. He needs to taste you.

A man, as powerful and rich as Harry is, being a giver. It’s like finding that mystical unicorn. He is a rarity. It doesn’t hurt that he’s amazing at giving. The flick of his tongue is specific, he knows where to lap. How to suck. You feel the knot building in your stomach. “Gonna cum, baby.” You gasp out. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

He groans, cock pressing into your mattress, as the desire to hear you cum, feel it, ramps up. He pants your name into your pussy, fingers curling in the same rhythm that has you moaning. He sucks hard on your clit, “that’s it, baby.” You moan and within moments, your scream echoes off the walls of your apartment while your walls clamp down on his fingers.

It’s earth shaking. Maybe the rest of New York doesn’t feel it, but you do. Body trembling while you are sent soaring, pussy gushing and you can hear how wet you get when his fingers slide slick and make the sweetest sounds while he works you through it. “Harry, Harry, oh fuck baby.” You whine. “I love you so much.”

He works you through it until you push on his head and he withdraws his fingers so he can shift up your body to press his lips to yours. You don’t seem to care about your taste on his tongue as it slides against his. His cock is aching but he doesn’t want to rush this. This is you. It’s more than sex.

You wrap your arms around him, ready to pull him up so he can slide inside you but you stop. “We need a condom.” You murmur against his lips. You don’t know how he had slept with Lucy and you aren’t going to ask. You can’t judge him when you weren’t together. You just want to protect yourself.

He understands, “do you have one?” He asks, knowing he will stop if you don’t. He wants you to be comfortable. “Nightstand.” He nods, pecking your lips, and he reaches out to open your nightstand. His fingers touch your vibrator and he turns to look at you, “we are definitely using that at some point.” He promises and finds the foil packet, working fast to open it up while you fumble to shove his pants down. He manages to kick them off along with his briefs so he can roll the condom down his length. “You ready?” He asks, squeezing himself as he gives you a moment.

You stare at him for a moment, memorizing it and locking it away. “I’m ready.” You whisper, shifting slightly and widening your thighs to entice him. “I’ve never been more ready, baby.” You promise him.

He offers you a crooked grin, so different from his perfectly poised smiles that he uses for the outside world. "Long overdue." He murmurs, shuffling closer until he is pushing into you. Your gasp makes him shiver in delight and he shifts until he can cover you with his body, his lips finding yours.

All you can do is moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms and legs around his body and letting him sink in deeper. It’s beautiful. The time before wasn’t a fluke and you know that he feels it too. His cock is throbbing inside you and you kiss him again before pulling back. “You are seeing the doctor right away.” You tell him. “Getting tested so I can feel you without a condom between us.” You are clean, on birth control, and you would love nothing more than to feel him raw inside you.

He groans at the thought, nodding, “absolutely. Fuck. I wanna - wanna feel you with nothing between us.” He grunts, “you’re so fucking gorgeous.” He says as he presses kisses to your neck while he starts to move inside you. You feel incredible, tight around his cock. “I love you.” He vows, knowing he’s had a hard time loving anyone but with you, it’s as easy as breathing.

You close your eyes, smiling as he starts to slowly build up a rhythm. “I love you.” You return softly, hands stroking up and down his back. Feeling the muscles move. You will have to talk about the future, but you are just giddy that there will be one. “You feel so good baby, so perfect inside me.”

He is slow as he moves inside you, not wanting to be frantic and turn this into a quick fuck. You deserve so much more, especially after everything he’s put you through.

You love how gentle he is. Slow rolls of his hips and kisses are exchanged. You reach up and caress his cheek. “You have been so handsome to me.” You whisper. “Always thought so. So damn lucky that you are mine.”

He smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. “I’m yours.” He promises, “the surgery - you were there for me. No matter what. I was blind. I was pressured by my parents but that’s done. I see you. I want you. I’m going to marry you.” He promises, thrusting a little harder into you.

“I just want you. I don’t want anything else.” You know that his parents might not believe that, all of New York might not believe you, but you don’t care. As long as he believes you. “We will be happy together. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Fuck. You feel so good.” He chokes, grabbing your thigh to lift it higher so he can push deeper into your pussy. “I love it. Thought about how you feel for the longest time.” He grunts, “so good. So goddamn perfect.”

You moan in agreement, both of you lost in the sensations. The moment is perfect and you feel how much he is giving you every time his hips snap forward. The edges of his control slipping slightly and you love it. “Made for you.” You pant out. “Just like you were made for me. No one has ever made me feel like you.”

He pants, words escaping him as he shows you how he feels with his body. You moan and rock your hips to meet his, pushing him impossibly deeper into your hungry cunt. “That’s it. Shit. Need you to cum for me.” He shifts to adjust his weight to one forearm, licking his thumb until he brings it to your clit.

You whine his name, body already poised on the edge of shattering. Every time he rocks into you, he presses his thumb in a neat circle and pulls a moan out of you. “Baby, baby, please.” You beg, kissing his jaw and desperate for his lips.

“Need you to cum for me.” He demands, needing to see it, feel it. He wants to see it for the rest of his life. “Come on, baby. Need to hear you moan my name.” He rubs your clit a little faster before he presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is what you needed. That last little thread of connection with Harry. The next thrust, you fall apart. Crying out into his mouth loud enough that your neighbor beats on the wall and shouts something, but you don’t even care. Too busy flying high above the clouds in pure pleasure as you soak his cock.

He hears someone yell but he doesn't give a fuck. He groans, loving how you squeeze his cock and he should last longer but the combination of you, your newly discovered feelings, and the knowledge that you are his has him falling over the edge. He groans your name, pushing deep until he spills his cum into the condom.

You groan softly, loving how he throbs inside you as you come down from the pleasure. Promise yourself that you will have the concierge doctor visit as soon as possible to have his STI screening done. Not that you think Lucy would have something, but you can’t be too careful. “I love you.” You promised as he buries his face in your neck, panting against your skin. Your foot rubs against the smooth scars from his surgery and it doesn’t matter to you. You don’t mind it, but you also understand why he did it.

He nudges his nose against yours, breathing deeply to try and catch his breath after cumming so hard. It’s been a while since he felt like that. He grunts as he reaches down to grip the base of the condom, slowly pulling out of you until he can remove the rubber, tying it off. “You’re everything.” He promises, kissing your neck.

You hum softly, reaching up to run your hand through his hair and cup his cheek. “So are you.” You smile as you stare into his eyes. “You’re perfect. And you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to grow old with.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it before now.” He hums, pulling you into his chest, “I should’ve seen you before now. I just - I was scared and I let other people tell me what I want. I want you to move in, to marry me. When you want. Just know I want that tomorrow if I could do it.”

You giggle quietly. “Go to the courthouse?” You ask, fingers trailing over his skin gently. Loving the skin to skin contact. “Just elope? Have a party later on and just surprise people that we’ve been married for a year? Or never tell?”

Harry shifts back to look at you, “you’d do that? Go to the courthouse?” He asks, “marry me just like that?” He is surprised that you’d agree to it so easily. He loves the idea. “You wouldn’t want a big wedding? We could still have the big wedding if you want to have one.”

You snort and shake your head. “Don’t get mad…” you tell him, looking slightly sheepish. “I hated your brother’s wedding.” You admit. “It seems more like an event to show off than actually them being in love.” You know society weddings are to show off, but you hate the idea. All you care about is being with the person you love. “All that matters are the two people promising to spend their lives together.” You shrug. “The flashy wedding doesn’t do it for me.”

He can’t help it, he laughs, and you frown at his reaction. “Sorry, baby, I just - my parents spent half a million dollars on a wedding for two people who weren’t even in love. I don’t want a show. We have nothing to prove or to display. We have the wedding you want and if that’s in the courthouse, let’s go get the license today. I know what I want and it’s you. As my wife. However I get to have you.”

You stare at him for a moment before a smile breaks. Reaching up and caressing his cheek. “Then we go get married today. Just me and you.” You grin. “But we need to talk to your lawyer. Get a prenup.”

Harry sighs, knowing that’s sensible but part of him wants to just throw caution to the wind and invest everything he has in you. “Baby, I won’t be one of those women. You work hard. I want to protect myself and you.” You reason and he nods, “I know.” He picks up your hand to press a kiss to the back of it. “And I want it to show you you’re valuable. That I love you. I’ll call him.”

“Thank you, love.” You will feel better knowing that there is an agreement in place. Even if you don’t care, people in Harry’s life matter to him and you want them to be comfortable with his future with you.

****

“Do you, Harry Xavier Castillo, take this woman to be your wife? To have and to hold. In good times and bad. In sickness and health. As long as you both shall live?” The officiant asks and Harry nods, squeezing your hands, “I do.” The officiant grins, “then I have the honor of declaring you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride.” He declares and Harry wastes no time surging forward to press his lips to yours, his hands squeezing your waist to drag you closer as it sinks in that you are his wife.

You had decided to keep it simple. The court house wedding didn’t bother you, despite his attorney advising to at least fly to Vegas. You wanted to get married in the city. You had picked a pretty dress and chosen the suit you loved Harry in the most. It was enough for you, although the wedding ring he had picked out for you costs more than your apartment. He had not used the ring he had you pick up for Lucy. “I love you.” You whisper against his lips and kiss him again. “Husband.”

He grins against your lips, his heart feeling like it’s gonna explode, and he brings your hand up to kiss the back of it. “Let’s go sign the certificate and then we are going to dinner. I booked it.” He declares and you raise your eyebrows, “you made a reservation? I’m impressed.” He chuckles, “I’m making all the reservations now. Under the name Mr. & Mrs. Castillo.” He winks, guiding you down the aisle, the gold ring on his finger feels good and he knows this is exactly what he wants.

****

“Why didn’t we just hire a moving company?” It’s cute how he’s complaining even as he’s taping another box shut. Rolling his eyes at you, while the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up and he is wearing designer jeans that make his ass look amazing. “Because that’s the fun of moving.” You huff playfully, waving a hanger at him. “Besides, I’m leaving all the furniture. Didn’t think it would fit in your place.” He shoots you a pout. “It’s our place.” He reminds you and you smirk. “Our place. So we don’t need movers for just my clothes and personal items.”

Harry grumbles but continues to pack your things. It won’t take long and the u-haul is parked on the street. Sometimes you like to remind him how privileged he is and he always appreciates the reality check. You are trying to get him to upgrade his place though. “There’s not enough room if we want kids.” You declared a few nights ago at dinner and that got him thinking. You don’t know it yet but he’s in the process of buying this place you sent him over on Reade Street that you said was “your dream home.” He wants you to have everything so he’s buying it and will surprise you with it later once you’re moved in. Then he will pay for movers because there’s no way he’s moving all his books and art to a new place. “When are those people coming for the viewing?” He asks, knowing your landlord let you out of the lease with the agreement that you help him show it to any prospective tenants.

Twisting your wrist, you check your watch. “Should be here in ten minutes.” Which in New Yorker means anywhere from five minutes early to twenty minutes late. Especially if they were taking the subway. “Phil said it was a couple that was looking to move in together.” You shrug and look around. You’ve got to haul down a couple more boxes, but the apartment was really clean. While you had lived here, you had made sure to take care of it. “Hopefully they like it. I’m ready to be done with all this.”

“You should’ve just let me pay to break the lease.” He counters but you walk over and press your finger to his lips. “Remember, baby, not everything can be bought with money. We are working on that, right?” You ask, wanting to make sure he knows he can’t just throw cash at your marriage to make it work. He has to be emotionally and physically present, help you, be there for you. He nods, kissing your fingertip, “I’m working on it. Therapist says my parents gave me some bad habits.” You caress his cheek, knowing he’s doing his best and you love him for it. Even if he absolutely refused to go to therapy at first. You think it’s helped him process everything that’s happened and given him a safe space to talk about his emotions. The buzzer sounds in the apartment just as you are boxing up the last of your things and you walk over to the phone, “come on up.” You order and open the door for them just as Harry goes to carry a box downstairs. When he’s on the threshold, his eyes widen, “Lucy, uh, John. Good to see you.” He sounds shocked and sets the box down to hold out his hand to John.

Turning around, you are shocked to see Lucy. The woman who Harry had been dating and wanting to marry for all the wrong reasons. “Harry.” She seems just as surprised and she looks over to see you and says your name. “I’m sorry, are we in the wrong place?” She asks, but you shake your head. John, the man currently looking a little uncomfortable, is good looking, but you don’t think that he’s nearly as attractive as your husband. “No, you’re looking at the apartment, right? 2B? This is it.” You wave your hand around. “The place comes furnished if you want. I’m not keeping anything.” John slips his arm around Lucy’s waist. “That’s good, right babe? I don’t have much besides my bed.” He looks over at you and Harry and gives a small tilt of his head. “We are moving in together. Finally getting rid of my roommates.” He jokes.

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes that a grown man is finally getting rid of his roommates but he keeps his mouth shut and looks at Lucy. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.” Lucy smiles back and lets John show her around the apartment, following you. When you gesture to the bedroom, her eyes widen at the ring on your finger. “Oh, uh, congratulations. I didn’t know you got married.” She says, remembering the times she’d speak to you when confirming dates with Harry. The man himself comes over, reaching for your hand to press a kiss to the back of it, “my wife is moving in with me.” He winks at you when he stands straight.

“Your wife?” She’s surprised, her brow arched up and she looks between the two of you with a small smile. “It looks like you weren’t hard pressed to find love after all.” She hums. It’s surprising that he had chosen someone right in front of him, but perhaps there was history she didn’t know about. You smile, flustering slightly at his affection and lean in to kiss his cheek. “It seems like it was sudden,” you tell her, “but it was eight years in the making.”

Lucy is surprised at that, neither you nor Harry had shown any signs of a previous relationship. She isn’t bothered. She has John and his vow to love her everyday. That’s what she wanted. “Well, congratulations.” She smiles and John squeezes her waist, “congrats, man.” He says to Harry who grins, “thank you.” The couple take another look around the apartment and whisper softly until John says, “we are taking it.” You grin, “perfect. I’ll be out today so I’m sure you guys can move in whenever.” Lucy nods, glad that John is taking this step to build a life together. “Thank you.” She says, shocked when she sees Harry picking up another box. He’s moving you into his place by his own hand. Something she never envisioned him doing. It seems like both her and Harry are with the people who bring out the best in them. “We will get out of your hair.” John says, “thanks again and, uh, congrats.” Harry nods, “thanks. Maybe see you guys around.” Both parties know that’s highly unlikely but for politeness, everyone nods and says goodbye. Once they are gone, Harry exhales and you walk over to him. “You okay? Was that weird?” He shakes his head, “not in the way I thought it would be. Just - I can’t believe she picked him. He’s a loser.”

“Love sometimes doesn’t make sense.” You remind him softly. “Some would say you picked a loser.” He opens his mouth to protest but you put your finger over his lips again. “I didn’t say they were right.” You add. “And you don’t care what anyone else thinks anyway. Because you love me.”

He grabs your waist, pulling you closer so you are pressed into him, “I love you.” He murmurs, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours. You cup his cheeks, “not everything is about material things. Love exists beyond that.” You murmur and he sighs, closing his eyes, “I know that now. I love you, honey.” He promises, pressing his lips to yours and you slide your hand to caress the hair at the back of his neck. He groans when your tongue meets his and he pulls back for a second, “what do you say to using your bed one last time?” He smirks and you giggle, “you’re a bad influence, Mr. Castillo.” You take his hand to guide him to your bedroom and he eagerly follows, “only for you, Mrs. Castillo.” He can’t believe how lucky he is to have you. He wishes he had seen what was right in front of him all those years ago but you’ve both grown in that time. He now knows that you can’t buy love. No matter how much money you have.

#pedro pascal #harry castillo #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x f!reader #harry castillo smut #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo imagine

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

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hii, can I request a fic where the readers grandma is in the hospital with little to no chance of living and Bakugou is the only classmate who knows/comforts them. childhood friends/crushing maybe :)

The Strongest Shoulder

You barely notice the way the heavy rain pelts against the windows, each drop a sharp reminder of how cold the world feels right now. The sterile scent of antiseptics clings to your clothes, lingering long after you’ve left your grandma’s hospital room. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzes incessantly, but you’re too drained to care.

Class 1-A was quick to notice something was off—well, most of them. You didn’t want to talk about it, though, so you plastered on a smile and went about your day. No one questioned the bags under your eyes or the way your hands trembled when you held your chopsticks.

No one, except Katsuki Bakugou.

“You look like shit,” he’d grunted on day three, unceremoniously dropping into the seat beside you. It wasn’t exactly a comfort, but you could feel his eyes on you all class, sharp and unrelenting.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. What would he do if you told him? Yell at you for being weak? Mock you for crying? He’d always been prickly—rough around the edges with a temper hotter than his explosions. But he never outright bullied you, not since you’d defended him in kindergarten. Back when he’d been a bratty kid throwing tantrums, and you were the quiet one tugging him away before he could punch the wrong person.

But things were different now. You’d drifted apart, just like childhood friends tend to do.

The days dragged on. Classes blurred together. You went to visit your grandma every evening, sometimes alone, sometimes with your parents. She was unconscious most days, hooked to machines that hummed and beeped like a heartbeat. The doctors said she might not wake up. The words sank deep into your chest, anchoring you in place.

“Oi.”

You blink back to the present, the hallway outside your dorms stretching long and empty. Bakugou’s standing there, arms crossed, expression sharp and annoyed.

“You deaf now?”

“What do you want?” you snap, weariness making you irritable. The last thing you need is him barking at you.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re fucking useless.”

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t even talk to your friends, dumbass,” he growls. His voice drops. “You think we can’t tell something’s wrong?”

Something in your chest cracks. Your fists clench. “Not everything is your business, Bakugou.”

“Like hell it ain’t,” he snaps back, unflinching. “You’re moping around like a zombie, not eating, not talking, acting like you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt.”

Anger flares hot in your gut. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Then tell me!” he demands, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, crimson eyes blazing.

Your chest heaves, words spilling out before you can stop them. “My grandma is dying, okay? There’s nothing the doctors can do. She’s just—just lying there, and I can’t do anything to help her!”

The hall echoes with the force of your confession. You swallow hard, throat tight, tears pricking at your eyes. You won’t cry—not here. Not in front of him.

Bakugou’s expression shifts. The scowl remains, but there’s something softer behind his eyes. Regret, maybe. Understanding.

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?” he mutters, voice gruff but lacking the bite from before.

“Why would I?” you mumble, arms wrapping around yourself. “It’s not like anyone could help.”

He glares, but it’s more exasperated than anything. “You think I’d just ignore you if I knew? Idiot.”

“I don’t want pity.”

“Tch. Ain’t pity.” He grabs your wrist, grip firm but not rough. “Come on.”

“W-What? Where—”

“Shut up and move.”

He drags you to his dorm, kicking the door open and shoving you inside. You blink, glancing around. It’s cleaner than expected. Minimalistic, practical, with training equipment piled in the corner. A punching bag hangs near the closet, looking well-worn.

He shuts the door and flops onto his bed, gesturing for you to sit. “Talk.”

You hesitate, but the stern glare he shoots you leaves no room for argument. Sighing, you sit on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around your knees. Slowly, you tell him everything. About your grandma’s condition, the hopelessness of it all, and how the thought of losing her feels like your world is crumbling.

He listens. Not a word interrupts you, though he frowns often, fingers drumming against his knee. It’s oddly comforting, the heavy silence filled only by your shaky breaths.

When you finish, the exhaustion catches up, and your shoulders slump. “She’s the strongest person I know,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Bakugou’s expression hardens. “You stay strong. For her.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“No shit,” he snaps, leaning closer. “But you’re not some weakling, right? You’re not gonna just sit there and cry until she’s gone. You fight. You stay by her side. She needs you.”

The lump in your throat loosens. His blunt, no-nonsense words ground you, carving away the fog of despair.

“I…” You look away, wiping your eyes. “I’m scared.”

“We all get scared,” he mutters. “Just don’t run from it.”

You sniffle, a weak smile tugging at your lips. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”

“Shut up.” He looks away, cheeks dusted pink. “Just don’t let yourself fall apart.”

You nod, heart a little lighter. “Thanks, Bakugou.”

He grunts, scowl softening. “Katsuki. Call me Katsuki.”

Your eyes widen. He looks away, embarrassed, and you feel warmth bloom in your chest. “Okay. Thanks, Katsuki.”

He crosses his arms, grumbling. “And stop hiding shit from me. You look like a damn corpse.”

You laugh weakly. “I’ll try.”

For the first time in days, a genuine smile tugs at your lips. Bakugou—Katsuki—scoffs, but you catch the hint of a smirk. The rain outside slows, softening into a gentle patter.

You realize then—maybe you don’t have to carry this alone.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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1bisschenmelancholie · 1 month ago

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The Space between Streetlights

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

emily prentiss asks you to take a quiet walk after dark. what starts in silence unravels into something fragile and true — soft confessions, buried fears, and the kind of tension that never needed a name. no kisses. just closeness, aching honesty, and the possibility of more.

⋆˚࿔ a/n cried while proofreading

"Walk with me?"

You almost didn't hear her. The night had wrapped itself around Quantico like a blanket—low clouds, the heavy hush of after-hours air. Emily stood by the glass doors of the BAU, one hand still on the handle, the other tucked into the pocket of her coat.

You blinked at her. "Now?"

She nodded. "Just for a bit."

There was something in her voice—soft, too careful. You didn't ask why. You just followed.

The air was cool, not cold. The kind of night where your breath barely shows and the streetlights paint gold along the sidewalk. You didn't say anything at first. Neither did she. Your steps fell into rhythm, your shoulders just brushing when you turned corners.

She kept her hands in her pockets. You kept yours swinging by your side, fingertips grazing hers on accident. Or maybe not.

You weren't sure how long you walked before she finally spoke.

"Do you ever feel like the silence is safer than talking?"

You turned your head slightly. She didn't look at you. Just ahead, at the sidewalk, at the trees swaying in the dark.

"Sometimes," you said. "It feels easier. Cleaner."

Emily nodded once. "Exactly."

You passed a mailbox. A flickering porch light. A half-lit window with the TV still on inside.

"You okay?" you asked, finally.

She gave a quiet laugh, dry and worn. "I'm fine."

You stopped walking.

So did she.

"Emily," you said gently. "I don't believe you."

Her jaw flexed just a little. She turned to you now, her face partially shadowed under the streetlamp. "You don't have to."

You waited. Let her have that silence she said she needed.

Then, softly, "Do you want me to stop asking?"

Her eyes met yours.

"No," she said. "I want you to keep asking. I just don't always know how to answer."

There it was again—that low hum beneath her words. The tension that had been there for weeks. Months. In the way her glances lingered too long, in the way her voice softened when she said your name.

You took a step closer. Not enough to break anything. Just enough for her to notice.

"You always keep things quiet," you said. "Even the parts that want to be loud."

Emily's breath caught.

"I'm good at hiding," she said, voice low.

You gave her a half-smile. "I know."

Another silence.

But this one felt warmer. Like maybe it didn't need to be filled.

"Some nights," Emily said, "I wish I wasn't."

You waited, your breath soft and still, letting the silence open wide enough for her to fall into if she needed to.

Emily looked up, eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead, but her gaze felt far away. "I've spent most of my life keeping people at arm's length. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes without meaning to. But either way, it's lonely."

Your chest ached.

She laughed quietly, but it didn't sound amused. "I don't know how to... be with someone. Not without waiting for them to disappear. Or run. Or find out too much."

You stepped a little closer, not to touch her — just so she'd feel you near.

She noticed.

"I'm not good at naming things," she said. "Especially not feelings. Especially not... this."

You didn't look away.

"It's okay," you said. "You don't have to call it anything."

Emily was quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally, she asked, "But it is something... isn't it?"

The way she said it — so tentative, like she was scared to break it by speaking too loud — made you want to grab her and never let go.

You nodded. "Yeah. It is."

She exhaled, like she'd been holding that breath all night.

"I think about you more than I want to," she admitted. "I notice when you're in the room. I notice when you're not. I look for you without meaning to."

A small pause.

"And I don't know what that means. I don't know if I want to be with you or if I just don't want to be without you."

That confession hit harder than anything else might have.

You stepped beside her, shoulder brushing hers. "I feel it too. Whatever it is."

Emily looked at you then — really looked. Something fragile flickered in her eyes. Something unguarded.

"I'm scared I'll mess this up," she whispered.

"You're allowed to be scared."

Her jaw tensed.

But she didn't step back.

You didn't move, either.

You just stood together under the dim wash of the streetlamp, hands not quite touching, hearts just barely exposed — letting the moment breathe.

Letting each other stay.

#emily prentiss oneshot #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x female reader #female reader #fem reader #reader insert #emily prentiss x reader #x reader #soft angst #soft #not quite love but almost #quiet confessions #wlw writing #wlw fanfic

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eleteo125 · 2 years ago

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"Be Mine or You Will Burn"

Rollo x GN!Reader

AN: Me and my friend are Rollo fans and they've inspired me to write this idea out 🤣

You were simply just walking around admiring the scenery of Noble Bell where you went back to the cathedral to appreciate the artistry of the stain glass. Each panel depicting how Judge Claude Frollo and his accomplishments.

Rollo, the school’s student council president has welcomed the NRC students by giving them a tour but his obvious disdain for magic users made it clear that he was rushing to get the tour done as fast as possible to get away from them. Heck you would even bet that the only reason he was able to get through the whole tour was because he only set his attention towards you barely minding the other guests. He sometimes casts a watchful eye on them but other than that he doesn’t particularly engage with them compared to you.

With those signs in display, everyone from NRC has come to the conclusion that them being invited here has an ulterior motive to it. Briefly shaking those thoughts from your mind, you admired the lights coming through the different colored windows surrounding you in a colorful halo.

My what a beautiful sight indeed.

Magic wielder or not, you’re still a student from NRC so of course Rollo has kept a close eye on you when freely strolling around the school. But he can’t help the fact that you’re devoid of any magic at all has him deeply fascinated. And to think to mingle around those…ahem.

Do not be fooled he’s only keeping watch of you because he can tell that everyone from NRC are quite attached to you especially that dragon fae. What better way to keep them in check when he has you close and in his clutches.

Walking towards you he silently stood in behind you. He held in a small chuckle as he saw you’re awestruck face looking at the beautiful work of art. “Impressed?”

Jumping a little bit in surprise, you quickly looked behind to see him “O-oh! Yes, I haven’t seen a stained glass window in person before, just through pictures.” You confessed

“Hmph of course such beauty is painstakingly crafted by hand of course you won’t see a lot of it. Craftsmanship that took people’s skill and talent with no assistance from cheap tricks everyone reveres.” He spits

“Magic?”

Rollo stayed silent at your question.

You decide to let go of the subject with his sudden silence. Instead you walked closer to the window to admire the small details. It was such detailed you can’t even imagine how long it would take to finish such a large piece.

Too lost in thought, you started to reach your hand out to the window but you’re once again surprised when you felt a strong grip around your wrist.

You were about to apologize but instead freeze up when you felt him step closer behind you. You tried to step forward to get some distance since you’re starting to get flustered at our position but realized that you don’t have much space to move in since you’re very close to the window.

“I’m sorry but those were just cleaned by the careful hands of our cleaners hands off please.” He whispered in your ear.

You shuddered at his closeness and the sensation of him speaking carefully so close to your ear. “I-I understand.” You stuttered while unconsciously leaning into his ‘embrace’.

He seems to have lost himself also since he buried his nose in your hair while his other hand rubbed your free arm.

You two stayed like that for who knows how long just basking in each other’s contact. “Why not transfer here, I can tell how ‘generous’ the headmaster is in your current school.”

“I can’t” you managed to mumble out after almost melting at the close soud of his voice yet again.

“You’re surrounding yourself with magic that is as deadly as fire.”

You leaned closer “Fire can be useful too.” You whispered

You felt his sigh in your ear and your knees almost gave up but he held you up when he sensed you were about to fall.

“Consider it.” He kissed behind your ear “Be mine or you will burn.

He carefully let you go after making sure you won’t collapse to your knees before walking put and leaving you under colorful light.

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamm #twst rollo #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #rollo flamme

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darth-mortem · 1 month ago

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The 10th part of my demon!Ghost AU. After a long mission, 141 gets some well-deserved time off. Price plans to finish his report and get some sleep, Roach and Gaz prepare for a party at the base, and Soap reminds Ghost about his offer to spend some time together, and they head to the nearest town.

Fluff, kittens, confessions, kisses. 4069 words.

Soap quietly knocked on Ghost's door and slipped inside. He had just woken up, sleeping off a long mission, quickly washed up, and came straight here without even drinking his coffee first.

“Hey, Lt.!” He exclaimed, smiling happily.

“Hey, Johnny.” Replied Ghost, who was sitting in his favorite chair as usual.

He was wearing multicam pants and a hoodie; like everyone else, he had sent some of his gear to the dry cleaners and cleaned some of it himself.

“How are you?” Soap asked. “What were you doing while we were all asleep?”

Coming closer, MacTavish thoughtlessly glanced around the room and suddenly noticed a new object in the corner by the window: an ordinary cardboard box.

“What's that?” Soap asked another question, looking curiously at Ghost.

“I’m fine.” The lieutenant began to answer in order. “While you were sleeping, I cleaned my weapons and equipment. And I have kittens in there.”

You can keep reading here or on the Ao3. On Ao3 you can see a beautiful art for this part.

“What?” Soap stared in surprise. “Did I hear you say kittens?”

“Yes.” Ghost confirmed, realizing that this would not be enough for the curious sergeant, and continued. "One of the cats was pregnant before we left on the mission. I left this box for her. She's out for a walk now, so the kittens are in there alone.”

“Wait, so you left the window open?” MacTavish asked anxiously. ”What if someone got in?”

“That would be the last thing they'd ever do.” The lieutenant said this with his usual emotionless tone, but the sergeant somehow believed him right away.

Ghost got up from his chair, walked over to Soap, took him by the hand, and led him to the box. Inside was a rolled-up terry towel, and on top of it were tiny black and striped kittens sleeping soundly. They were lying together, so Soap, crouching down, couldn't count them all at once. There seemed to be five, but he wasn't sure.

“They're so cute.” Soap whispered for some reason. “The local guys said all the cats were neutered.”

“Probably not all of them.” Ghost shrugged. “Let's go, let them sleep. You can pet them later when they wake up.”

They walked away, and the lieutenant sat down in his chair. Soap remained standing, unable to wipe the completely silly smile off his face. Thinking about how a huge demon, a devourer of souls, cared for tiny kittens, he felt a very pleasant, warm feeling in his chest. Giving in to a sudden impulse, Soap walked over, crouched down on the armrest of the chair, and then hugged Ghost tightly.

“You're so good.” He whispered, pressing his cheek against the hard skull plate on the demon's mask.

Suddenly, Ghost felt something long forgotten, something left over from his human life that he thought he could no longer feel. It was a pain that pierced his chest somewhere where his black heart did not beat.

“I can't be good, Johnny.” Ghost shook his head slowly. “I'm a demon, remember?”

“I don't care!” Soap declared. “I actually believe that a human... um... well, or a non-human who is kind to cats can't be a bad person. And you're also kind to me.”

If Ghost had been breathing, he would have sighed heavily. The pain receded, and it all happened so quickly that now the lieutenant wasn't even sure if he had imagined it. Meanwhile, Soap remembered why he had come here, jumped off the armrest, and found himself facing Ghost.

“So, Lt., shall we go to town before they dump some more shit on us?” He asked, smiling cheerfully.

“Yes.” The demon replied simply, and Johnny, nudging him in the shoulder with his fist, almost ran out of the room.

Ghost had a rather vague idea of how the bureaucratic machinery of the army worked, but he assumed that in order to leave the base, they would need at least permission from the commander. Their commander was Price, so Johnny had probably gone to look for him, which meant the lieutenant should wait. He could ask the captain for advice once his and the sergeant's discharge had been officially confirmed.

Soap returned about an hour later, but this time he didn't stay long, just happily announced that their discharge had been approved and that they would be leaving for the town by helo at nineteen zero-zero, then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. There was still plenty of time, especially for someone who didn't need to pack, so Ghost sat for a while, checked on the kittens, which had just finished eating and were now sleeping again, now under their mother's watchful eye, and then slowly went in search of the captain. He wasn't in residential block 141, so the lieutenant went outside and, after thinking for a few seconds, headed for the administrative building.

It wasn't far, but Ghost still managed to hear many snippets of people's conversations. The soldiers were discussing their duty, their families, their relationships, and even each other. Through the hubbub of voices, the lieutenant heard a couple of familiar ones and, looking in the direction of the sound, saw Sergeants Garrick and Sanderson in the company of several locals. They were speaking quietly, but that was no obstacle to the demon's unnaturally keen hearing, and he heard that the subject of discussion was a party. Apparently, they were planning to hold it secretly right there, on the base, in honor of one of the participants' promotion. Fortunately for them, Ghost didn't care about such things, and it didn't even occur to him to report the upcoming violation to Captain Price or anyone else, as any other lieutenant in his place would have done.

Passing the entrance to the dining room, Ghost walked around the building and climbed the external stairs that led directly to the second floor. A guard stood at the entrance and told him which office Captain Price was in. The lieutenant wanted to just go where he was told, but then he remembered Soap and muttered a quick ‘thank you’ before continuing on his way. Finding the right door, he knocked and heard permission to enter and a quiet, irritated grumble. However, upon seeing Ghost, the captain's anger melted away, and he gestured for him to sit down.

“How can I help you, Lieutenant?” Price asked, taking a cigar from his shirt pocket.

“Johnny asked me to go in town with him.” Ghost replied, or rather stated.

“Yes, your papers are ready.” The captain nodded.

“I know.” Ghost shook his head. “That's not the point.”

“Then what is?” Price asked patiently.

“Why me? I mean, why not all of us?” Asked Ghost, who hadn't prepared for this conversation today and was struggling to find the right words.

“Well, first of all, I still have a lot of work to do, and Gaz and Roach preferred to go to a secret party at the base.” Price smiled, narrowing his eyes slyly. “And secondly... Don't you understand?”

If Ghost understood anything, it was that Johnny had chosen to spend time with him rather than with his friends, and that was nice. In fact, he was well aware that the sergeant liked him, but he just couldn't believe it.

“I don't understand why.” He finally managed to say, although to the captain his words sounded as emotionless as ever. “And I don't know what to do when we get to town.”

“Well, I can't answer the first question, but the second...” Price took a drag on his cigar and slowly exhaled the smoke. “Just be yourself. You don't need to impress him; he already likes you.”

Ghost chuckled thoughtfully, and the captain thought once again that he didn't understand at what point his life had turned into this. Of course, he was pleased that his men and even the demon trusted him enough to talk to him about personal matters. But he was no expert in relationships, either with his parents, as Roach and Soap would occasionally talk with him, or with romantic partners, about whom Gaz often complained, and now even Ghost was turning to him for advice. And Price had a loser father, a tyrant of a grandfather who hated them both, and two divorces behind him. What advice could he give with that kind of experience?

“Listen, Lieutenant.” Finally, the captain spoke again. “Keep an eye on the lad; make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. He sometimes loses control when he drinks too much, and then he gets into fights, and I have to write a bunch of explanatory notes. And don't forget to take your bag with you. You'll be spending the night there, so it would be strange if you left without your things.”

“Roger that.” Ghost replied and stood up. “Thank you, Captain Price.”

He left, and Price stared at the door that closed behind him for a while, trying to figure out what the lieutenant had thanked him for, since he hadn't said anything meaningful. Unable to come up with an answer, he sighed, stubbed out his cigar, and went back to his hated paperwork.

Ghost thought that many soldiers would be flying into the town, but he was wrong. There were only two people in the helicopter with him and Soap: a supply officer who needed to go into the town on business and a corporal who had started a family here and was therefore entitled to additional leave. In general, soldiers were only allowed into the town on weekends and holidays, and General Strickland made an exception for the members of 141 only because they had just returned from a long mission.

While the lieutenant couldn't care less how many other soldiers from the base would be in town at the same time as him, Soap, on the contrary, was glad to have no company. Ghost probably didn't understand that this was a small town and that there weren't many pubs here. So if more soldiers had been on discharge here, they would have been everywhere, and it would have been impossible to sit quietly together. The sociable Soap had already won over most of the guys at the base, so they would have been constantly pestering him to join them or have a drink. It wasn't that he didn't like that, but right now he wanted something else, and he hoped Ghost did too.

During the short flight, MacTavish managed to chat with the supply officer and found out that he was also staying in town for the night, and they would be returning on the same helicopter, which would arrive tomorrow evening. So, in order not to take one of the SUVs on duty at the airfield for himself or Ghost, Soap agreed with the officer that he would give him and the lieutenant a ride there and back, and in return, they would help load the supplies the officer had flown in.

Ghost didn't take part in the conversation, either in the helicopter or in the SUV. He took the front passenger seat, and Soap settled in the back, which didn't prevent him from continuing to chat with the supply officer who was driving the SUV. Among everything that was said, the lieutenant noted that Johnny had already booked a hotel, chosen a pub, and mapped out several walking routes for tomorrow. Before doing all this, he had gathered as much information about the town as possible from the soldiers at the base and read about it on the Internet. For such a small town, it was almost the same as visiting it in person. Soap told all this to the supply officer, and Ghost realized that he liked how seriously the sergeant took the tasks before him, both combat and non-combat. If he did this more often and acted less crazy, he would make an excellent officer.

“Okay, we're here.” The supply officer said, braking in front of a small, cozy hotel.

“We are very grateful to you, sir!” Soap opened the door and jumped out of the car.

“Yes.” For the first time, Ghost broke his silence. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” The officer nodded. “Have a good rest, but don't forget that you'll be carrying boxes tomorrow.”

“No problem!” Soap assured him.

Waiting for the lieutenant and sergeant to take their bags out of the trunk, the officer drove away.

MacTavish glanced at Ghost, wanting to catch his eye, but he had already done that thing that made no one pay attention to his mask, so Soap just smiled, nudged the lieutenant in the shoulder with his fist, and headed for the hotel door.

After confirming the reservation, checking in (which was done the old-fashioned way, in a large, thick logbook), and making a few questionable comments about Ghost's height, the clerk finally handed over the keys and explained how to find the right room. Following the instructions, the sergeant and lieutenant went up to the second floor, turned right, and soon saw a door with a sign bearing the number of their room. Ghost went in first and, quickly making sure everything was clear, turned on the lights.

The room was quite spacious, clean, and cozy, with two single beds, a TV, a bathroom, and everything that unpretentious soldiers might need. Ghost thought he liked it, except that the ceiling was a little low for him: he had to duck his head to avoid bumping it.

“Oh, damn, Lt., I'm so sorry!” Soap said, noticing the demon's slight discomfort. “The rooms on the second floor are more comfortable, but the ceilings are higher on the first floor. Do you want me to ask them to move us?”

“Negative.” Ghost replied, walking over to a worn, soft armchair in the corner of the room and sitting down in it. “You've thought of everything, Johnny. You're a good man.”

Soap beamed with pride at the lieutenant's praise and stuck his nose in the air, then found a comb in his bag and went to the bathroom to tidy up his tousled mohawk. He never dared to tell Ghost that he had asked him out on a date, not just for a drink and to hang out together, but that was no reason to look bad. Soap had originally planned to wear something brighter and nicer but changed his mind when he realized that the contrast between his clothes and Ghost's would attract too much attention. The lieutenant was wearing his jeans, a black hoodie, and his military boots, the same outfit he had worn when they went to the pub with the rest of the unit. Of course, he thinks it's just a friendly get-together. However, even if he knew it was a date, he would have dressed the same way because he simply had no other options, and realizing this suddenly made Soap feel sad. He would gladly take Ghost shopping and buy him lots of different clothes, but unfortunately, no store would have anything that would fit a huge demon.

Before leaving the bathroom, the sergeant pushed the sad thoughts away, and a smile reappeared on his lips. He said he was ready, Ghost stood up, and they set off toward their destination for the day.

It was the middle of the work week, so there weren't many people in the pub. Soap asked Ghost to pick a table, then went to the bar to order beer for himself and tea for the lieutenant. No one paid much attention to them; the townspeople were probably used to the appearance of soldiers and treated them with indifference. At least, as long as the soldiers didn't bother them.

After getting their drinks, Soap looked around for Ghost and headed over to him. The lieutenant was sitting with his back to the wall, and MacTavish sat down to his right so he could see the whole room and the entrance to the pub.

“Well, cheers, Lt.!” He said with a smile, raising his mug and taking a big gulp of cold beer.

Ghost watched Johnny almost moan with pleasure. Beer foam remained on his upper lip, and it looked funny, but the lieutenant didn't have time to say anything about it. Soap took a couple more sips and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Listen, Lt.” Quickly glancing around, Soap leaned closer to Ghost and lowered his voice. “Have you ever tried anything to eat or drink?”

“Yes.” The lieutenant replied.

“And how was it?”

“Not great.” Ghost shrugged. “It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either.”

“Hmm...” Johnny took another sip and looked around the pub thoughtfully. “Would you like to try one more time? I think I have an idea.”

“What is it?” The lieutenant tilted his head to one side, intrigued. “You'll find out when you agree!” Soap declared triumphantly and laughed cheerfully.

Ghost shook his head and made a sound very similar to a short laugh. He would never have said it out loud, but he was actually ready to agree to anything Johnny suggested.

“We'll see.” The lieutenant finally replied, deciding to take the initiative in the conversation before the sergeant came up with some other nonsense. “I heard there's a party at the base tonight.”

“Shit, I hope you didn't tell anyone about that, Lt.” Soap shook his head and sighed dramatically.

During his time with the demon, MacTavish had come to understand that when he used phrases like ‘I heard’, he didn't mean what humans did. When humans said ‘I heard’, they meant ‘I heard from someone’, but when Ghost said it, he meant that he had literally heard something with his supernatural hearing.

“No one.” The lieutenant reassured him, not bothering to tell him that Price already knew, and then looked intently at Soap. “I thought you loved parties, Johnny.”

“Yeah, but I love you more, Lt.” The sergeant replied cheerfully, finished his beer in one gulp, and stood up.

“I'll go order another one.”

He walked over to the bar, leaving Ghost completely stunned by what he had heard. What was that? A joke? Or did Johnny really love him, not just like him? And if so, what should he do about it?

Soap turned back and started talking about something else, as if nothing had happened. Ghost didn't answer right away, but that didn't surprise the sergeant; he was used to the lieutenant not responding sometimes; it didn't mean he hadn't heard.

“Did you name your kittens, Lt.?” Soap asked when he realized Ghost had been silent for too long.

“Negative.” The lieutenant replied. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” MacTavish protested. “We have to be able to tell them apart when we talk about them. All the cats on base have names, in case you didn't know, so the kittens should too!”

Demon sincerely didn't understand why this was necessary, since animals don't speak human language, don't understand it, and identify each other by other characteristics, just like he does. But Soap insisted so vehemently that he decided not to argue.

“All right, Johnny.” He said. “When we get back, you can give them names.”

Soap was delighted, drank his beer, and began to tell him about all the animals he had ever had.

They stayed in the pub almost until closing time. True to his promise to Captain Price, Ghost kept an eye on the sergeant, who was clearly drunk, and at some point said that it was time to go back to the hotel instead of ordering more drinks. Soap didn't mind, and after paying the bartender, they stepped out into the night. By this time, the small town was deserted, so they walked slowly, enjoying the autumn chill and even the light mist that settled on the sergeant's face, pleasantly cooling his cheeks, which were hot from the heat and alcohol. Ghost put his arm around Johnny’s shoulders to help him keep his balance, and he looked at him gratefully.

“You know, Lt., it sounds funny, but since I grew up, no one has cared about me like you do.” Soap said thoughtfully, taking a cigarette out of his pocket. “No friends, not even the ones I dated.”

Ghost thought it was more sad than funny, but he didn't say it out loud. Instead, he said something else:

“It's all thanks to you, Johnny. You're teaching me how to be a human.”

“No, I'm not teaching you, just reminding you.” Soap smiled in response.

“Maybe I wasn't the kind of person who was capable of caring about someone else.” Ghost shook his head.

“I'm sure you're wrong.” Johnny replied uncompromisingly. “If you didn't know how to do it then, you wouldn't have learned it now, you know what I mean?”

The lieutenant thought that made sense and nodded.

When they returned to the hotel, Soap took a T-shirt and pajama pants he had brought with him out of his bag and went to take a shower. Ghost made up one of the beds for him and settled into a chair in the corner. Soon Johnny came out, looked at him, and asked:

“Are you going to sleep with me?”

Ghost nodded, and Soap settled into bed first, wrapping himself in the blanket. The lieutenant stood up and, looking him straight in the eye, slowly pulled off first one glove and then the other. Then he threw the blanket over the half of the bed left for him and lay down, turning off the light and hugging Johnny from behind as usual. Almost immediately, Ghost felt Soap take his hand in his own and he moved his thumb, stroking MacTavish’s palm. Johnny repeated his gesture and remained silent for a couple of minutes, gently running his fingers over the lieutenant's hand, then raised it to his face and touched it with his lips.

“Hey, Lt.” He said softly. “Would you be very surprised if I told you that I like you more than a friend?”

“Negative.” Ghost replied. “Because I could say the same thing.”

Soap smiled happily in the darkness of the room and then fidgeted, turning to face the lieutenant. Stroking the skull plate on his mask with his fingers, he said in a slightly hoarse voice:

“I want to kiss you.”

“Negative.” Ghost replied after a pause. “I don't want you to see my face.”

The room was so dark that a person couldn't see anything even with his eyes open, but Soap didn't waste time explaining that to the demon.

“I won't look at your face, I promise.” He said, closing his eyes. “You trust me, don't you?”

Ghost trusted him. Soap felt movement, heard the rustle of fabric, and held his breath. A second later, Ghost's lips touched his own. They felt very dry and somehow lifeless, but warm and insistent. From gentle and chaste, it quickly turned passionate and intense; the demon wrapped his fingers around Soap's jaw and pressed lightly. He willingly parted his lips, and the demon's tongue slipped into his mouth. It was wet, hot, and seemed denser than a human tongue, and when Ghost wrapped his tongue around Johnny's, the sergeant groaned, realizing how long it was.

The demon pressed Soap against him and squeezed his hair with his fingers, forcing him to keep his head thrown back. He could feel Johnny trembling in his arms; he could hear his heart beating fast and his breathing becoming ragged. Then he felt human fingers touch his face and growled hoarsely into the kiss, but Soap wasn't scared. He greedily stroked the dry, rough skin, tracing the scars that covered it with his fingers.

The kiss was interrupted when Soap began to suffocate. He buried his face in Ghost's chest while he put on his mask, then felt his fingers touch his cheek and raised his head slightly.

“That was incredible.” Johnny murmured contentedly.

“Yes.” Ghost confirmed with his usual emotionlessness, thought for a moment, and asked. “So, was that a date?”

“Almost.” Soap replied cheerfully. “But next time will be a real date, I promise you.”

“I'll be waiting for it.” The demon said, and then covered his eyes with his palm. “Sleep, Johnny. You need to rest.”

Sleep suddenly fell upon Soap with such force that he couldn't even wish Ghost good night. His last thought before finally drifting off into the land of dreams was whether he was just that tired or if the demon had used his supernatural abilities on him.

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mraprilfools · 7 months ago

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Pairing: Wife!Reader x Old!Vox

Contents/Warnings: Domestic Fluff, Kissing, Flirting, Wish Fulfillment in owning a home and having a loving husband, suggestive themes, Blood.

Length: 1.3k

Summary: After a powerful Overlord has taken your husband as an apprentice, the quality of both your lives has been improving. Unfortunately this means the time you get to spend with him has been steadily decreasing.

A/N: I've been brainrotting that box headed dork for over a week. I needed to write something about him or I'd scream. aselkrhaeh

The odd thing about owning a house after being poor your whole life is that it never feels quite real. You you expected somebody would come and take it away from you at any moment. Because you could never hold on to anything of value for long.

There was nothing quite so beautiful as seeing the sunrise in your brand-new home from your bedroom window. Or how peaceful it was at all hours of the day without neighbors screaming from a fight from the next door over, or people stomping everywhere as if they weren’t live in some communal space. The furniture was all brand new, and you had been spared the pain of moving it all inside thanks to your husbands connections with a powerful Overlord.

The floors were pretty, the curtains weren’t tattered, and it was warm inside the house even in the dead of winter as the place had insulation. Your energy bills weren’t even half of what they used to be. Even your plates and mugs matched each other rather than being odd bits collected from pawn shops and glued back together from the trash. It was a pleasure to simply walk through and admire the place while you watched the clock. Your husband would be home any minute now, he always called if he was going to be late.

You had gotten dressed in that nice brand new winter coat he got you and fur cap ready to go out for dinner tonight like you promised. It was heavy but comfortable, feeling the weight of his care when he draped it over your shoulders because he noticed how your old one was ratty and barely keeping you warm anymore.

There was one trade-off though.

“Honey, I’m home!” Your husband, Vox, kept coming home covered in blood!

The brilliant red eyes almost looked innocent even with blood smeared over the screen, contrasting against the blue face beneath. The light of his screen always got a little bit brighter when he saw you, and the light was always more intense when you waited for him to come home. He spoke your name with deep affection while he shrugged off the bloody jacket, tossing it onto the coat rack.

A job for future you. Fucking asshole, he was so lucky you loved him.

The orange turtleneck was still spotted with blood underneath, a problem he noted when his smile fell while his claws hovered over one large conspicuous spot.

“One-second honey! I want to give you a proper kiss but I don’t want to get your clothes all dirty!”

When Vox tried to move past you, you grabbed hold of the collar of his turtleneck and yanked him forward until his glassy face was even with yours. Large red eyes stared at you in a befuddled wonder until your pressed your lips roughly against his. You could feel his lips smiling beneath your own, staying gentle and sweet.

Vox’s right eye swirled in the affectionate squint when your kiss broke. A dopey smile that betrayed his otherwise frightening appearance. “Well… I missed you too, Dear.”

“Get changed Bunny… I’ll clean your screen.” You tried to hide the annoyance in your voice, but when you turned your head away he stretched out one of his cleaner claws to tilt your face back to look at him.

“Are you upset honey?”

“A little… you keep coming home covered in blood. What is it that Alastor has you doing?”

His shoulders fell, his cyan pupils drawn away in clear confession of guilt. “You know I can’t tell you, honey. It’d put you in danger. But I promise I’ll keep coming home. I’m on my way to becoming a powerful Overlord in my own right! Soon our lives will become even better! Now… I don’t mean to brag. But I have a hot date tonight and I need to get dressed. I wonder if I have a chance...”

Vox chuckled darkly, sliding his screen in to brush against your neck. The large cumbersome head only ever managed to brush his lips against your cheek and your jaw, but the feeling of his static always tickled. You latched onto his shoulder for support, suppressing the laughter building in your throat. The faint wetness of his lips and the hardness of the shark teeth beneath sent vivid and lascivious memories to the forefront of your mind.

“You know those romance novels you’ve been bringing home for me lately?”

“Hm? Yeah! I got one in my jacket pocket for you right now. What about them?” His voice poured into your ears, and the cold firm hands wrapped around your waist locking you in place while his teeth grazed against your neck.

“Another? Bunny… you shouldn’t be wasting money like that!”

“It’s not a waste. We’re no longer struggling honey, and you deserve to have nice things you enjoy.”

You put your hands against the frame of his head, pushing him away from your neck before he got too handsy with you. The swirl in his right eye was at full force. You knew it! He was getting frisky with you right at the door.

“Don’t you get jealous of all my book boyfriends?” You teased.

“No. I’ve peeked at what you read. You like men with teeth and claws like mine. Even when I’m at work, you’re still missing me dearly. You’re so cute, I just want to kiss you all the time.” Two claws bit into your back, with the others resting hard against your back that instantly took your breath away. They were terrifying at first, but over the years he knew exactly how to apply just enough pressure to make it hurt but not tear you apart.

Vox’s lips pressed against yours again, with his teeth lightly pinching and nibbling on your bottom lip. You pushed him away a second time, pressing your forehead hard against the space between his eyes to keep him from trying to kiss you again.

“W-who said I was thinking of you?!”

“You aren’t…?” The fragility in his voice should not have been as heartbreaking as it was. The sharkish grin faded, as did that predatory swirl in his right eye. The press of his fingers against your back fell away, and you caught his wrist to press his palm against your cheek instead.

“Of course I am Bunny… But we’re going to be late for our reservation if you keep trying to seduce me.”

The cheeky smile returned, with a light flush of bright blue covering his face beneath his eyes. “Hehe, guilty.”

Exasperated, you smacked your hands against his chest. “What would we do about dinner then?!”

“We could walk to the grocery store together to pick up things to make for dinner together… I like cooking with you. You always make this little… face when you’re trying to decide what the dish needs. Makes me want to marry you all over again.” Those large eyes almost looked hopeful. His screen came to bump against your forehead, staring at you with those large eyes of his like some puppydog.

Vox KNEW your weaknesses and wasn’t afraid to use them.

It was your turn to feel a heat rise from your face, pinching the yellow fabric of his turtleneck. “Tomorrow… I’ve been looking forward to this date all week. But now MY clothes are all bloody too. Ugh… Vox.”

“You started it by kissing me.”

“Well… I missed you.” You sulked, turning your face away again. Vox cupped your chin between his thumb and pointed finger, guiding you to make eye contact with him yet again. Electricity was dancing between those antennae, a constant stream of electricity forming a heart. The very culprit for the affectionate nickname you gave him.

“I missed you too, dear. I’ll be good and save dessert for after dinner. You’ll let me show you how much I missed you then, won’t you? I’ll make love to you exactly the way you like it.” The promise sent shivers down your spine, while his hands greedily locked around your frame until you were pressed flush against his body.

“I think that can be arranged… I love you, Bunny.”

“I love you too, dear.”

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #vox x reader #vox x you #vox x y/n #old vox #box vox #past vox #vox the tv demon

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vampirekissedme · 1 year ago

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#confessions of a window cleaner #1974

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lagunaseca2013 · 5 months ago

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marcnaia arranged hookups? luca coda? tell us more please im so curious

lol hi anon! I feel like arranged hookups sounds a lot more sinister than it actually is. the premise of the fic is basically gigi tells pecco and marc that they have to hang out once every race week for idk team bonding reasons. little does he know they had emotionally fraught not-really-hate-sex at valencia testing which pecco cannot get out of his head, and marc enjoyed quite a bit, so their mandatory hangouts immediately become weekly dick appointments. it’s told entirely from pecco’s pov and the 2025 season progresses as such.

the luca coda is like. okay well obviously pecco is weird and fucked up about the decade long situationship he had w luca prior to luca’s, um, marriage. marc clocks it almost instantly and is trying to get to the bottom of it for most of the main fic, except it’s so painful for pecco to even think about that he literally can’t address it in the privacy of his own mind. the luca coda is to kind of slot in the missing puzzle piece of the story, what pecco is carefully avoiding for all of the main fic. I’m actively working on the main fic (it’s called honey trap and is tagged as such on here) but here’s the intro to the luca coda bc idk if that will ever see the light of day!

—

Luca hears about it from Celin, of all people. They’re walking back from the showers together because they both like to go last; it feels cleaner, to Luca, not to have someone breathing down his neck and flicking mud at him if he’s taking too long. It’s just another quirk for Celin, who has a lot of preferences with seemingly nebulous origins.

Pecco had told Bez, apparently, and was freaked enough by his reaction to keep it from the rest of them. Celin and Bez are in some kind of symbiotic relationship that only occasionally harms them both, so of course he heard about it eventually. Or, immediately, if Luca’s suspicions are correct.

He lets it slip when they’ve nearly reached the house, amber light spilling from the windows, shadows of bodies milling around through the glass sliding doors. It’s probably going to be some kind of pasta, because Vale’s chef has been around long enough to have pre-season traditions. He’s thinking about how he’ll convince Vale to break out the good wine, instead of the cheap stuff he buys in bulk because he still views them all as children with no taste, when Celin asks, apropos of nothing: “Do you think it will end poorly for him?”

Luca pauses, huffing a laugh and ruffling a hand in Celin’s hair. “Do I think what will end poorly for who, Stellina? I’m not like Bez, I can’t read your mind all the time.”

Celin blushes, shoving him away and patting at his wet curls self-consciously. They fall exactly the way they did before Luca got his hands in them, and exactly how they did before the shower. “Marco can’t read my mind,” he says sullenly, instead of clarifying. There’s a guilty edge to his look, like maybe he was hoping Luca would understand what he meant before he had to give away more details. Probably, this is another one of those things Bez told him in bed.

“Cmon,” Luca nudges him forward. He’s hungry and he’s tired and he’s getting cold standing in the dark with his hair also wet. “If you’re not going to tell me at least let me go inside before there’s no tortellini left.”

Celin grimaces, a torn expression on his face. Luca sighs, wondering when he became a person others confessed things to. These are the consequences of getting old, he presumes. “It’s just—well,” Celin looks down, fiddling with the hem of his oversized sweater. It’s probably Bez’s, just like whatever it is that he can’t seem to spit out is also Bez’s to share. Or maybe it isn’t. “Did Pecco really not tell you? What Ducati is forcing him and Marc to do?”

Well, Luca thinks, staring as the glow of the house dims, a bit. Someone had finally remembered to draw the curtains. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut, but he can’t attribute it to any one thing. Since he’d moved to Honda, the beginning of every season has sort of felt like a million things slipping through his fingers. Things he’d once held close quietly washing away. He and Vale don’t talk about work, really, anymore.

He doesn’t ask, whatever it is that Pecco told Bez who told Celin, that Ducati is forcing him to do with Marc Marquez. Luca has never held the sort of grudge against Marc that he probably should, and they’re teammates, anyway. He does all kinds of things with Joan Mir that he rather wouldn’t.

And the thing is, Pecco hadn’t told him.

Pecco isn’t really speaking to him right now. Although—maybe that’s overselling it. It doesn’t seem to be a choice so much as a natural consequence of the ever-growing space Marc Marquez appears to be taking in his best friend’s life. Luca feels it, though. An absence so large it’s become a presence. So hot and cold, Pecco has always been. Emotional whack-a-mole.

#anon mail #answered #fic talk #my writing #honey trap #technically I guess #motogp fic #pecco/luca #this is probably incredibly ooc bc. I actually don’t know that much about Luca lmao #marcnaia #marc marquez #pecco bagnaia #luca marini #celestino vietti

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catboymettaton · 6 months ago

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scintillating scotoma

light yagami gets a migraine. 2k words, rated G. slight lawlight

Light awoke with a stiff neck, stiff limbs, and pain in his back. Unfortunately par for the course when it came to sleeping alongside L. The detective’s presence made the queen bed feel extremely cramped. Light was lucky to sleep at all with how loud his typing and crunching were all night long.

He wondered how L survived crouching like that all the time. Maybe he didn’t have normal joints. Maybe he was made of pipe cleaners instead.

Light stretched his arms, left fist striking L’s hip. L said nothing.

“Good morning, Light-kun.”

“Morning, Ryuzaki.” If it was a good morning, he wouldn’t be wearing a handcuff.

He opened his eyes and immediately found something amiss. There was an odd hole in the center of his vision, ringed with multi-colored distortion. He moved his head, looking from floor to wall to hands. No matter how he moved his head, a tiny disk in the center was blurred badly.

His logical mind raced to conclusions. Probably, he was dying.

Or more likely, he wasn’t dying, but he was under the effects of some strange experiment L had performed in the night. He knew the man never slept - the sounds of the keyboard continued incessantly. It wouldn’t be out of the question if he was experimenting on the sleeping Light, trying to devise new ways to make him confess.

None of which would work, since Light wasn’t Kira.

They arose for their morning rituals. Two weeks in, they had learned how to dance around each other in the bathroom, how to navigate the awkwardness of changing shirts one hand at a time, and how to serve each other a perfect cup of coffee. They could walk down the halls to the elevator without tripping and falling.

Half an hour into the morning’s work, the hole had gotten larger. Light had to tilt his head to see his screen properly. He hoped L didn’t notice - if this was a result of his experimentation, he didn’t want to give him any satisfaction in knowing that it worked.

He sipped his coffee. Hopefully if he kept ignoring it, it would pass quickly.

Maybe he was going mad from the stress of being accused of murder. Maybe Ryuzaki’s eye bags were somehow penetrating his consciousness.

Another half hour, and his left temple began to throb. He winced as he opened a new window, the bright white light searing his retinas. He had to tilt his head quite far now to see around the hole.

L was staring off into space, idly spinning to and fro in his chair. If he noticed Light’s unusual posture, he said nothing about it. This was good. By now, it would be suspicious to say something after waiting this long. Light absolutely had to keep acting normal at all costs.

He reached for his coffee, but it was located deep within his blind spot. His hand dissolved into the smudge of his desk. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t show weakness. This wasn’t a problem. He should be able to locate his mug by feel.

And he succeeded, but only by tipping it over. The warm liquid soaked deep into his pants, adhering to his skin like a leech sinking in its teeth. At least it had cooled enough that it didn’t burn.

L noticed. “Is Light-kun having issues with gravity today?”

Light tried to glare, but he couldn’t make out L’s eyes in the white mess ahead of him. The smears of color danced and flickered, giving L a distorted halo. He winced as another spike of pain bore into his skull.

He stood. “Come on, let’s go back to the room so I can clean up.”

But as he took a step forward, the floor escaped him.

L caught him. “Light-kun, are you feeling alright?”

The room was warping - the parts of it which he could see clearly were at once very close and very far. He blinked and shook his head as if this would restore his perception. He gritted his teeth. His lurch had upset his stomach, and the caffeine could not be helping matters. One of these days he would succeed in reducing his intake, but in all likelihood that would have to wait until his name was cleared. It was hard to feel disciplined when any step he took cultivated suspicion.

“Don’t worry, Ryuzaki. I’m still not feeling murderous.”

Somehow, he made it to the elevator in one piece, at least partially due to the presence of L’s hand against his lower back. He tried not to think about how warm it was.

A disc of clarity began to bloom at the center of the blur. He aimed this pinpoint right at the elevator keypad. As the car lifted, he felt another bout of nausea. He shut his eyes and willed it to pass without issue.

The doors opened, letting the lights of the hallway come flooding in. They were so loud, screaming into his eyes that were learning to see again, searing straight up his optic nerves into his sensitive gray matter. He tensed up, not wanting to go on.

L’s hands had arrived at his shoulders. “Light-kun, what’s wrong?”

“There’s coffee all over my pants, that’s what’s wrong.” He stumbled down the hall, mostly blind, squinting to keep the brightness out. The left half of his head was pulsing with a fury, and his stomach was in danger of vacating his body entirely. At least he hadn’t eaten yet, so if he threw up it wouldn’t be too messy.

No. He wasn’t going to throw up in front of L. He was perfectly fine. He would make it to his room, and change his pants, and then he would be totally normal again.

He collapsed in the entryway.

“Light.” His circle of clarity had opened enough that he could clearly see L’s bulging eyes staring down at him. They looked almost concerned - a masterful act, he was sure. “Are you feeling ill?”

L lifted him to his feet and his head dangled limply, pathetically. He felt his eyes begin to water. No! He was stronger than this! He wouldn’t cry in front of L, he couldn’t!

He opened his mouth to speak and realized that he was really very desperately nauseous now. “Bathroom.”

L guided him there and was already holding back his hair when he began to retch. The morning’s coffee, now mixed with acid, burned his throat.

When he was done, he collapsed against the tile floor - he wasn’t out of it enough to besmirch himself by laying on the toilet seat. He swallowed bile. Throwing up was supposed to settle one’s stomach, wasn’t it?

He didn’t feel any better. In fact, when he opened his eyes to see L’s saucer stare framed by the fluorescents overhead, he felt as though a knife was being twisted through his left eye socket, lobotomizing him, rendering him useless.

“You - you did this to me,” he spat. “You want - you want me to confess. But it’s not working. Because I’m not Kira.”

He kept his eyes open even though it ached. He needed, needed to watch L respond. He had already sacrificed so much dignity, he couldn’t go any further.

L stood and switched off the lights. Light hated that he felt grateful.

He returned with a wet washcloth and began to wipe off Light’s face. Light hadn’t been expecting this at all. He expected L to gloat, to rub it in his face, to retort about his Kira percentage or how obvious it was that he was still a murderer.

But instead, his bile was delicately removed from his skin, like a mother cat licking her kitten clean.

L tugged Light to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed, Light-kun.”

“My - my pants -”

“Are you able to remove them yourself, or would you like my assistance?”

Light could think of nothing more humiliating than L’s assistance. He fumbled with his belt and zipper till the stained khakis fell to his ankles. He let L guide him to their shared bed, tucking him in as softly as Sayu tucked in her favorite teddies.

“Why are - why are you doing this to me?”

“Light-kun, has it ever occurred to you that not everything I do is part of the investigation?”

It really hadn’t.

“Can you tell me about your symptoms? I may be able to help.”

Fine.

“Nausea.” Even after he threw up, it hadn’t stopped. “And my head hurts but only on one side, and earlier I couldn’t see properly.” Somehow, his vision had returned to normal, but that was hardly reassuring. “And photophobia.”

“I see. There’s a few things this could be. Light-kun, have you had unprotected sex in the past few weeks?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now.”

“Nausea is a common symptom of morning sickness, and -”

“Ryuzaki. Did you give me a uterus while I was unconscious?”

“Of course, that is not the most likely diagnosis.” L continued in a perfectly flat, even voice, with no trace of humor. “Probably, you have a migraine. Tell me, Light, when was the last time you ate?”

Light thought about it. He hadn’t eaten breakfast - he hadn’t been in the habit of doing so for some time. Had he eaten dinner last night? He couldn’t recall. “Um… probably yesterday afternoon.”

L sighed. “I’ll have Watari bring you some lunch.”

Light laid there in silence while L made the call. Migraines. He’d heard of them, of course, but he’d never had one before. Even when he was stressed, even when he skipped meals, his body continued without issue.

“Do you struggle with migraines often?”

“No, never.”

“Hmm.” L tapped away at his keyboard. “Common migraine triggers include skipping meals, stress, the weather -”

“I deal with that all the time -”

“- sleep deprivation.”

Light sat up, forcing his eyes open. Thankfully, L had his screen angled away. “So this is your fault! You did this to me!”

Light was barely getting four hours of sleep these days, when typically he aimed for eight. Even when he was studying his hardest, he never compromised on sleep.

L sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I have not been attentive enough to your needs.”

Watari knocked on the door and entered with a platter laden with fish, nuts, and fruit, with tea on the side. He set it down at the foot of the bed.

Light sat up, then immediately regretted it when his head began to pulse again. “I shouldn’t eat this here. What if I make a mess?” Never mind all of L’s snacks. Light was better than this.

“Shhh… Open wide, Light-kun, the airplane is coming in for a landing.” L gripped a chunk of fish between his chopsticks and guided it gently into Light’s mouth.

Light had not allowed someone else to feed him since he was capable of holding chopsticks himself. Normally, he would protest at being treated as such, but instead, he found himself sitting there immobilized as L brought one bite at a time down to his waiting jaws, complete with little airplane sound effects. He sounded as though this was a habit of his.

When he had finished, L wiped his mouth with a napkin, just as gently as after he vomited. “Good boy, Light-kun.”

Light felt blood creeping into his cheeks. Hmph. It was because he was embarrassed at being treated like a child. Not for any other reason.

L lifted the platter off the bed. “How about we take a little nap now?”

Light was an eighteen year old man. He did not nap. But he didn’t protest as L drew the blankets over his shoulders.

L did not remain in his usual perch. Instead he slid down alongside Light, lying so their backs touched. His warmth radiated up Light’s spine and down to his toes.

His sleep was deep and dark and dreamless.

When Light awoke, rays of afternoon sun drifting in through the window, he found his pain relieved, his mind clear, and L beside him, snoring softly. L’s arms had wandered to his shoulders as they slept.

He didn’t mind it, actually. He didn’t mind at all.

#mine #my writing #light yagami #l lawliet #death note #death note fic #emeto #emetophobia

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thezombiegeekinthehawaiianshirt · 1 year ago

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#Confessions Of A Window Cleaner (1974)#Confessions Of A Driving Instructor (1976)#Timothy Lea #Robin Askwith

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indyanapolis898 · 2 years ago

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A Tale of Two Tombstones

bruce wayne x f!reader

Synopsis: Batman needs a break after endless nights of work. He decides to visit his parent's grave as Bruce Wayne, where he's able to open up to his parents and someone else.

The roaring of his motorcycle halted as it pulled into its intended parking spot. The rider slid off the bike, falling heavily onto the dusty ground of the cave in which his headquarters resided.

A few grunts escaped his lips as he lay idly in the dim lighting of the cavern. Batman moved his gloved hands to his face to remove his dirty cowl, bloodying his gloves in the process. His messy, damp hair covered his forehead; the sweat combined with the blood on his face and head.

He took a few unsteady breaths, trying to gain his composure. He'd finished another late night of work at the cost of his physical health. His body armor would need serious work and repatching. He blinked a few times, shutting his eyes to sleep for a few minutes.

***

Bruce Wayne opened his eyes, shifting his body, which resulted in a painful shout.

"Hey, easy there," said a concerned Alfred, rushing to the operating table in the surgery room- located in the south wing of Wayne Manor.

"Where- what-," Bruce breathily mumbled.

"I found you in the cave after the computer alerted me of your presence. You took a heavy beating. I stitched up most of your wounds, but you've earned some rest, Master Bruce."

"No. I-" Bruce cut himself off with ragged coughs. Alfred sat the bed up and raised an eyebrow with an I told you so, look.

"Fine," Bruce finally accepted his fate and lay back on the pillow to rest more.

***

Bruce garnered a total of eighteen hours in and out of sleep, healing very slowly from the brutal fight he'd gotten into in a gang-filled subway station. They had tech and brute weapons that Batman hadn't seen before. They were strong enough to plaster him and his suit. The gang was still on the loose. It was plaguing Bruce's weary mind, but he knew he was in no state to get back into crimefighting.

Sometimes, while laying in bed with his eyes open because his mind wouldn't stop running, Bruce wondered if his thoughts would ever quiet down. The only thing that could help was getting things off his chest. It was a temporary high; however, his ego and insecurity kept him from sharing with Alfred. That's why, with Alfred's permission, Bruce found himself limping to the mansion's garage in a simple gray sweater, black trench coat, and jeans. His hair was messy and unkempt, only kept out of his face with the pair of sunglasses that rested on his forehead.

Bruce entered one of his vehicles, a black SUV with tinted windows, and let his driver take him to the Gotham Graveyard.

***

After a morning of light showers, the sky had cleared up into a baby blue. Bruce struggled out of the car, leaving the driver to wait on the curb outside the cemetery. It was an empty scene. Rows and rows of headstones sat under a canopy of trees with no people to visit. The graveyard resided in a more rural area of the city, so the memorial area was quiet besides the occasional squawking of birds and the wind rustling the autumn-kissed leaves.

Bruce stepped onto the damp, all-too-familiar grassy path leading to the headstones of his late parents.

Their monuments were big and overly fancy. The cleaner Alfred hired twenty-six years ago still came every month to polish and clean the headstones. In honor of the Wayne's, a bench sat on the side of the stones, so Bruce sat there, idly taking in the silence.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Speaking in a tranquil but emotional voice, Bruce began to talk to the air, confessing how he missed them, his beloved mother and father.

"...and that's why I came. I just needed to talk. I needed to be in your presence again. I believe Alfred still cries over you, Father. He acts strong, as you taught, but deep down, he's like me: broken."

"I wish I could be fully capable of feeling, but all I think about is the injustice and monstrous side of the city. The city that took you two away."

Bruce stared at the ground, trying to focus on the words he was saying when a leaf crunching from behind alerted him to whip around.

A woman, maybe five foot, stood behind him, wide-eyed and embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you..." she caught her breath, most likely at the realization of who she was talking to, but regained her train of thought. "My mother... her grave is just behind them," she explained, gesturing to a headstone behind the Wayne's.

Heather Lycona.

Bruce resorted to nodding in reply. The woman approached closer to the headstone but stopped, clearly wanting to say something the way her mouth opened and closed. Bruce cocked a brow. He decided to attempt to be conversive. "How?" he nodded his head at her mother's gravestone.

"What?"

"How did she pass?" he tilted his head. She clutched the ends of the scarf she was wearing, a shade of black to contrast the white dress under her jet puffer coat.

"Oh, um, gang violence. Three months ago, Mom was out at night just trying to get groceries, and, she um..."

Bruce nodded in indication he understood. "Mine as well."

"I know- I mean, I know the story, of course," she awkwardly laughed as a buffer. She looked around and then back at Bruce sitting on the bench. "I'm sorry for intruding on your moment. I-I can come back later."

Bruce shook his head wordlessly. "No, that won't be necessary. I did what I came here to do," he answered raspily.

"May I sit?"

Bruce didn't expect the woman to want to be in his presence any longer, yet he wasn't against her sitting with him. Her eyes could tell a story, one that he wanted to hear. His eyes traveled to the open space beside him, barely nodding at it.

She sat down on the wooden bench, breathing in the mossy air. "There's something about the cemetery that's so peaceful. Everyone says it's scary because it's the resting place for hundreds of people, but I believe it's just a reminder of all the lives that came before us. Everyone is just asleep here, and we sit with them."

Usually, Bruce wouldn't be a fan of the conversation, yet he decided that she was intriguing, a type of thoughtfulness he appreciated.

He hummed at her words. "Bruce Wayne," he introduced even though she knew very well who he was, leaning back into the bench.

"Y/N Lycona."

"Why did you visit today?"

"Sometimes I just enjoy being around her. It's peaceful here."

"I understand."

"What about you? Why did you visit, Mr. Wayne?"

He glanced at her before looking back to the swaying tree branches. "Same as you," he breathed out. He wasn't sure why she was asking him. Not that Bruce believed he was too good to answer questions, but because he'd assume she wouldn't be interested in him. Usually, people were interested in his position.

"Do you ever feel they were the only people who understood you? I feel like that with Mom."

Bruce nodded, barely moved his gaze to her, then studied her with his signature deadpan expression. Bruce picked up once again on what he'd thought earlier. Y/N seemed warm, like in the right situation, she'd open up. She probably thought a lot. The woman stared off at the trees like he'd been earlier, looking deep in thought.

"Your mind... is it always running?"

She quietly sniffled in the chilled air. "Yes. I got approved for the investigative division of the GCPD. I want to help find and eliminate the gangs of Gotham. I don't know what my mother would've wanted me to do for her case, but I know she wanted me to help bring justice to the city. She got me through school for criminal justice. It's what I wanted to do from the start, but it was for the sake of others. Now, it's all for her- for her justice."

"You seem very driven, detective. I hope you do what you set out to do," Bruce stated.

"If I can contribute to bringing criminals and killers to prison, I'll do what I must. I can't just watch someone turn into the next Heather. Gotham needs change."

For the first time in a while, Bruce's lips slightly twisted up. "Then we are very alike."

The two sat in comfortable silence for ten minutes, occasionally making small comments.

Bruce decided he'd stayed his welcome, opting to stand up suddenly. He nodded down at Y/N. "I give you my best wishes on your assignment. I'll be using my resources to continue assisting the work," he said, his tone void of emotion, but they could both tell he meant it.

"Good to talk to you, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce is fine," he mumbled audibly, turning to leave.

"Thank you for understanding. You don't say much," Y/N chuckled, "but I could tell you understood me."

Bruce gave a close-mouthed smirk, walked out the gates, and got in his car.

"Thank you for your patience, Gerald."

The driver nodded and drove the pair back to the manor.

Bruce came out of his visit knowing two things:

First, he'd have to visit the cemetery more often.

And second, as soon as he could get back his vigilante work, he would thwart every gang he could get his hands on. If it would help fulfill Y/N's goal, he'd devote all his energy to it.

#battinson x reader #the batman 2022 #batman #batman x reader #batman x fem!reader #robert pattinson #battinson #robert pattison #fanfic #dcu #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader

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mysticwolfshadows · 6 months ago

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Taken - Zutara - Part 90

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

Zuko hadn't thought Katara would leave with him so suddenly, but he was glad that she did. She had seemed so tired throughout the day, and while they were in the trolley, she had sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. He let her drift off, doing his best to lift her up and carry her onto the airship without waking her.

Once she was settled in her room, Rinzo and Taka moved into place to guard her door.

"What are you doing?" Zuko asked, frowning.

Rinzo side eyed him. "Protecting the future-" Taka elbowed him, and Rinzo cleared his throat. "The ambassador, my Lord."

Zuko felt his face scrunch, maybe a bit in annoyance, maybe a bit in appreciation. He knew that the two were devoted to her, and desperately wanted Katara as their next Fire Lady, even back when Zuko was banished and they followed Katara around the village. While he hated to take away any of Katara's freedom, he knew that once people in the Fire Nation knew about their growing relationship, there could be attempts on their lives. Better to have people he trusted watching over her.

He went to bed himself, and woke at dawn, heading to the small little galley that was serving breakfast. Katara was already up, gently healing a red welt on one of the crews arm. Her two shadows were hovering at the edge of the room, looking rather chided.

"What happened?" Zuko asked as he moved to sit with her.

The crew member stared up at him with wide eyes, but Katara sighed.

"Steam burn," Katara said. "A steam valve burst and Tenzo tried to fix it with his bare hands because he didn't have his gloves because he was off duty at the time."

He nodded. "I'd like you to have breakfast with me."

"I'm sorry, Fire Lord," the crewmen, Tenzo, said quickly, starting to pull his arms away from Katara's healing glow. "I did not mean to take up... the... the ambassadors time...?

Reaching out, Zuko put a hand on the man's shoulder to stop him, so Katara could finish. "It's fine. Ambassador Katara is a Master Waterbender and outstanding healer. I'd be deeply offended on her behalf if you hadn't asked for help."

Katara nodded, pulling the water away to show mostly smooth skin. "Besides, Zuko can wait a second. I'm already done."

Tenzo looked at Katara like she was mad, but quickly bowed and hurried from the room.

"The crew for the airship isn't as familiar with me," Zuko confessed, when Katara got up and eyed him. They went to the kitchen window, the nervous cooks assistant slowly pushing two trays of the crews regular meal onto the counter for them. As they carried them back to the table, Zuko continued. "I think most of them expect me to start hurling fire at them at any moment, like my father would have."

"Well," Katara said, bumping his arm with hers. "We'll just have to show them that it's fine. That their Fire Lord is just a very handsome young man."

Despite himself, Zuko felt the blush creeping up his face. He ducked his head, hiding it as he shoved rice into his mouth, hoping Katara hadn't seen. He felt like a foolish love struck teen from a book.

"I had a few ideas," Katara continued. "For things other than the hospital. Like student cultural exchanges, and working for cleaner environments."

Zuko nodded, giving her all of his attention. "Tell me about them."

And so she did, explaining each idea she had in great detail. Zuko nodded along, listening carefully. She had wonderful ideas, though some would be difficult to implement. Still, he would give them his best effort, if only because they came from her.

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

#fanfic idea #atla #avatar the last airbender #fanfic #zutara #zuko #katara #wip

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thisismeracing · 2 years ago

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King of my heart | MS47 | part. 16

Pairing: mick schumacher x hamilton!reader (she/her)

Warnings: curse words, mentions of food and alcohol, mentions of sex (no smut tho), tooth-rotting fluff, angsty, mentions of anxiety and break up, not proofread, etc, etc. Minors DNI!

word count: 5.2k

part. 15 | series masterlist | part 17 | taglist

Summary: Mick Schumacher rode a lousy wave for quite some time, so when the sky gets cleaner and the sun brighter he just knows something terrible may be in store for him. Whereas y/n was just so magnetic, and the possibilities of life with her seemed better than anything his mind could ever create, that’s why, for the first time in forever, he throws cautious carelessly through the window, hoping to get to the finish line before it catches up on him.

A/n: Finally this chapter is out!! Sorry for taking forever, I wanted to put as much info as possible on this so you guys could understand the bigger picture. Hopefully, you'll like it <3 I'll probably drop some extras during this week! Don't forget to reblog and leave a comment/ask *mwah*

Monday morning rolled around, and though Yn went to sleep alone, she woke up engulfed in Mick’s arms. He flew to Oklahoma right after the Monaco race in order to spend some time with Yn and Gina before his girlfriend had to leave for the UK, which would happen in about two days.

“Morning,” Yn mumbled, eyes still closed, lips stretched in a lazy smile. She felt a giggle erupt when Mick's lips found her shoulders and neck, kissing and biting lightly while whispering his greetings to her.

“I’ve missed you,” the German confessed.

“You saw me on Saturday,” Yn pointed, though she too had missed him.

“Yeah, but it was just that. We just saw each other in front of everyone. We didn’t get to spend much time in private,” which was true. “And now we only have two days together before you fly home,” Mick kissed her neck again, and Yn turned her body to face him. Her eyes scanned his tired appearance and messy hair. She threaded her fingers through his strands, and Mick almost purred like a cat getting the caress he waited for all day long.

“Dad actually asked me to invite you…” she threaded carefully. Though she was friends with Corinna and Gina, and Mick knew Anthony and Lewis, they had never done something so intimate as a gathering of that sort. That was a step Yn wasn’t yet sure if Mick wanted to take.

“He invited me to his birthday?” he questioned, big blue eyes now open and staring right at the Hamilton. She nodded. “Would you like to have me there too?”

Yn pursed her lips, traced Mick’s jaw with the point of her fingers, and then confided, “If it’s not too big of a step for you, I would love to have you there. My dad and my mom like you, and Lew likes you. It would be nice if you could come. It’s a small gathering. We usually just invite some of my parent’s closest friends, which are about ten people or so.”

Mick smiles and dips his head to peck Yn’s lips in a gentle kiss. “It’s just the step I wanted to take, Schatz.”

She smiles and throws herself on top of Mick, hiding her face in the crook of his neck and preventing her lips to confess something her mind had yet to accept, but her heart was as sure as the daylight shining outside the windows.

When they emerged from the room, freshly showered, Gina was in the kitchen starting breakfast. She sent a big grin their way when she noticed the way Mick had his arms around Yn.

“I’m starting on pancakes, and I could use some help,” she throws an apron towards her brother, and Yn chuckles, escaping from his grasp and sitting on the counter, busying herself with chopping fruits for the toppings.

“What do you think of pottery painting, Liebe?” Mick asked. The trio was now sitting at the outside table, breakfast ready in front of them.

Yn finished munching on a particularly sweet strawberry before smiling, “Sounds cool. I’ve never tried it though.”

“But you’re good at painting, right? You design the shoes from your collections,” Gina comments, remembering a conversation they had about work a while back. Yn had mentioned how getting the idea and putting it into paper was fun, even better than getting the shoes on sometimes, she risked.

“Yeah. Though I wouldn’t say I’m good with all kinds of paintings. It’s different to sketch shoes, to draw or paint the sky for example,” she explained cutting into the pile of pancakes Mick served her. “It sounds fun to try, are we doing it?”

“It was Mick’s idea. We have some mugs and pots almost done. We have clay too if you want to learn proper pottering,” Gina suggested, and Yn smiled.

“I’ll stay here for the rest of the month!!” she joked. “It’s been less than four days, and I already learned how to mount a horse, made strawberry jam from scratch, and now pottering?!”

Mick smiles proudly at his sister. Yn had called him to tell him how she learned a bit about horses, and he listened to her gush about how fun it was and how good of a teacher Gina was. He could tell their bond got stronger that weekend, and he was happy to watch it all unfold. His family meant the world to him, and the fact that seemed as enchanted with Yn as he was, just made it harder for him to hold back his tongue.

As it turns out, it wouldn’t take long for Mick to spill what he’s been keeping since Friday. They started on the pottery later that day, just after lunch. Yn was sitting right beside him her curls were clipped behind her head so they wouldn’t fall into the ink. She was wearing a summer dress and the boots Gina got her. She was also wearing the prettiest smile Mick has ever seen and he couldn’t help but steal pecks from her every once in a while though they were with two friends around (all of which had taken a liking to Yn too).

“Can I see the coffee mug you made me now?” Mick asked Yn for the tenth time, and Gina rolled her eyes, chuckling.

“Can I see the one you made me?” she shot back, and his shoulders slumped.

“I told you I will show you later, Schatzi.”

“I told you I will show you later, babe,” Yn repeated, and it was Mick’s turn to playfully roll his eyes. She held him by the jaw and smacked a loud kiss on his cheek, accidentally smudging some painting on his face.

Mick protested and everyone stopped to watch the interaction. Gina had a knowing smile on her face observing as her younger brother gave Yn the softest stare while she tried cleaning the green ink from his skin. He closed his eyes after a second or so when there wasn’t any smudge anymore, but Yn kept her hands on his face in a light caress before quickly pecking his lips and turning to her flower vase again.

“They’re in love,” one of Gina’s friends whispered, and the blonde nodded his head in agreement. Everyone could see it by now, and she suspected the couple could too. They were just afraid to admit it out loud. It was a matter of time, she thought. You can’t run and hide from a love like this.

It was close to dinner time when Mick insisted on seeing his mug, and Yn gave in. In fact, he kept asking for it the whole day, curious and anxious around Yn, who could only roll her eyes playfully and tell him to wait. Hand in hand, they walked to the backyard porch where the mugs and vases were sitting in an attempt to dry a bit. Yn crouches down and grabs a white mug extending it in his direction. Mick gives her a questioning look, and she just smiles, waiting for him to grab the piece, which he does, and when his eyes find the bottom of the mug Yn watches how his semblance changes. His smile changed every muscle on his face, it showed perfectly his dimples and his pearly white teeth. He was so handsome.

At the bottom of the white mug, it was written, “I like you” in black ink. Mick turned the piece, finding yet another small addition right at the corner with light blue ink inside a heart doodle was his nickname “Mouse” in her handwriting.

“I loved it! That’s so cool, Liebe. I- I really like you too,” he grinned, dipping his head to capture her lips in a quick kiss. Yn laced her hands on his shoulders and protested, deepening the caressing of their lips and tongues and only releasing him after the proper kiss.

Mick smiled again, “Now, here’s mine,” he took the mug he perfected earlier and gave it to her.

Yn noticed how he seemed a bit expectant. His hands tapped lightly at his sides while his eyes watched her every move. She gasped seeing the little doodles on the mug. There was a pair of heels, the China circuit - the weekend they kissed and made love for the first time-, there was an attempt at drawing the UK flag and then a small 44 beside a 47.

“Mick, woah-” Yn started still stunned with how much effort he put into it. “This is so cool. I’m gonna keep it forever,” she beamed.

“Look inside too. The bottom,” Mick instructed, and Yn did just what he said.

She stopped for a second, noticing the writing right on the bottom of the mug. However, while the one she made for him read, “I like you” the one Mick made for her read, “Wanna be my girlfriend?” Yn looked from the mug to him at least three times. She was looking for confirmation that it was not a joke, though she knew he would never joke about it.

“I think we silently settled for boyfriend and girlfriend, but I still wanted to make it official and ask you,” Mick explained. “So…will you be my girlfriend?” he asked, a small nervous smile in the corner of his lips.

“I officially accept it,” she giggles before crashing their bodies into a hug. Mick’s arms are quick to lace around her waist, and he kisses her shoulder until they draw apart, and he can finally taste her lips. His free hand finds her jaw angling it towards him, and she smiles between the kiss. It was such a simple gesture, but still, it took time, and Mick put effort into making it for her when they had accepted that they were together. He still choose to show her he wanted all the steps with her, and Yn felt her stomach curl and her heart soften.

Early in the morning of March 31st, Yn and Mick got to her parent's house. Lewis picked them up at the airport before going to the gym, and they took a nap for about two hours before getting up and ready to make breakfast.

“Did you bring me the cookies I saw Gina posting you baked? Lewis inquired when he got to the kitchen. He was freshly showered and crouched down to pet Roscoe who was peacefully snoring by the table.

“Good morning to you too,” Yn teased. “And you don’t even like that much sugar in the morning.”

Lewis shrugs, drops a kiss on her cheeks when he passes her, and sits at the counter, “I wanted to have some today for a change.”

“She’s joking with you. We brought some, it’s in the fridge,” Mick passed the scrambled eggs to a plate before looking at the oldest Hamilton.

“That’s why she’s my favorite sister, man.”

“Isn’t her your only sister?” the German questioned, a confused frown on his features.

The kitchen boomed with the siblings’ laughter, and Mick couldn’t help but follow.

“That’s exactly the answer I give her every time she says I’m her favorite brother.”

Yn rolled her eyes playfully and walked to the OG machine ready to start on the fresh juice, she stopped halfway to leave a peck on Mick’s shoulder, and he turned smiling at her. Mick was now gathering the ingredients which Lewis knew were a vegan pancake mix. Mick wasn’t vegan, but his sister was, and the fact that the German already knew how to make it for her stirred something inside him and made his lips curl with the ghost of a smile.

The oldest Hamilton watched everything attentively. It was still fairly new to have his teammate at his family’s house early in the morning cooking breakfast with his sister, though Lewis wasn’t really opposed to it, it felt different. But different in a good way, it could never feel weird or bad when Yn had the brightest smile on her face around him. It couldn’t feel bad or weird when his dad woke up to laughter, music, and a big breakfast table. Or when his mom seemed to be just as enchanted with Mick as everyone else in the house. It was like the painting had changed and the furniture was rearranged, it did not mean something bad, it just meant maybe you would have to readjust to a thing or two such as sharing your sister’s attention or suppressing the urge to protect her from everything even if this thing is not a bad one.

The rest of the day went smoothly well, they ordered takeout for lunch and ate it outside in the backyard patio. They talked through snacks and started getting the house ready for the birthday dinner in the evening. Dinner, which was always prepared by Lewis and Yn, was a tradition since they were fifteen, and so this time it wouldn’t be any different, the siblings would just have an assistant around. And as it turns out, Mick was a great assistant, he chopped vegetables, and even attempted to season some things. Lewis would watch how the couple interacted around each other, how they shared quick glances, a kiss on the shoulder, arm, and forehead here and there, and how Mick would drop everything he was doing to look at Yn when she talked with him. He couldn’t help but let a small smile slip again, and he didn’t stop to think much about it, not until dinner time when everyone was gathered at the big table outside, talking, and drinking, and Mick was sharing his attention between a rice plate and one of Anthony’s friend. The German was removing all the raisins.

“Don’t you like raisins?” Lewis who was sitting in front of Mick, asked when his dad’s friend turned to talk to someone else.

Mick pointed behind his shoulders where Yn had disappeared just a minute ago to grab a new wine bottle, “Yn uh- Yn doesn’t.”

“And you’re sorting for her?” The answer was obvious, but Lewis couldn’t help but ask. It was so automatic he almost felt disbelief watching the whole scene unfold.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” Mick shrugged and gave the oldest Hamilton a small smile.

Whenever they cooked rice Lewis would make sure to save her a portion without raisins, but he was distracted today, and he forgot to do so. He kept staring at his friend separating raisin by raisin from the rice grains, and if he ever doubted Mick’s feelings for his sister, at that moment his reluctance took off. Lewis knew how to spot small actions of love, he knew it because he saw it in his family, and he himself would do little things here and there for his sister, just like she would do for him.

Mick was in love.

And Lewis was pretty sure Yn felt just the same.

“You sorted my rice?!” Yn asked when she finally came back from inside the house and Mick gave her a small smile pushing the plate of plain rice in her direction. She beamed. “Thank you, Mouse,” she mouthed and laced her fingers with his on top of the table.

“I’m glad you found each other,” Lewis confessed out loud to the couple.

“You sound like Dad telling me to keep him,” she joked, mentioning how their dad seemed to take a liking to Mick, and openly told them that he wanted him on his next birthday and that his daughter should keep him, ‘he’s a good guy’ Carmen, their mom, even added, to which Anthony answered ‘the best’.

When Lewis was about to bite back, Anthony called the guests' attention to do one of his memorable discourses before they could finally dig into the food. He thanked his friends for being around for yet another celebration of his life, he thanked his kids, and Mick for the dinner, and he made a point of expressing how much he loved his family. It was a memorable and intimate dinner, and Yn was happy to have someone besides her brother to poke fun with. She never felt as surrounded by love as that night, and she didn’t know it at the time, but life could feel like that night almost every day, she just had to let herself experience it.

And that she did, or she tried to.

Mick stayed at her house for sim work, her apartment was closer, and there was no reason for him to stay at a hotel when he could stay with her without raising attention since it was not race week. They basked each other's presence every possible second. It felt good, so good Mick flew back to the UK after the Spain GP. They decided to try and fly under the radar for a bit. All the speculation was leaving Yn anxious and exposing them both, so while the internet went crazy with Mick and Lewis together at Future’s concert and Yn’s Spotify account leaked, they were at Yn’s condo. Both of their phones were off, and that week they learned how to make pasta from scratch it took them almost the whole day, but it was all worth it when the food was ready, and they ate it together in her living room floor, flour all over their clothes, Mick’s cheeks flushed from laughing, Yn’s belly hurting from making fun of him. That week brought them the closeness needed to identify better when the other was anxious and what worked better to help them navigate it.

Yn almost cried when Mick had to fly to Canada, and she had to stay in London because of work. He left little notes in hidden places that she would keep finding, and whenever she did she would text him. They were usually random questions that would bring a bigger subject to the table others were just Mick saying things he liked about her or little quirks he noticed and cherished.

It was only three days, but three days too long.

And when the Canadian GP came to an end Yn found Mick in Switzerland.

They spent some days with Corinna and then all alone until the Austrian GP. Those two weeks were just what they needed to recharge for a bit. They played games, swam in Mick’s cold backyard pool (Mick even posted what Yn classified as a “thirst trap”), tried making pasta again, learned how to bake Yn’s favorite cake, discovered new songs together, and even started watching a TV show, the latter would always end up with the couple naked and tangled between the bedsheets or, depending on how eager they were, in the living room floor.

When race weekend finally rolled around, Yn started self-doubting about attending it. Angie felt the shift in Yn’s posture. Her anxiety was easily detected while Mick was in the kitchen preparing lunch, so the dog took it as her job to try and calm Yn down. She lay beside Yn in bed and brought her favorite toys to her trying any available distraction. Angie licked Yn’s hands and finally settled for letting the human hold her. Minutes later, when Mick came to check the silent bedroom, he found Yn and Angie cuddled in bed, and he slipped beside them, holding his girlfriend close to his chest. She didn’t talk, and he didn’t ask, respecting her time, but holding her was enough, and she felt so relaxed to the point of falling asleep.

Their lunch plans ended up being dinner in the back area of the house, the sun bidding its goodbye as Mick and Yn quietly talked about life.

Silverstone was only two days away when it all started crumbling down. Nothing seemed different, half of the week the couple spent together in London felt like the previous, just adding a bit more anxiety from Yn, but Mick guessed it was just home race nerves. And she confirmed it.

Yn confirmed it because she needed some time before opening up about the reason why she was a bit more anxious than usual. Home races meant the chances of finding her ex-boyfriend were higher, and she had been doing a good job of running away from him since the breakup. However, as it turned out, the biggest problem wasn’t finding Mason, but it was having her past relationship with him come to light stirring even more the internet.

One time you’re famous but hidden from the Hollywood tabloids and gossip, you have your own private life can go grocery shopping, you can go to the gym, can go for a run, can have dinner in a small restaurant, and can do it all without the fear of having someone with a camera pointed to your face recording a registering your every move, judging, talking, speculating. One time all your hard work and your success is your own merit, but the second there is a new hidden surname everything becomes about it. Suddenly you’re not your own person anymore, but you’re the versions everyone else created, and none of those versions take into consideration how it feels to have so many of your cherished secret things going around. That’s how Yn felt. That’s how she felt when things started getting out of control, that’s how she felt when paparazzi started showing up outside restaurants, and when people started not only speculating but mentioning her in these comments, asking questions, demanding answers. That’s how she felt when a breakup she tried so hard to forget came to life again.

She dated Mason for a little over a year, he was her first real boyfriend, and they met through mutual friends. He was climbing his way up to professional football, and Yn was giving her sweat and blood to make her own name. They clicked. He was cute, and he was fun. They started as friends, but it wasn’t long before she was rushing home with a silly smile on her face, running to call her brother and spill everything to him. What else could that crazy feeling be if not love? Her first love!

How lucky would you have to be to find love at such a young age?

Or rather, how unlucky, some would say. Because love would bring heartbreak along at some point. It was part of the equation, sometimes it would bring small everyday heartbreaks because when you are young everything feels amplified. A hug is not just a simple hug, it’s his hug, just like an unread message is not a simple unread message, because it’s all attached to him.

And Mason wasn’t a bad guy. Just like Yn wasn’t a bad girl.

They were just too young, and too eager to love. Too eager to experience life, and to conquer it all, without the understanding that sometimes you gotta let go of one thing so you can grab the other with your two hands, or else you risk stumbling and dropping both.

Maybe that’s what happened.

Things started getting out of control, and what was supposed to be a young, healthy, and beautiful connection, ended up hurting both. A bunch of missed calls, forgotten dates, screaming matches, slamming doors, silent crying, and then, closing doors.

The last time they saw each other words were thrown recklessly. It felt weird, it took some time to move past it. One day they were together, used to seeing and rooting for the other, the next, they’re not talking anymore, and their friend group is messed up. One day they’re talking about the other at home, their parents asking, sharing, smiling, the next their names are forbidden, his team is hated, his number deleted. And although Lewis advised that it shouldn’t be like this, they needed closure, or else the ghost of the past would always hunt them, Yn could not listen, the noises of her heart shattering on the ground, breaking over and over again, were too loud.

Mason took the same path as Yn. He focused on his career and every time he caught himself thinking how would it have been if she was there cheering for him, if maybe he had been more patient, if they had met later in life if they remained friends instead of getting romantically involved so soon, if, if, if, and if. And as it turns out putting yourself in the world of “what if?” where infinite possibilities are always there, and you can never be sure of an outcome, is cruel. And nobody can be more cruel to you than yourself.

When Mick walked into Yn’s apartment that evening she knew that he knew about Mason. And she knew that she was about to be cruel to herself.

He spent the whole day out training, he would be at the factory for sim work the next day, probably the whole day, even part of the night, but it was impossible not to know. Half of the world probably already did. Just as their eyes found the other Yn felt a new wave of sadness hit her body, she was sitting on the bedroom floor, back propped against the bed, head hanging between her knees.

“Hey,” and his soft tone did nothing but cause another ripple in her chest.

Yn shook her head, lips quivering. This was a different cry, nothing like the tears Mick had experienced with her before. “I just wanted an easy ride into a relationship. Instead, it’s like we crashed against each other, and now we have the whole world’s attention on us,” she sniffled a confession.

“Hey,” he called again. “We did not crash, we’re here, I’m here, Schatzi,” Mick tried but Yn kept her eyes down, lips pulled between her teeth as if to feel something, anything but the pain on her chest. “Look at me, Yn,” the German tried, his tone worried.

“How do you even want me to look at you after I caused all this damage? My life is exposed, your name is exposed, everything is chaotic in a way I’ve never experienced before,” she cried. “Aren’t you angry I’ve never mentioned Mason? Why are you here, Mick? You should hate me… at this point, so many people probably do,” her last sentence was a weak whisper as if her voice was losing force or she was telling herself a truth too hard to swallow, so she need to taste it before trying to shove it down her throat.

Mick’s blue eyes are following her every move, he doesn’t know how to explain the mix of feelings inside him, but he does know it’s not hate, it’s far from it. He’s hurt, yes, but he’s also aware that maybe Yn just needed some time to come around and tell him, and Mason was her past, wasn’t he? He was the one with her now, he was the one watching her crumble and trying to pick the pieces and put them back together.

“Why would I hate you, Liebling?” the pet name seemed to hit her somewhere where it hurt because her tears came down like waterfalls. His soft voice, his persistence, his presence, his existence, she felt undeserving of everything. “You did not tell me your ex-boyfriend happened to be a soccer player, so what? Maybe you needed time, maybe you would come around eventually, maybe it’s not my place to know every little thing so early in our relationship. You deserve your privacy and your own secrets, though I would like to be part of it, to know it. I wish you had told me, I am a bit hurt, I still don’t know, everything just happened, maybe I need time to process it and then decide how exactly I am feeling, but I don’t hate you.” He took a step towards her and Yn flinched, Mick stopped. “I could never hate you,” he whispers, and she gets up. She’s wearing one of his shirts, and Mick tries to tell himself that maybe that’s a sign, a message that without even noticing she’s reaching for him.

“I don’t want to keep you stuck, I don’t want to put you in the spot,” she starts, voice trembling, and Mick suddenly feels the room turn cold, his hands sweating, his heart clenching and fastening. “You gotta focus on getting your seat and I don't wanna come between that. I think I’ve been distracting you. We both need privacy too, we got too exposed,” it’s like these were ruminating thoughts in her head, things that had been hunting her before, and she’s voicing them, giving them enough strength to break her and him in the process.

Mick's eyes widen, and he shakes his head vigorously, “I don’t care! Yn, babe, look at me!” he pleaded, “You’re not exposing me, and if you were, I don’t care about any of this media bullshit as long as I have you,” he confesses, there’s a tone of desperation on his voice. “And you’re not distracting me from my goals, far from it, I’ve never been so satisfied in a team, and with myself. I don’t care-”

“But I care about you, Mick!” She interrupts, her eyes finally finding him again, and Mick can almost hear both of their hearts hitting the floor. He can almost guess what’s coming next because sometimes that’s how it works: you try to protect someone, and you end up hurting them in the process. “That's the reason I’m breaking up with you,” she pushed, and he almost felt the invisible strength hit his body because he took two steps back until finally found his balance back. “because I love you,” and then she delivered the final blow.

He laughed without humor, his own tears finally painting his cheeks, trailing the path to his jawline. Mick shook his head, “You don’t get to say you love me when you’re breaking up with me. That’s just cruel.”

Oh, if only he knew.

“I’m sorry,” Yn wept.

Mick tried walking to her, but Yn extended her hand in front of her body. She was well aware that if he held her, if he kissed her if he even so just brushed his fingers against her tears, he would probably change her mind. He would make her believe it wasn’t her fault, and he would go through hell for her, but she didn’t want him to. Yn did not want to see him face the cruel side of the world just to have love, the love that should be his painless, free, without any difficulties along the way.

“Liebe,” he emphasized, his tears flowing and still doting his pretty face. “We gonna figure it out together, I won't let you go, you can have your time off. I don’t care how long, but I am not giving up.” His tone was set, his stance strong, though he was crying, and she could see part of him crumbling down at her feet.

This time, when Mick walks to her, she can’t do anything but stay, feet planted on the ground, body aching for his touch. He holds her face between his big hands gently tipping it up. His ocean eyes look even more shiny and deep with tears. “We're just giving it time ok?” when her tears start again like an avalanche, Mick kisses each small drop before they fall down. She could almost taste his salty tears too, her lips brushing against his wet face with the proximity.

Mick bumped her nose with his and caressed her cheeks just as he thought the battle was controlled, Yn jumped away from him and rushed outside the room. When the front door slammed shut, Mick could almost feel the whole house coming down on him.

― ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: I know I left you guys hanging again, but I promise to try to be faster this time around! Don't forget to give me the fuel to be able to do it (aka reblogs and comments hehe) *mwah*

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