#danny sharp smut

[gyllenhaalstories]

BUBBLE GUM — DANNY SHARP 🫧

summary: the saga of what danny wants, danny gets continues.

warnings: curse words, smut (blowjob, spit play, breath play, mild degradation). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 3020

photo credits: @/stephendroff (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i tried to call an ambulance for my emergency case of danny obsession but for some strange reason all the ambulances were used for a bank robbery. 🚑 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

"What flavour is that gum?" Danny asked from the other side of the couch.

"Must be plastic, because that's what it tastes like now." You answered, mirroring the tone of annoyance you heard in his voice. You did not even bother looking up from your phone.

"Maybe if you stopped blowing fucking bubbles every second it would still taste good."

You rolled your eyes and blew another bubble, your lips were slightly parted as you chewed afterwards. "How am I bothering you? You're watching God knows what on full volume." Your chin pointed to the large flat screen television hung up on the wall. "I can't even hear my thoughts."

He sighed, but his eyes remained fixated on your mouth. He licked over his lips, waiting for a witty come back to hit him. It took a few seconds. "Yeah, and what are you thinking about that's so important?"

"I'm thinking about how you're getting on my nerves."

"Aww, how cute." He faked to sound enthusiastic. "That makes us twinsies 'cause I'm thinking the exact same shit about you."

You popped another bubble, obnoxiously, as you slowly turned your head to look at him. One of your brows arched in surprise when you studied his features. "Really? You should tell your face that."

He scoffed and tried to blink away the glassy look in his eyes. "Why is that?"

"If you're soooo annoyed with me," you smirked as you continued speaking, your gum stuck between your cheek and your teeth. "How come you're giving me bedroom eyes? Is there supposed to be a difference between what you look like when you're horny and when you're mad?" You marked another pause, noticing how he clenched his jaw at you talking to him in such a very bratty-like, and Danny-like, manner. "Come to think of it, it's pretty much the same with you..."

"That's it, you're fucking done." He exhaled loudly and stood up from the couch. He shut the television off and walked in your direction. He planted himself right in front of you, with his left arm stretched in your direction and his palm facing up. "Spit."

You followed the bulging veins of his forearm, slowly guiding your eyes up. You locked eyes with him and popped what would be your final bubble gum.

He moved his fingers in a come hither motion. "I said spit it."

You did not break eye contact as you placed the gum on the tip of your tongue and opened your mouth. You poked your tongue out and let the gum fall into his hand. "You're an annoying —"

"Pain in the ass, yeah you are." He interrupted you and flicked his wrist so that he could look at his watch. Good. He had plenty of time before his next gig, or, well, before one of his rich employers would come to pick up their vintage car from Danny's babysitting services.

"What now?" You swallowed away the faint taste of the gum.

"Now I'm gonna put that pretty mouth of yours to a much better use than all that bubble popping and shit talking."

You gasped, barely audibly, but of course he picked up on it. You furrowed your brows, trying to look tough and resistant in front of him. You blew your cover away when he came back from the kitchen, having now discarded of your gum and washed his hands quickly.

He was removing his shirt at the same time that he made his way towards the bedroom. "You're gonna sit there and look dumb or would you rather have fun with me? Yeah, that's what I thought." He did not even glance over his shoulders, he knew you were behind him, walking fast to catch up.

You finally made it to the bedroom, where Danny was gathering all the pillows from the bed and making a pile at the edge of the mattress.

"You're feeling fancy, we're using the bedroom this time. What happened to the kitchen table and counters?" It seemed like the little walk along the hallway where you followed him like a puppy let you gather enough courage to do more of what he prohibited you to.

"What did I fucking say about shit talking?" He threw his arms up in disbelief at your attitude. "I just wanted to be comfortable." He answered your question while removing the rest of his clothes, clumsily. His eyes were glued on you as you stripped beside him.

You excitedly made your way to the bed, wanting to join him as he was laying down by the edge of it. Only, his knee blocked you from climbing any further so that you had to stand up again.

"I said that I wanted to be comfortable." Danny answered the question you were about to shout at him. He looked around him and pulled a loose pillow from the small mountain he had built for himself. "There you go." He threw it in your direction and rested his back against the cushions. "Now get on your knees, will you? Oh, come on! Don't get pissed off at me. You have a pillow this time! And a rug! It's all fuzzy and shit. At least this time you won't fuckin' complain that the concrete floors of the warehouse give you little bruises on your poor little legs."

While he was busy with his monologue acting like he wouldn't throw a fit if the tables were turned — the bruises occurred when he had you cockwarming him while doing some accounting, for all that you knew he could have been playing that solitaire cards game on the computer or ordering enough cashmere sweaters to dress an army — you had placed the pillow on the floor next to the bed. You got down on your knees like he instructed you to and ignored the words that were coming out of his mouth until you heard something you deemed of interest.

"You like blowing bubbles so much, don't you? Exactly. That's why I'll have you blowing spit bubbles on my cock." He relaxed on the bed, spreading his legs open to give you space to kneel between them. "Spit on it baby, get it nice and ready for your mouth."

You spit as he ordered you to, again, and watched as your saliva dripped down his semi hard cock.

Your hand reached up to stroke him, but he was quicker than you.

Danny smeared your spit over the tip of his cock and the length too. He impatiently waited for you to spit on him again so he could jerk himself off to full hardness. He smirked to himself, watching you as you waited and let out lustful whimpers. He was fixated on your mouth again, paying close attention to the faint twitching of your upper lip when you believed he would finally give you a taste as well as how you licked and bit over your lips.

“Please, Danny.”

Your plea pulled him out of his reverie. “You got manners now?” Danny mocked you again, but got caught up in his own desire for you. “Say it again. Beg for my cock.”

“Please! Please, I need it so bad.”

“I know you do, baby.” And he granted you permission to taste him.

Quickly, your tongue licked a stripe from the middle of his length to his tip before you wrapped your lips around it. Your cheeks hollowed as you sucked on the tip of his cock.

Danny threw his head back when you gently caressed your tongue over his tip.

You pulled away, but you continued to use your tongue to tease him. You licked over the veins of his cock or teased the hole at the tip. You were being messy, on purpose. You drooled all over him.

It did not bother him, it was quite the opposite. He adjusted the pillows under his back so that he could reach his cock more easily — and reach you too. His hand aimed for the base of his cock and he gathered your saliva to jerk himself off as you kept focusing on his tip. "That's much better than a stupid gum, isn't it?"

The way your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the taste of his precum, moaning against him, sounded like satisfying answer to him.

"I know that's right." He licked over his lips while he stared at yours. "I can't get enough of that mouth."

You kissed his cock, watching Danny as he watched you. The two of you were bearing the same facial expressions. There was a certain blankness behind your eyes, and behind his too. You were both focused on enjoying the moment, and making it feel as good as it possibly could.

But Danny had to ruin it. Well, sort of. He enjoyed the loving kisses and slow, gentle sucking. Yet, he wanted, and needed, more. He leaned a bit closer to you, placing his left hand on your right cheek. His thumb stroked over your cheek while you took him in your mouth again. He guided your head to take him further, deeper.

You gagged audibly, making the obscene sounds that he loved so much. You pulled away to catch your breath.

He pushed your head down on him again. This game of push and pull lasted until you had successfully slobbered all over his cock and earned a loud, happy grunt from him. "Y'look so goddamn pretty like that."

You moved your head back, but stayed close to him. “Thank you.” You spoke as you panted, still trying to catch your breath.

“Come on, gimme that throat. I need to feel you struggle around me.” His hand on your cheek was insisting. He guided you down on his cock again.

Only this time, he pushed further and maintained you in place as you gagged and tried to cough.

He granted you permission to breathe. “Spit on it, baby. Make a fucking mess for me.”

You did just that, you spat all over him. You puckered your lips to smear your saliva on him.

More grunts and moans emanated from him. He could get so noisy when he wanted to — not that he was able to hold back, your mouth and your throat just felt so good around him. His right hand held his cock at the base, his fist wrapped around himself. With both of his hands busy, he had full control of how you were sucking him off. He controlled the pace, the depth, he fucked your mouth to his heart’s, and cock’s, content.

You did not put on a fight, you let out all the moans and noises that drove him crazy. Crazier than he already was.

“You wanna be used, don’t you? Yeah, I know. You’re being such a good little fleshlight for me.”

He fucked the thoughts of your head by hitting the back of your throat. You spat all over him again. You caught him watching the saliva drip down his shaft, all over his hand too, with sparkles in his eyes.

The annoyance from earlier had completely vanished. All that Danny had in his mind right now was the desire to make this moment messy and filthy. Messier and filthier than it always was.

And you loved it as much as him. You were gagging one second, drooling the next, and moaning his name the second after that. Some of your spit was dripping so far down that it stained the bed sheets. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It felt as though time had stopped so that Danny could properly use you.

Danny was mesmerized by your mouth, by the way your lips moulded him perfectly and adjusted to his swollen tip. He loved to see the skin of your chin and cheeks glisten from the mess you two were making. He found real pleasure in smearing it around, leaving a sticky trail on your cheeks that you would inevitably have to clean up later.

You opened your mouth and Danny took it as an invitation to trace your lips with his tip. Your lips looked so wet and glossy.

“Keep your tongue out. Just like that, just like that.” He rubbed his cockhead against your tongue, leaving strings of saliva. Then, he switched to slapping his tip against your tongue. He chuckled lightly at the scene, you just felt and looked so good.

You tried to take him in your mouth again, but you whined at your failure.

He was dragging it out and being annoying just for the sake of watching you get more and more desperate for him. It was both cute and pathetic, but mostly pathetic, how much you craved his cock and how eager you were to blow him. One quick glance at his watch was enough to remind him that he had to hurry up — and that you earned your reward.

You noticed the signs. The clock of his orgasm was ticking.

The muscles of his thighs were clenching, and his legs were closing around you. His face was painted with pleasure, but he was frowning while he tried to hold back. His chest was covered with a layer of sweat, his tan skin appeared red from how his whole body reacted to the pleasure you gave him with your mouth.

"You're gonna give it to me, babe?" You spoke, your voice sounded hoarse.

"Fuck yes I am." Still with his hand around his cock, he fucked your mouth for a few more strokes before his face clenched in bliss. "Take it."

Your lips were loosely wrapped around him and you moaned at the feeling of each rope of cum that landed on your tongue. You smiled faintly, humming along the grunts and groans that Danny was making.

"Such a good fucking girl for me." He said through gritted teeth as he finished cumming in your mouth. "Don't swallow! Don't swallow it yet. Don't you dare."

Your eyes widened and you curled your tongue slightly, trying to hold his load on it. Your mouth was open just wide enough for him to see.

For him to admire how beautiful you looked for him. He swiped his sensitive cock over your chin and teased your bottom lip. "Spit it on me. Yeah..." Danny approved, watching you obey him. His cum was dripping down his cock. "Now lick it clean. You love it when I use you like a cum rag, huh?"

You nodded your head frantically. You licked from the base of his cock back to the tip, lapping even at his balls when he moved his hand away, finally letting you touch the rest of him. "I love it!"

"I love it too, sweetheart. I love it so much. You're so good at it." He nodded, giving you permission to swallow everything. He sat up and leaned towards you. The hand that was on your cheek now held your chin up for him. "What a messy little slut."

You closed your eyes when he initiated a deep, passionate kiss. His tongue invaded your mouth and you moaned at the feeling. That kiss felt as good as the degrading words he laced with praise.

Danny enjoyed the kiss almost as much as you did. It worked as a much needed reminder for more instances of intimacy and affection between the two of you when the time called for it. Metaphorically and literally, because he was running out of time before he would get scolded for being late. He hated being late.

You gasped when he broke the kiss. You were practically offended when you caught him searching through his clothes on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Me? Oh, I'm getting dressed. Somebody's gotta work around here." The shift in his attitude came off as so brutal. You missed the attention he was pouring over you, with his cock and with his lips during the kiss. He tossed his shirt your way and used the tank top he had worn underneath to wipe himself dry and clean from the blowjob.

You reluctantly caught the shirt in your hands and patted your chest dry first. You made your way to your face and cleaned it up roughly. "You're such a dick."

"Yeah and you love it." Danny winked at you and stood up. He slipped on his briefs and then his tight black pants. He leaned down to kiss your forehead before he walked to his dresser. He pulled out a black cashmere sweater from his vast collection. "You're mad at me? Don't be mad."

You rolled your eyes and sat on the flood with your back pressed against the bed.

"Relax, baby." He lifted his hands up as a peace offering when he saw a flash of fury in your eyes. "I'm telling you to relax. Take a shower or a bath, I don't give a damn. Clean up and dress up."

"So you can get me naked and not even fuck me again? No, thank you."

"So that I can take you out on a date. For fuck's sake, just let me talk." He scrunched his nose at you, going back to his natural state of being annoyed at your attitude. "Put on something nice and I'll pick you up. We'll go somewhere and have fun. What do you think? That's a good idea, right?"

You sighed and shrugged. "I guess that sounds nice." You smiled softly and he did the same.

"And after we've done all that, I'll rip the clothes out of you and fuck you." He fixed his watch on his wrist and did a little shimmy in front of you. You smiled, liking his outfit that he had already worn a hundred times. He surprised you with another kiss. "I might even let you on the bed this time."

"Oh, get the fuck out of here, Sharp!" You pushed on his ass when he turned around, making his way out of the bedroom.

From the hallway, he laughed then shouted the following words. "I love you too!"

[charliehoennam]

danny, the devil

A/N: dedicated to @juniebugg. thank you so much for all the support and the wonderful ideas. keep them coming! *wink wink*

Pairing: Dark!Danny Sharp x f!reader

Warnings: language, degradation, dub-con/non-con, cumplay, unprotected sex, choking, oral, drugging (this is pure filth. minors, do not read and do not interact!)

Word count: 3,459

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

As you opened your eyes, you struggled to adjust to the hazy vision. The sleep weighted heavy in your eyes as you tried to understand where you were. There was too much to process at once. One minute, you were having a glass of wine with Danny in his kitchen after your shift. And the next, you wake to a burning warmth was building up from inside.

“His room?” you thought to yourself.

Your skin felt the breeze all over. It took a while to process. You realized you were fully naked on his bed. A panic began to flood your chest. You wanted to crawl away and hide, but as you moved around a bit to get yourself, you realized your wrists were tied behind your back, began to numb as you laid on them.

“I knew that would wake you up” Danny chuckled with a dark mischievous grin.

Hearing his voice, you looked down between your legs and found his piercing blue orbs from between your legs.

“Just in time too. Party’s getting started and I like to play with my food. Means you gotta be awake!”

He laughed darkly and slapped your puffy folds, enjoying the way your flesh jiggled. It sent a shock of pain through you, fully waking up all your sense.

“I waited a long time for this. Wouldn’t have drugged you if you hadn’t fucking cockblocked all my moves.”

A tinge of anger, you detected. Having deflected all his cheesy pick-up lines throughout the years you worked for him as his personal assistant really did a number to his ego.

“That’s ok, though. I got you all to myself now” he smiled darkly as he slid his middle finger between your folds, using his index and ring fingers to soothe the delicate skin. “And I’m gonna have some fun with you.”

His low tone of voice concerned you. You were already in shock and could no longer fight back the tears. You knew fighting back would be useless. He was 3 times your size. What chance did you think you had?

“Aw, honey. It’s okay. You’d better get used to crying” he feigned, pouting at your tears.

Your body shook as his hand struck your cunt again and again.

He laughed and hissed watching your breasts bounced, standing on his knees between your legs.

“Look at your tits” he growled, gathering them in his large hands and painfully squeezing and kneading. “So fucking beautiful for me.”

He excruciatingly latched onto your nipples, biting and sucking on them as if his life depended on it. It hurt and made you sob as you realized how helpless you were. You tried your best to stay silent as he continued with his agonizing attention to your tits until he moved to hover over you with his knees on either side of your hips. As he mounted you, his balls dangled and grazed over your stomach. He was already naked and hard. How long had he been eating you out?

“That’s right, baby. Cry for me” he ordered sternly as his hand balled into a fist with your hair to force you to look at him. The other hand struck you again. His dark eyes locked onto yours as he repeatedly slapped your breasts hard enough to leave them red. Then he focused on your face, slapping your cheeks over and over.

You felt humiliated and mortified, but you could feel your body’s betrayal as the slick began coating your pussy lips.

“Cry for me, baby. I wanna hear you crying” he demanded. “Look at that pretty little mouth. Fuck, I gotta get my cock in it.”

With a groan, he balled his fist into your hair to drag you off the bed. You could barely move your legs as he forced you down to your knees. The pain burned on your scalp, but you couldn’t resist him.

He ordered you to open your mouth and at first, you hesitated. Another slap across your cheek was convincing enough.

“You like that, don’t you? You’re a little filthy fucking slut, baby. Just the way I like ‘em” he stated holding your chin to keep your teary gaze on him. “You gonna open that mouth for me or do you want it harder?”

You responded by opening your mouth, much to his delight. He loved the newfound power he had over you. Gathering his saliva, he spit into your mouth. Before you could even blink, he was shoving his cock into the back of your throat. You gagged around him, but he didn’t lighten up.

“Don’t you dare fucking throw up. You take it all like the whore you are.”

His stern words were enough to make you obey. You feared what he would do to you. You didn’t want to let him down, so you did your best to take him as he started to thrust his cock. You didn’t know exactly what he did for a living, but you knew that he had some sketchy ass friends. And whatever he did, he got paid really well to own such a modern and luxurious home.

“Breathe through your nose” you reminded yourself as you gurgled.

You looked up and found it easier if you kept your eyes on him. He moaned as he fucked your mouth ruthlessly, making you drool down your chin. Tears were streaming from your eyes, staining your cheeks with mascara and eyeliner.

“God, baby. Really know how to suck a cock, don’tcha? Look so fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth” he moaned forcing it down your throat.

You shook your head, trying to escape for air but he refused.

“Take it. Take it.” He repeated watching you with a stern look.

Squeezing his grip on your hair, he suddenly pulled himself out of your mouth just as your vision had begun to darken. You gasped for air, closing your eyes in relief as you tried to regain your fleeting conscious. He chuckled noticing how dizzy you were from the lack of oxygen.

“You fucking love this. All cockdrunk on me already?” he laughed slapping his hard member against your face as you struggled to keep your eyes open and mumbled incoherently. “What’s that? You want more? Yeah, you can have more.”

He lifted himself a bit to force your mouth on his balls.

“Suck on them” he demanded.

You did as you instructed. Sucking them allowed you time to finally fucking breathe, so you gave it your all hoping he’d enjoy more than the blowjob. You took them in, one at a time and sucked on them like your life depended on it. As far as you knew, that might’ve been just the case.

He growled as he pulled your head back only to shove his cock down your throat again. He fucked your mouth until he could feel himself getting closer and closer to cumming. You hoped he would, thinking it might end everything. But when he pushed you off, letting you fall against the side of the bed, you knew you were in for a long night.

“That was fucking close. Shouldn’t be surprised that whore mouth you got on ya.”

Pulling your hair to get you up enough, he threw you on the bed. He pulled your hip and forced you onto your back again. Your thighs burned as he shoved them back against your chest, pulling you widely apart.

Pushing his face into your cunt, he devoured you like a man starved for weeks. He hungrily lapped his tongue over and over your folds, smirking proudly to himself.

“I see I’m not the only one enjoying myself here” he mumbled.

Fuck.

You yelped as his hand slapped your cunt again, far more sensitive than before. That’s how he wanted you. He buried his face again to ravage your pussy. Poking the tip of his nose against your sensitive numb, he quickly flicked his tongue repeatedly into your hole to savor all your juices. The swaying of his head pushed his nose deeper and glided over your clit as he deeply inhaled your scent. His tongue didn’t cease at all, delving its way into you. Hooking his arms around your hips, he lifted them up off the mattress in his rage of hunger.

You couldn’t deny the pleasure he was stirring in you. You didn’t want to feel it, but your body had betrayed you.

As he set you back down, he shoved two fingers in your wet cunt and buried them to the hilt. He wasted no time to pump them into you. The squelching wet sounds from your pussy made your cheeks burn red, but made his cock twitch with anxiety to fuck you. You could hear it echoing in the room, bouncing off the wall as you wormed and wriggled under him.

The pressure in your core built even more when he added another two more fingers, brutally fucking you as he stretched your cunt on his large hand.

"Goddamn, baby. You're fucking soaked" he teased through gritted teeth.

Tears streamed down your temples as you clenched your teeth, doing your best to take him. You weren't sure if it was due to the pain of his fingers stretching your swelling cunt or the white-hot pleasure that he had succeeded in infecting you with. The pressure in your depths snapped repeatedly, especially after his thumb found its way to your clit. He worked you until you came over and over again.

"Fuck. I gotta get my cock in you" he hissed ripping his fingers out of you with a soft wet slop.

You tried to take advantage of the pause to catch your breath and close your legs to let them rest a bit. You closed your eyes and rolled onto your side tiredly. Your hips were burning from being pried and probed. But your break didn't last for too long.

Danny pushed you back open to splay you all out for him again. He aligned himself and glided the head of his dick up and down through your folds.

"Pretty little pussy you got here" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me too. Don't even need lube with ya.  Like a fucking invitation."

You winced at the burn of your hips, but he didn't seem to care. He was too busy watching his cock slowly penetrate past your folds. You wish he had been going slowly out of consideration, but you knew he was only fascinated by your puffy swollen lips engulfing his every inch.

The stretch around his cock was just as painful as his fingers. You couldn’t relax as your muscles tensed, only encouraging him further with the tight squeeze of your pussy on his dick. He moved slowly in and out to watch your labias hug his member almost as if hypnotized. You were nothing more than a toy in his disposal.

He smirked to himself, wanting to have his cock as deep as he possibly could in you. That was when he had the bright idea to pull himself out of you and used his fingers to pry your pussy open into a gaping hole. He slowly let his spit dribble down into your womb, smirking as he watched your muscles contract at the pain.

"Gonna have me in ya for days, baby."

He was quickly to get his dick back into you but this time, he wasn't as gentle as the first. He shoved his cock into your cunt and began his thrusting. It was rough and rocked the whole bed.  He leaned down to prop himself up with a hand beside your head.

Raising the hand that he had probed you with beforehand, he forces his fingers into your mouth and ordered you to suck them.

You gagged on them and hadn't been able to comprehend his command. He slapped you across the cheek and squeezed your cheeks, making you look up at him as his hips relentlessly pounded against yours. The room was filled with the sticky slaps of his steady rhythm.

"You fucking stupid, baby? Did you not hear me? I said to suck."

You nodded quickly as you did your best to stay focused. You wrapped your lips around his fingers and sucked them as he wanted. All you think about was how sore you were already, but he felt so good. You knew he wasn't supposed to and that you were supposed to hate every second. But his cock had you seeing stars by this point.

You realized your breathing had become restricted as you held your breath. You hadn't noticed his hand slipping out of your mouth and gripping it's wet fingers around your throat. You stared at the ceiling hoping you'd pass out so you wouldn't have to live through this internal conflict any longer. You never should've trusted Danny.

He let go just before you could pass out and you gasped for air. His hand was quickly replaced by his mouth. As he mauled your neck, his beard scraped against the sweaty hot skin. He groaned as he bit you, making marks all over your neck and shoulders. He didn't just want to fuck you. He wanted to claim you.

As he felt himself growing close to his climax, he stopped suddenly to prolong his edging. He didn't want the fun to end just yet. You fell to your side like a rag doll with hardly any energy left in you.

He pulled his cock back out and pushed you hard onto your front. You laid there helpless and spent as he climbed off the bed. You took advantage of the moment to wipe away the stinging mascara and the messy drool as you withered in his bed, so defenseless. No doubt you looked like a mess. There was a rustling through a drawer and then, buzzing. He moved back to the bed and tugged your ankle forcefully towards him as he climbed back onto the bed.

You were too tired to look at him. You tried to avoid it because you knew he was just too fucking hot and you might end up enjoying the night. Lying on your front, you were just relieved to your hands and arms could have a little more circulation.

You felt him tuck something between your legs and immediately you knew what it was. A vibrating wand. Your hips arched instantly into the toy.

You begged Danny to stop. You couldn't take any more orgasms. You pleaded through tears and promised you wouldn't tell anyone.

"Honey, you think I wanna hide our lovemaking? I want the world to know about it. I want everyone to know who you belong to. I'm not gonna stop. I'm just getting started."

He sat on the backs of your thighs to hold your legs and the toy in place. You could feel building up again. The sweet intoxicating pleasure that corrupted your body. You thought you were gonna go blind.

Danny smiled as he slowly let his palms caress your ass cheeks. He squeezed the flesh and slid his thumb down your crack to tease your hole there.

"Pretty pussy. Pretty tits. Only makes sense to have such a pretty tight ass."

His hands continued to knead your flesh until he lifted one of them to slap you hard. As you withered in a mixture of pain and pleasure, he chuckled to himself and relished in the jiggling of your ass. The stinging pain combined with the vibrations from the wand stuck between your thighs only drove you wild. You didn’t want to enjoy it, but your body seemed to welcome it. You could feel the pressure winding up to snap with every smack.

“You like this, dirty girl. You like getting punished” he grinned darkly as he noticed you grinding your pussy against the toy.

“I wanna hear how much you like it.”

You stayed silent and shook your head, trying to resist your undeniable lechery blooming from your core. The vibrations against your sensitive clit were pushing you over the edge, threatening to throw you into that sweet blinding bliss again. How could you resist it? How could you resist him? It didn’t help that he was shaped like a god, muscles threaded from gold and molded by the Gods themselves.

Your legs tried to part as you spasmed and shook from the orgasms. Danny could feel your muscles flexing underneath him when you tried to lift your hips for relief. He smirked to himself and chuckled grimly as he soothingly palmed your red-hot cheeks. Despite his delicate caresses, he tensed his body to add more weight to the back of your legs.

“No, no, no. You gotta take it, like a good little slut.”

By the time he had finally gotten up to remove the toy, your pussy was drenched in your own juices. You could feel the bedsheet soaked underneath you. You pretty sure you’d squirted from the overwhelming orgasms Danny had forced onto you.

Forcing your hips up into the air with rough hand, you fell onto your face as you were unable to prop yourself up while Danny positioned you; his own personal fuck doll. He shoved his cock into your drenched cunt with such an ease that made you embarrassed.

“Jesus fucking Christ. So fucking wet, I bet I could fit my whole fist in there” he groaned. He probably would’ve tried if hadn’t felt so euphoric with his cock in your pussy.

You were certain you’d be bruised inside and out by the brutal grip on your hip and the ruthless thrusts into your walls. The closer he felt himself to his orgasm, the rougher he got. Tears spilled from your eyes as you struggled to breathe, panting from his merciless rhythm. You buried your mascara-stained face into the mattress. His balls pounded against your overly tender nub, slick adhering the sticky sore folds of your cunt to his balls.

“I’m gonna cum so fucking hard in your filthy whore cunt” he panted with a growl.

With a sudden strong tug on your hair, he forced your head up to stand you up on your knees. He climbed onto the bed on his knees as well and pushed you up the bed. Every part of you ached enough to lock you in a trance. It became worse when he slammed your head against the headboard.

Thrusting his cock back into your aching pussy, his greedy hands reached around you to violently grope your breasts. Your neck burned with his beard scratching your skin as he mauled you hungrily. He sucked and bit outrageously as he chased his long-awaited high.

“S-so fucking good” he moaned. “Fuck, baby. Can’t get enough” he panted through gritted teeth.

One hand pulled your hair and contorted you into an excruciating position, fiercely latching his lips onto yours in a violent kiss. You winced and yelped, crying softly as you kissed him back. The warmth of your kiss, the hot slick of your pussy, the fullness of your breast squeezed tight in his hand. That was all he needed to burst.

“G-God, fuck!” he growled.

He coated your walls with his pearly white seed, filling your sore cunt with its deliciously sweet heat. His hips slowed as he pushed his cum deeper and deeper.

“Attagirl. Take it all.” He breathed nibbling on your shoulder.

It was finally over.

He pulled himself out and let you collapse lifelessly on the bed. Relief washed over you, although you couldn’t deny that hollowness you felt in your pussy without his cock. As his cum trickled down your inner thighs, you felt his heavy figure shift and felt him removing the restraints on your wrists. You wanted to rub the feeling back into them, but you were too tired to move. Until you hear a drawer open.

You peered over your shoulder and watched in shock. He held a massive black dildo in one hand and a metal bar in the other. It clinked against the restraints on both sides of it. Leather cuffs and metal links connected to the metal bar.

Pulling your ankles, he forced you to the edge of the bed and fastened the cuffs around your shins. It forced your legs to stay wide apart. With a dark grin, he ran his hand over your exposed pussy and gathered his white cum. He lifted his hand to press your cheeks and forcibly open your mouth. Hovering his coated fingers over your mouth, he let it drip down and onto your tongue.

“Swallow it, my little whore princess. We’re just getting started.”

[mistressbloodcountess]

𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝐼'𝑚 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑡/𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓/𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔⚠ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑎.

𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 .

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 Please feel free to request a character or characters

𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑜 𝑀𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑜𝑦

𝐿𝑜𝑘𝑖 𝐿𝑎𝑢𝑓𝑒𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛/𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝𝑒

𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑦𝑃ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑚. 𝐸𝑥𝑒

𝐾𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑠 𝑀𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑜𝑛

𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑃𝑎𝑛 𝑂𝐴𝑈𝑇

[danysdaughter]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[foxtrology]

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Hold Me Closer

summary: you give joaquin exactly what he needs after a rough mission.

pairing: subby!joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI/SMUT, internal angst, food mention, dom/sub undertones, kissing, teasing, cockwarming, unprotected p in v

wc: 1,845

an: finallyyyyyy got to writing this subby!joaquin goodness, hope yall enjoy while i finish past 5 of vuelve!

danny ramirez characters masterlist

Joaquin usually texted or called you when he was almost home, even though he’d set up notifications to let you know when he and Sam made it back to the armory.

But today, there was nothing—just the notification—no call, no message.

Several minutes passed in silence before you caved and checked his location, confirming he was on his way.

That’s how you know it’s bad before he even opens the door. And the confirmation is all over his face the moment he steps inside, setting his bags down with a weighty exhale. He’s not his usual cheery self, even as his gaze catches yours and he forces a smile.

“Rough one, huh?” you ask gently.

He sighs. “Yeah. Just—really shitty.”

You rise from the couch and make your way to him, cupping his face in your hands. “Then let’s have a not-so-shitty night, okay?”

“Seguro, mi amor,” he agrees, though his shoulders still slouch.

You turn his head this way and that, examining him. “Mmm. ¿Tienes hambre?”

He makes a face, shaking his head. “Not really.”

You raise a brow. “But did you eat?”

A pause. “Not really,” he repeats. “Don’t light a fire under my ass, querida, I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m the sweetest girl you know.”

“That’s true, but you’re also the most stubborn. Which is why I know you’re about to make suggestions on what we should eat.”

“We could get Happy Camper—I’ve never seen you deny pizza.”

His hands find their place on your waist, squeezing gently as he mulls it over. “I could eat some pizza,” he murmurs, a smile pulling at his lips.

At the sight of that familiar light in his eyes, you can’t help but smile too. You lean forward, pressing your lips to his in an adoring kiss. With each word, your mouths brush, “I’ll order the pizza and you shower?”

He uses his grip on your hips to pull you closer, kissing you more deeply than before. He’s a little breathless, warmth creeping into his cheeks when he breaks away. “Sí, patrona.”

—

When Joaquin returns, you’re on the couch again with your book. You look up at him with a warm smile, but there’s something in your eyes that has him in a near shiver. Something hungry. Possessive.

“C’mere,” you murmur, patting the space next to you. He obliges, sitting beside you so your shoulders brush. Setting your book down, you rise onto your knees to straddle him.

He narrows his eyes at you playfully, though his hands slide up your thighs, kneading at the soft flesh. “What’re you up to?”

You ignore his line of questioning, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Your hair’s longer than usual. Gonna cut it?”

“Maybe,” he sighs, his eyes fluttering shut when you start using the pads of your fingers to scratch at his scalp.

His breath deepens, his body slackening beneath your touch. Your gaze traces every detail of him—the sharp curve of his jaw, plush lips, delicate lashes. He’s stunning like this, and the quiet reverence between you feeds your growing hunger.

“I’m gonna touch you now, ok, cariño?” you ask softly, your fingers working against his scalp in slow, methodical circles.

“Mhmm,” he hums, sounding a little desperate. His body shifts, pressing more firmly into the couch, exposing the line of his throat to you.

The sight of him, open and willing, ignites something in you. You lean in, pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck, trailing soft kisses downward. Your hands fall to his sweats, one rubbing against his hardening cock before slipping inside.

You’re met with nothing but solid warmth.

“You went commando on me, Torres?” you tease, your grip on him just as playful, fingers curling only slightly to emphasize your point. “That’s something a slut would do.”

“Oh fuck, baby,” he breathes, his eyes squeezing shut. His fingers twitch against your thighs, his muscles flexing as he fights the urge to thrust into your hand. His restraint is cracking, barely holding together, but he’s determined to be good for you.

“Are you a slut, Joaquin?”

“For you—por ti, cualquier día,” he mumbles eagerly, hoping that his willingness will bring him a reward.

His answer should bring nothing but arousal, but you feel yourself softening. How sweet it is that the man in a suit, the superhero, goes tender for you. You rest the bridge of your nose against his, asking him softly to look at you.

When he does, his brown eyes meet yours with a soft haziness, something vulnerable beneath the hunger.

“Te amo, mi amor. Lo sabes, ¿verdad?”

“Always.”

You lean in, taking control, your lips finding his with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath hitches, body tensing as you deepen the kiss, feeling his need swell against you. His hands tighten on your hips, a silent plea.

“Can I be close to you?”

You know what he means as soon as he asks. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Joaquin has this thing where he wants to crawl inside your skin and be there forever. Sometimes he’ll smoosh his cheek against yours and hope that somehow you’ll start to meld together. But when he’s asking like this, he wants to be inside you. Simply inside you, and nothing else.

“I don’t know if you asked correctly,” you murmur, your lips brushing his.

Joaquin’s known for his honesty, his playfulness, his confidence. But when you take control like this, you can draw out the part of him that’s shy. This is one of those times.

There’s a faint flush in his cheeks as he says, “Can I be inside you…please?”

“Since you asked so perfectly, amorcito. Hips up,” you command softly, and he moves in nanoseconds, allowing you to slide his sweats down to his knees.

Joaquin’s chest is heaving, his breaths rushed in anticipation. You don’t break eye contact as you pull your panties to the side, line him up with your entrance, and sink down onto him.

He gasps sharply, his fingers twitching against your skin.

“Perfect fit, hmm? Or should I try again?” you wonder playfully out loud.

“No—baby—I—” he sputters, but both of you know you weren’t truly asking.

You lift your hips until just the tip of him is inside you before lowering yourself again—slower this time. Neither of you can help it, moans mingling as your heads fall back in pleasure.

“Much better,” you murmur through a hitched breath, burying your face in his neck.

“M-much better,” he grits out, nuzzling into your temple. His hands rest at your hips, holding you, not guiding. He’s letting you take from him whatever you want.

And you do.

There’s a desire to tease him more, but you know what he needs from you. He wants you to pry control and decision-making from his hands and make him feel safe. He wants to be nearly brain-dead with just the thought, the smell, the feel of you. So you hold him close as minutes stretch on, whispering soft praises here and there, dusting any skin you can reach with kisses.

Eventually, your patience wears thin— he feels too good inside you, but it’s not enough. It’s like scratching an itch with dull nails, like soothing an ache that can’t be satisfied.

You start a lazy but steady rock against him, pressing the tip of him firmly against the most sensitive spot inside you. Joaquin’s breath quickens but he stays quiet and still, letting you take what you want from him. Just a few minutes of this— you fucking him like this— and you’ll fall over the edge, but this isn’t just about you.

“Think you can cum like this for me? Or does baby boy need some help?”

“Can I touch you, hermosa? It’ll help,” he asks, guiding your head an inch so that his gaze can meet yours. He’s completely under your spell, his eyes glazed over with restlessness. With need.

You break for him, ready to let him have whatever he needs.

“Sure, baby, touch me,” you agree easily, sitting back more firmly on your heels so that you have a better position to rock against him.

One of his hands finds the hem of your shirt, eagerly skimming up your skin to knead and caress your breast. The other takes an opposite path, forgoing the waistband of your panties to play with your clit.

Now your breath goes shallow, your hips bucking more quickly as his hands and cock serve you just the way you want them to. The sight of you alone— lips parted, half-naked, consuming him has him nearing his orgasm.

“Kiss me, mi vida. Please,” he begs, and you feel the way he tightens his muscles further beneath you, trying to resist the urge to fuck you back.

You close the gap between you, taking his lip between your teeth. “¿Ya no puedes más, cariño?”

“No,” he nearly whimpers, trying to pry his lip from your grip so that he can kiss you.

“Patience, I’ll kiss you, but when I’m close. Understand?”

Joaquin is tortured, you can see the resolve he’s been holding onto fading in his eyes but he nods, all of him growing still but his working hands.

He doesn’t know it, but you’re close too, barely holding on. You have less than a minute, you can feel it in the way you start to clench around his cock. You know that Joaquin can feel it too, but he continues to be a good boy for you, plucking at your nipples and clit.

You don’t give him a warning when your high washes over him, you just crush your mouth to his, groaning into the wetness as wave after wave of ecstasy floods your system.

It’s his undoing and he mirrors you, whimpering against your tongue as he fills you to the brim. It’s warm, comforting, and exactly what you both needed.

When you pull away, Joaquin is as out of it as ever, his head falling back against the cushions once more. You run your hands up and down his bare chest, planting soft, alternating kisses on his cheeks.

“¿Estás bien, amorcito?” you ask him gently, snuggling into his arms.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs dreamily, his fingers grazing over your skin absentmindedly as he starts to drift.

You smile softly at his words, feeling a rush of warmth in your chest. But then—your thoughts go back to the pizza.

“Hey,” you murmur, shifting so you’re looking down at him. “Don’t forget about the pizza, cariño.”

His eyes flutter open, still hazy from the pleasure, but there’s a playful glint in his gaze. “How could I?” he whispers, pulling you closer into his arms. “But I’m good here…we can always eat later.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “No way. We’ve got pizza, and I’m not letting you fall asleep on me just yet.”

Joaquin groans but grins up at you. “Alright, alright. You win, mi amor.”

“Damn right I do,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

nsfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun

[bernardsbendystraws]

Fresh Air

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Check out my pinned post for more of my writing.

00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 FINAL

Summary: One night at a party seems to change everything. A strange man with a friendly smile and a sleeve of patchwork tattoos seems to make you feel at home for a change. You're finally happy to have made a good friend to lean on - especially when it comes to your not-so-great relationship with your boyfriend. But what happens if you lean too much...what happens if you fall?

Warnings: 18+. This series contains mature themes, read at your own risk. (SMUT, angst, parental troubles, financial hardships, and more. Don't like, don't read.) This warning is made for all parts.

A/N: To be added to the taglist, send a request in my inbox or comment on the pinned post. I'm far more likely to see requests sent to my inbox.

With love and big tits, Rose.

09: Cum and go.

wc: 1500+

I could feel his eyes on me. The hot flashes of the camera didn’t feel as electric as his stare. It was pitiful, really. I found myself losing focus, constantly looking around to find his shadow walking around. And it always seemed to be so close. 

He didn’t have to be here. Matt had no obligation to stay for anything, but he did. It was because he wanted to be there for his brother and I knew that, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I played a part too. 

“Do you need a break?” Danny asks from behind the camera. Her management voice seems to soften with the question - the same question she had asked me at least four times now, but I just couldn’t seem to be just a puppet for once. My smile kept falling, my eyes kept trailing wondrously. 

Shaking my head, I bite on my inner cheek, trying to peel my attention away from the racing thoughts and back to the shoot. 

I wish he didn’t affect me so much. Even freshly out of a relationship, I didn’t even think about Hayden this much. In fact, I had rarely thought about Hayden at all. Just a taste of bitter regret when his name floated into my mind. 

A couple more snapshots and the photographer finally calls it good. I walk over to my stuff, gathering everything back into my bag before flinging it over my shoulder. My body just feels sore. Random aches and pains were multiplying, a lack of sleep starting to catch up to me both physically and mentally. 

The hiss leaving my mouth from the sharp sting is barely audible, I look around to take one last look, my eyes landing on him, Matt. And he’s staring right back at me. 

Concern is plastered on his face. I don’t bother trying to look anymore, brushing past a small crowd of people and trying to get to the door. It’s a morning shoot, it’s barely noon and I’m exhausted. 

Grabbing the handle to the door, my heart drops as I hear fast footsteps run up from behind me. 

“Wait -,” 

Turning around, I come face to face with Matt. A reeling weight of guilt pummels down as I feel the urge to launch myself into his arms. 

Why do I still feel like this? 

Shouldn’t it be… different? 

“Are you,” he pants, rubbing his hand over his face, “-are you okay?” 

Am I okay?

No, but telling him would only make things worse. 

“I’m okay.” I state shortly. 

Matt’s eyebrows furrow, his hand reaching up and scratching behind his neck. “I, um - do you wanna…can we maybe -,” 

“Not today. Sorry,” I spit out, rushing my words painfully as I turn and walk out the door. 

Waves of air fill my lungs. My chest gets heavier, each step feeling more forced as I further the distance between myself and Matt. 

I want to be with him. Today, tomorrow, and everyday. But, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t want to be with the person who I cheated on someone with. That would only end in disaster - a disaster bigger than the one already in place. 

My feet stumble to a stop on the pavement. Should I turn around? Manon was a good friend, I loved her, but she didn’t give me the feeling he did. Nobody did. 

Maybe no one ever would. 

“Hey,” I feel his hand on my shoulder, Matt’s hand. I don’t have to turn around or look over my shoulder to know it’s him, the wave of comfort from the heat of his touch lets me know, something relaxing deep inside of me tells me it’s him. 

“We shouldn’t be talking, Matt-,” 

“Then let’s not talk. But I’m your friend. I know when you’re not okay, we don’t have to talk, but I’m not gonna let you be alone while you’re going through something.” 

His words slip through every crack of the wall I had been mentally building. I just can’t stay away, I can’t resist him. The feeling I get while being around him is something irreplaceable. I was addicted to the heat of his touch, the comfort of his words, and the way he made everything feel so… light. 

No words. I simply nod, letting him guide me by pulling my elbow, opening the passenger door of his car. 

Sitting down, I stare up at him. “Don’t you wanna stay for Nick?” I ask. 

Matt shakes his head. “I didn’t come for Nick.”

He buckles my seatbelt across my body, his hand lingering on my knee for a brief moment before he stands up and softly shuts the door. 

He didn’t come for Nick. 

He came for me. 

___

Silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Not even in the slightest. Matt had given me a change of clothes, one of his baggy T-shirts and a pair of our matching pj pants, the pj pants. 

The ones that had led to this disaster. 

What really happened? 

We lay on his bed, a foot of empty room between us as we stare at the TV mounted on his wall, playing reruns of shows. My body seems to ache, trying to maneuver closer to him each time I shift myself in the bed. I don’t even realize it until I feel our knees touch. 

“Do you…can…” He stutters over his words. I let myself curl under his arm, laying on his chest and nuzzling my cheek against his soft shirt. Matt stiffens. His body slowly falls back limp, his hand hesitantly starting to rub my shoulder as he pulls me in closer. 

It feels so peaceful, so calming. The lack of sleep seems to catch up with me quickly, my eyes feeling heavy as I let my lips start to speak the words balancing on the tip of my tongue for what felt like ages. 

“What happened that night?” I question. 

Matt goes rigid. He clears his throat, taking a deep breath. I can hear his heartbeat quicken. 

“I, uh, I -,”

“I won’t be mad,” I cut off. “I just want to know.” 

The drum of his heart seems to calm slightly. His hand starts to tangle with the ends of my hair, nervously fidgeting with it as he clears his throat once again.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I had a dream and I never meant to make you uncomfortable - all I know is that I woke up with um…I just - I changed pants and I hoped you didn’t notice. I’m so sorry, I never meant to make you uncomfortable -,” 

“You didn’t.” 

The interruption makes his ramble of words come to a halt. His fingers stop fiddling with my hair. I feel him move, looking down at me as I stare back up at him from the uncomfortable position. 

I lay back down on his chest comfortably, my hand gliding over his chest, feeling the soft material of his shirt. “I woke up. It…it wasn’t very long, but…I didn’t want you to stop.” 

Silence. Matt seems to process the information slowly, his heart returning to a normal beat. “You…you didn’t?” 

“No.” I say simply, sighing before peeling myself out of his embrace, laying on my back as I cover my face with my hands. “I went to talk with Hayden. I…I knew I couldn’t do it anymore, but when I went to his place, some girl answered his door.” 

Ugh. The same rush of emotions waves in like a hurricane. 

“I’m so sorr-”

“For what? That my ex boyfriend was cheating on me? I cheated on him. I don’t even have the right to be upset. I…I’m more upset with myself than him. I mean, I…I really like you and I just…I don’t think we could ever be together, it’s so… wrong.” 

Time seems to freeze. I hear his breath hitch, finally uncovering my face to see him sitting up, staring into his lap with glossy eyes. 

“...Matt?” I ask, sitting up and placing a hand on his shoulder. 

And that’s when I feel it. The slight shake of his body before a harsh cry purses through his lips. I’ve never seen Matt cry. At least not like this, it’s always been tears of laughter. I could feel every wall I had built up crumbling down, the stamina for holding some sort of restraint disappearing as I wrap my arms around him and hug him in towards my chest. 

“I - ‘m sorry. I didn’t - didn’t mean to and I -” He hiccups, grasping onto my waist for stability as he sobs into my chest, soaking the material of the shirt. 

Before I know it, a tear glides down my cheek, falling into his hair. Matt freezes, pulling himself up before staring at me sadly. “Can I just…can I just hold you? Pretend that none of this ever happened? Just…just us. Please.” 

An offer I can’t refuse. I nod, laying back down, my eyes feeling wet and heavy as Matt pulls me into his chest, his hold impossibly tight. And I know why. 

He knows he’ll have to let go. 

[dannyriccsystem]

SOOOOO ABOUT THAT ONE K SPECIAL

perhaps daniel ric with soft make out session and virginity loss? #virginsunite😞✅

TAKE ME ONE MORE TIME.

1K SPECIAL - DR3

Soft make out session + Virginity loss

SUMMARY: Danny makes sure to be extra gentle with you after finding out it’s your first time. Ever.

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: Virginity loss, smut, P in V, cunnilingus, gentle dom Daniel

FEATURING: Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

NOTE: I miss him so bad

YOU AWOKE TO KISSES ON YOUR SHOULDER. They were tender and light, like the man giving them was scared of hurting you. His lips were searing on your skin, every brush felt hot. You blinked away the sleep, peering over your shoulder at Danny, who was holding your waist tight and peppering you in his love.

“Mmm, good morning.” You muttered. His gaze drifted up towards you, and soon after his lips were on yours. It wasn’t a harsh attack, but a soft acceptance of your consciousness. You grinned against him, your eyes fluttering shut. You nearly succumbed to sleep, feeling utterly relaxed.

“Mornin’.” His voice was deep and groggy—it came as a deep rumble from deep within his chest. You licked your lips, tasting him on you still.

You turned back around, shifting your weight back against his hold—then it got serious. You could feel something hard pressing against your thighs, rubbing up against the curve of your ass. You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to feel.

Danny didn’t know, but you were still a virgin. It was just a personal thing about not wanting to have sex until you were close with someone. You had done other acts, but legitimate sex had yet to happen. It was somewhat embarrassing, which is why you avoided letting him know.

You knew it would come up eventually, though. Your boyfriend was very sexually active. He never forced you into anything, but you found yourself frequently pretending you couldn’t hear him jerking off in the shower, or how he’d occasionally get hard when watching movies together. This was unavoidable.

“Danny?” Your voice cracked as you called his name.

“Sweetheart,” He replied, slyly kissing your neck.

“I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to judge.” He jokingly scoffed, because he had seen nearly everything. He had seen you naked, he had seen you cry, he had seen your genuine laugh instead of the cute one you used on first dates.

You were serious, though. He froze, and then nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“I’m a virgin-” You blurted out, your back still to him. He didn’t say anything at first, and then the silence started to get uncomfortable. You looked at him again, and he was just staring at you with a dorky smile. “What?”

“I’m just kinda honored. I mean, I’m not expecting anything, but if you want to have sex, I promise to be gentle and considerate.” He looked genuinely giddy, like a child on christmas morning. It helped ease your worries by a lot.

“I don’t know,” He traced little circles into your stomach. “I want to, but I’m a little scared.” Would it hurt? Would he fit? What if you were too loose? Ugh, so many worries.

“Don’t be scared.” Danny stated firmly. “I promise to take good care of you.” You visibly relaxed, the tension flowing from your body.

You sucked in a sharp breath, holding it while nodding. “Yes,” You breathed out. “I really do want to have sex with you.”

Daniel nodded as well, kissing your lips. “Good, because I want to, also.” When he pulled away, he gently pushed your head to face forward again. You let him move you around a bit, your breath hitched when he started to pull down your pajama shorts. It all started to feel too real.

You shut your eyes tight, listening to the sound of shuffling clothes. When you felt something warm and slightly wet press to your folds, you flinched. Danny, with his arms around your waist, whispered into your ear, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah…” You appreciated him checking in constantly. Asking for consent like that somehow made him so much hotter. With your final confirmation, he slowly pushed his cock into your hole, groaning into your ear.

“Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Shit-” You stuttered out, legs twitching as he breached your hole. He paused, letting your poor pussy adjust to his size before he continued to push himself all the way in. You seethed, your body melted into his hold.

“You’re doing so good,” He whispered sweet praises into your ear, his arms wrapped around your midsection. “Does it hurt? I can pull out,” He kissed the spot behind your ear.

“No!” You quickly blurted out, whining under your breath. “I… I don’t want you to.”

“Can I start moving then?”

“Yes.”

With your permission, Danny began to thrust his hips. He was slow, making sure he listened for any signs of pain. He listened for pleasure, too, taking note of everything that made you feel good. Your little whimpers were music to his ear.

You turned your head over your shoulder, looking down at where he was penetrating you with a dazed expression. He chuckled and leaned in to kiss you. His tongue gave your lips little kitten licks before you opened your mouth, enough for him to move forth. You were both moaning into the kiss while he sped up. His hips slammed against yours, your cunt fluttering and your legs twitching.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart, I’m about to come,” He grunted. Your stomach churned with excitement. You weren’t quite there yet, but you trusted him to take good care of you.

He pulled out, his cock releasing. Some of it landed on you, but most of his cum was shot onto the mattress. You were worried you’d go without coming, but your worries were subsided when he rolled you onto your back and pushed himself onto his knees between your legs.

Your hands found his curls, helping guide him towards your wet cunt. You could feel him smirk against you. Daniel darted his tongue out to lap at your wet, greedy folds. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this.

Danny slipped two fingers inside slowly, curling them to brush against your spongy walls. He repeatedly teased the spot that make you whine, his confident smirk growing. You threw your head back with every lick and every thrust.

“Danny, I think I’m coming-!” You squealed, both hands now gripping his soft curls. His tongue flicked against your clit.

“Come.” He commanded in a low murmur against your vagina, his tongue licking confident stripes through your folds. You shuddered, your orgasm washing over you.

He helped you ride through the waves of it, continuously licking and thrusting his fingers into you. When your body relaxed, releasing all the tension, he pulled away.

“Feel good?” Daniel checked in with that smug grin of his. You nodded rather bashfully, pulling him down for another kiss, and then grimacing at the taste on his lips.

“Ew-uh, I forgot you were just eating me.” He laughed at your reaction, licking his own lips.

“I thought it tasted good.”

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING JEALOUS !!! DANIEL R. X FEM!READER feat. lando norris (18+)

summary: jealous danny = generous danny. (part two-ish to something watchful)

content warning: use of explicit language, smut under the cut (minors dni!), not proofread, dubcon, pwp, voyeurism (danny makes lando watch, consensual) + masturbation (m), filthy filthy content, dom!daniel x sub!reader (and dom!lando), based on a request from my inbox

note: the max verstappen smut reached 1,000+ notes 😗 enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

lando furrowed his brows at the sight of her, watching as she pouted. her gaze was going to burn a hole into the booth table, lando thought as he looked around the headache inducing and strobe light flickering room. where the fuck was her boyfriend, daniel?

“he’s with some chick over there,” the british man must’ve spoken aloud because of how she answered the question without any amusement in her tone. she gestured at the bar area, where lando found daniel ricciardo chatting up with some lady with his typical grin. 

what the fuck was danny doing making someone laugh that wasn’t his girlfriend? 

“fucking beats me, lando,” she huffed out.

“shit did i say that out loud?” lando asked as she nodded with a begrudging expression. “never mind that— why are you pouting and sulking, girl?” 

“it happens whenever your boyfriend would come chatting with people that aren’t you,” she said grimly.

“cheer up,” lando grinned, slinging his arm around her. in a drunken haze, he hadn’t minded his actions but if he was sober he knew how poor this would be for his friendship with daniel. 

daniel was possessive. everyone knew that.

every driver in the grid knew that no matter how much they'd drooled over his girlfriend. everyone’s mothers knew not to get too close whenever she was around.

lando was playing with fire but he couldn’t help it; his buzzed self wanted to comfort his friend— his friend’s girlfriend. 

and daniel had immediately seen it. the aussie’s sight darkened when he found his girlfriend laughing with lando while they chatted amongst themselves. 

she seemed to be having fun, which was good for certain reasons but daniel only wished he could cut lando’s arms off as he watched the british man get a little too comfortable and close to her. 

it was almost as if the woman that daniel was chatting with had disappeared. his gaze burned holes through his girlfriend’s demeanour and figure as he tried to contain his frustration and jealousy. 

and by the time she looked at him, she knew that she was done for. that the lust and jealousy in daniel ricciardo’s eyes would come with a price.

what she didn’t expect, however, was that the price would come along with a company in a form of a british driver. the one that slung his arm over her shoulder. lando.

the pout on her face, alongside the smudge of her mascara, was what daniel paused to see for a brief moment.

his jealousy was the result of his girlfriend’s unintentional close contact with lando norris, and he could admit that. and the messy features of her face was a result of daniel’s jealousy— admiring her silently as she whined about his cock. 

when he circled around her and reached behind her, he tutted and murmured, “so wet for me, sweetheart.”

she laid flat on her stomach, her cheeks spreading thanks to daniel’s observant hands before he let go and smacked her right cheek. she moaned pitifully, eyes closing as her cunt throbbed around nothing. “danny, please…”

“nuh uh, don’t ‘danny please’ me now, doll,” daniel grinned darkly. “you have to tell me what you wan’, pretty girl. you can’ whine and expect me to give it to you.” 

“i- ah,” she cried out as she felt a sharp pain from her roots, being pulled up by him as she whimpered, “wan’ you to fuck me, danny. wanna feel full.”

“yeah? you want my cock?” 

“hm- mhm~” she nodded eagerly, his hand restraining her movement.

“d’ya want to be fucked full?” he asked again, making her nod. his maniacal smile faltered for a brief moment as he pointed her head towards in front of them. “by who? me or him?”

“open your eyes, pretty girl. tell me who’d you want to fuck you,” and she did, her glistening eyes sharing contacts with lando’s lust blown pupils as he sat on the chair across the bed, his cock hardening as he continued rubbing the tip of it.

this was filthy, the three of them could admit— but they could also admit that they were getting immense pleasure from this.

if daniel was going to make someone watch them as they fuck, she might as well make him jealous all the time. it was just a surprise that, of all the people who would be up for this, lando would be the one to watch and get pleasure out of his best friend’s filthy fantasy. 

she stammered, “y- you, danny- i want you to fuck me- hah~ fuck! yes, like that!”

lando incoherently sighed at the sight of her being filled to the brim by daniel’s cock, watching her tits bounce while daniel fucked her roughly. lando continued to stroke his length as he watched the couple.

“fuck, fuck- shit~” she cursed, drool falling down her lips as she sucked on daniel’s fingers to keep herself silent.

“tell ‘im how you feel, baby,” daniel pulled his fingers away from her mouth and smacked her ass.

“so good,” she moaned.

“that’s it, baby?”

“‘m so full and it’s so good, lan,” she babbled coherently. “‘is cock is so good, fuuuuuck~”

“yeah? is that right, girl?” lando taunted, stroking his cock as she cried in pleasure, tears falling down her eyes as daniel continued to spear her insides with his cock. “gettin’ too dumb now, princess? is it because it’s so good?”

she nodded eagerly as sounds of hips snapping echoed around the room, her cunt making squelching noises as daniel fucked her from behind. 

“answer him, doll,” daniel demanded firmly. “use your words or ‘m not gonna fuck you.”

“yes!” she managed to get it out of her mouth as she cried and babbled, “fills me so good, hah— and he- fuck! shit, danny please want more!” 

“had i known that you were into this kind of bullshit, i would've made you jealous way before this,” lando teased.

“don’t push your fucking luck,” daniel growled lowly. “be grateful we even let you watch. stop talking and watch her fall apart— you’re gonna miss the good part.”

[pochunts]

CHARITHRA CHANDRAN GIF PACK

— ✰ on the page linked below in the SOURCE LINK, you will find ( TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR ) hq gifs of CHARITHRA CHANDRAN sourced from her role as ISHA MALLIK in FIGHT OR FLIGHT (2025). charithra is 28 but was 27-28 while filming this project. she is of indian ( tamil ) descent, so please cast her accordingly. all gifs were cropped at 245x145 and were made from scratch by feifer for roleplaying purposes only. therefore, i am taking full credit for these.

gifs feature: Danny Ashok, Josh Hartnett, Hughie O'Donnell, JuJu Chan Szeto.

warnings/triggers: Airplane, aircraft things (flight/takeoff check, coffee pots/dispensers, towel, breathing masks), confined spaces (airplane bathroom), visuals of firearms (gun), dialogue/conversations about carrying firearms on an aircraft, scenes contexted around firearm going off, sharp objects (knife), knife wound (i think?), shakey footage (airplane turbulence), blood (small visuals from the other person's arm/body within the gif), scenes contexted around poisoning someone, viles of liquid poison, scenes contexted around suffocating someone, fighting, food (cookies), scenes contexted around the use of drugs, electrical machinery (chainsaw), someone dying in another's arms, smoke.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE GIF PACKS OF CHARITHRA

RULES FOR USAGE:

DO: LIKE or REBLOG if you found these helpful or have any intention of using these.

DO NOT:

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edit or claim in any way (redistribute or resize into smaller forms - gif icons. giftangles, etc).

use to portray the faceclaim in smut rps or real-life celebrity groups.

use these gifs as imagery/visuals for smut writing.

[matchpointfaist]

masterlist ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

now taking requests for....

mike faist - art donaldson, dodge mason, roger sharpe, riff lorton, danny lyon, connor murphy

sam claflin - alex stewart, finnick odair, billy dunne, alistair ryle

misc- jace herondale, cardan greenbriar, sam winchester

♡ indicates smut

art donaldson ᯓ★

tis the damn season ♡

common tongue ♡

twilight ♡

it will come back ♡

college best friend! art

college best friend! art part two

college best friend! art part three ♡

dilf! art ♡

dilf! art part two

dilf! art part three ♡

guilty pleasure (innocent! art x flirty reader) ♡

would you save me? (innocent! art x flirty reader) ♡

a love like religion (innocent! art part three) ♡

pretty piece of flesh (innocent! art part four) ♡

couldn't make it any harder

ceo! art ♡

coach! art ♡

sugar daddy! art ♡

sugar daddy! art intro

art x twin peaks reader♡

anobrain

loser! art

dilf! art gets you pregnant ♡

art x physical therapist! reader ♡

art x physical therapist! reader part two ♡

super rich kids ♡

hunger games art ♡

dilf art x virgin! reader ♡

pr relationship part two ♡

dads bsf! art x reader ♡

apollo! art x devotee reader ♡

cowboy! art ♡

stanford art x shy reader

divorced art! x ex reader ♡

comforting art ♡

divorced art x young reader ♡

pretty woman au ♡

dilf! art x cart girl! reader ♡

dilf! art x soft girl reader♡

character study of art

boss! art ♡

rockstar! art ♡

mike faist ꨄ

mike x costar! reader

dodge mason 𐚁⊹₊ ⋆

reckless driving ♡

valentines day with dodge ♡

roger sharpe ⋆｡°✩

rhiannon ♡

romancing! ♡

riff lorton ⊹₊⟡⋆

why do fools fall in love?

rich girl reader part two

riff x teacher! reader

riff x rich girl reader blurb

riff x rich girl reader part four

connor murphy ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

best friend! connor

best friend! connor part ii

connor x new girl! reader

connor x cheerleader! reader ♡

grumpy! connor x sunshine! reader ♡

danny lyon ★

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photography class w danny ♡

billy dunne ⊹₊⟡⋆

you're no good either ♡

billy x popstar! reader

alistair ryle ⋆｡°✩

you get me closer to god ♡

finnick odair ⋆♆.˚

finnick x victor! reader ♡

mentor! finnick x victor! reader ♡

orpheus! finnick x eurydice! reader♡

sam winchester ˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

my angel

picture you part one

picture you part two ♡

jace herondale ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

valentine's day with jace ♡

knight! jace x princess! reader ♡

cardan greenbriar ⛧♡

the high king of elfhame ♡

king cardan! x consort reader ♡

[sonnycampbellsmith]

Pairing: Bucky x Male Reader, Matt Murdock x Male Reader (one-sided)

Synopsis: Daredevil flirts with you during a mission, Bucky is not amused

(Male Reader is known as Songbird, is also the adopted little brother of Tony Stark as explored during previous fics)

Tag(s): fluff, flirting, cursing, action, slightly insecure Bucky, first ‘I love you’s, allusion to smut

********

Dating Bucky has honestly been a surprisingly comfy ride, with a few bumps along the way but isn’t that how all relationships are like anyways?

It’s been a couple of months and he still brings you coffee in the morning. He latches himself onto you like a clingy koala whenever the both of you have some downtime and he cuddles you to sleep every night even though he has his own room in the tower. He was the big spoon.

You do a lot of things for him too. Making breakfast for the both of you in the morning, sometimes offering to massage him when he pushes himself too much during a mission and even applying some ointment on his arm whenever it gets a little red from overuse of the metal arm.

He still attends therapy and it’s during those sessions is when you find yourself with a lot of time to spare. Tony’s always in the lab with Bruce and Peter. Steve, Natasha, Wanda and Sam are usually doing their own things as well, so you felt a little lonely.

You eventually found yourself walking around the streets of New York at random times of the day. Mindlessly wandering around, discovering new places to sit down, enjoy a meal and people watch.

Which is how you met your new friend, Jessica Jones. A dark haired, sarcastic, sharp-witted and cynical Private Investigator of whom you chanced upon when she fell off a random roof and landed right into bags of trash during one of her own investigations of a super-powered individual.

You politely offered your help to her, she politely told you to fuck off, you helped anyway and the rest was history. You and Jessica grew closer over time and you’d sometimes drop by the Alias Investigations office ,aka Jessica’s apartment, whenever you’d get bored.

From there you learnt of more super-powered individuals like Luke Cage,Danny Rand, Misty Knight, Colleen Wing, and Daredevil.

One of the days when you went to visit Jessica, you were surprised to find a man in a red devil suit, injured and bloodied in Jessica’s apartment.

Jessica looking exhausted and exasperated by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen lying on her couch.

Helping Jessica patch up the vigilante was a little tough without a proper med kit but you made it work. It didn’t take long since you learnt the basics, all of the Avengers had to go through medical training anyways and you’ve had a lot of practice since your boyfriend tends to get injured. A lot. There was even a tiny argument that broke out between you and Bucky but that’s a story for another time.

While patching up Daredevil, you made polite conversation with him. At that point, his helmet was off and you realised he was blind (and handsome). That’s when the questions started flowing and he slowly opened up to you.

His name was Matthew Murdock, he was blinded when he was a kid by an accidental chemical spill, which took his sight but enhanced his other senses. He was taught to fight by a man named Stick, who was no longer around. He’s also a lawyer.

You were surprised to find out that he also grew up in the same orphanage you grew up in, Saint Agnes. The both of you chatted and laughed about that fact and you felt another bond was forming.

After patching him up, Jessica offered beer from her fridge and the three of you enjoyed the night together. You offered Matt some help to get back to his apartment but he laughed and waved you off, saying that he’ll just call a cab.

After saying your goodbyes, you left Jessica’s apartment feeling happy about making a new friend outside of just the Avengers.

Walking by a burger place, you got a couple of cheese burgers to go. Once you reached the tower, you went straight to the lab to give one to Tony; knowing fully well your big brother would lose sense of time with his work.

Once you arrived at the lab, however, you see Tony passed out on one of the work benches. Papers scattered everywhere.

“Oh Tony…” You tutted disapprovingly as you went to pick up a blanket from the couch to drape it over his sleeping figure. Leaving one of the cheeseburger bags next to him, you lean in to give Tony a kiss on the side of his head before going back up to the communal area to have your dinner.

When the elevator doors open, you see the others lounging around. After some small talk, you made your way to the kitchen and found Bucky scrolling on his phone, a frown on his face whenever he focuses on what he was reading.

“You’ll get wrinkles if you keep doing that, baby.” You kiss him on the cheek as you walked past him earning you a chuckle as he pulls you to sit on his lap, causing you to drop the bag of cheeseburgers on the kitchen counter.

You feel his face nuzzling your neck, making you giggle at how ticklish his stubble was. “I missed you doll, where were you today?” He sighed into your neck.

“I was out helping a friend in the city and I think I even made a new friend by doing so.” You told him as you took out the cheeseburgers for you and Bucky to consume.

“You’re making friends outside now?” Bucky asked while openly chewing his burger making you scrunch up your nose before covering the middle of his mouth with your fingers.

“Chew with your mouth closed, you are not an animal.” You scolded him, making him smooch your fingers in retaliation. “I’ll be anything for you.”

Rolling your eyes, you took another bite of your burger before answering his previous question. “Look, everyone’s busy or doing their own things outside of just being the Avengers. When you’re off for therapy, I just get a little bored so I’d go visit my friend. Nothing too crazy.” You told him, leaving out all the super parts of it.

Bucky stared at you.

“What? Is there something on my face?” You tried to wipe off any metaphorical mess but couldn’t seem to get any making Bucky laugh as he takes a hold of your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles.

You put down the burger and waited. Bucky was quiet, his eyes not meeting yours. Usually this meant he was contemplating whether or not saying something that’s on his mind would cause a negative reaction, you didn’t mind waiting just as long as he was honest with you by the end of it.

“I feel guilty,” Bucky began with his metal hand absently caressing the side of your body as he spoke. “You’ve been so supportive and patient throughout my healing journey. To be frank, I’m still surprised you still want to be with me. I know it hasn’t exactly been easy.”

You cooed at Bucky, bringing his face closer to yours to drop a kiss to his lips. “Don’t. Don’t feel guilty about facing your own demons, I knew what I signed up for when we got together and I’m happy you’re doing this for yourself. You can go through literal hell and I’ll still be here, with you, at the end of the day.”

Bucky couldn’t find proper words to convey his feelings so he gave a small smile and silently nodded before the both of you went back to eating your burgers.

“Damn, really Buck?” Sam walked into the kitchen, finding the two of you in your compromising position. “You couldn’t let our little canary sit by himself on a normal seat?”

“His ass belongs on one seat and that’s my lap, Wilson.” Bucky retorted making Sam laugh heartily and you flicking his forehead in retaliation.

Finishing up, you told Bucky that you were going to your room to shower and get ready for bed. As you made your way past the living room, the doors to the elevator opens up and Tony steps out.

You see him happily skip up to you before planting a wet, greasy kiss on your forehead making you push him off in disgust. “Tony! Ew!I’m guessing you ate that cheeseburger then?”

You hear him chuckle. “That I did, little brother. I had to show my gratitude somehow.”

“By being gross? You could’ve just said thank you like a normal person.”

“I love you too.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away as Tony continued to cackle at your expense.

A couple of quiet days go by when you get a text from Jessica asking for your help. You gathered your things, ready to make a move when the door to your room opens and Bucky steps in with a grin.

His face quickly drops when he realises you were leaving. “Hey sweetheart, heading out?”

“Yeah, Jessica texted me.” You raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in therapy right now?”

Bucky shrugged. “I was but Dr. Raynor had an emergency so we had to reschedule. I thought I’d surprise you by asking if you wanted to go out on a little lunch date with me.”

“Oh.” You sighed, watching Bucky’s shoulders drop in disappointment. “Baby, I’d love to but Jessica really needs my help. How about we take a rain check on that lunch, hmm?”

Bucky gives you a sheepish smile and nodded. You gave him a soft smile in return before letting him pull you into his arms and giving him a sweet kiss, which he deepens by pushing his tongue into your mouth.

When the both of you separated, you leave a kiss on his cheek before bidding him goodbye and then rushing off to Jessica’s.

When you reached Jessica’s place, you’re surprised to find two other people with her. Matt Murdock and an unfamiliar woman were waiting in the apartment.

“Hope you don’t mind.” Jessica stood next to you.

“You’ve met Matt already. This lady’s Colleen Wing, a martial arts expert who took on the Iron Fist mantle after her ex boyfriend left to go “discover himself” or whatever.”

Colleen smiles at you and shakes your hand. “It’s way more complicated than it sounds but I’m glad you took up the call. It’d be nice to have more backup and an Avenger to boot.”

She starts a rundown of their next mission regarding the rise of the Triad and their gangs cooperating with a mysterious group of warrior ninjas that go by the name of ‘The Hand’.

A shipment was being sent to the docks later in the evening. Colleen needed backup to try and stop that shipment from getting into the clutches of The Hand. Daredevil was called in since he had a history with the group as well.

In all honesty, you were a little nervous. You were unprepared to face gangsters and literal ninjas today, thinking Jessica just needed help for a stakeout but you’ve faced killer robots and even your fellow Avengers at one point so you had some sense of confidence in you.

“Someone’s on the fire escape, listening in.” Matt suddenly said, making everyone tense up before a familiar metal hand reaches in from the window as a sign of peace.

You sighed with relief. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes also known as The Winter Soldier. A fellow Avenger.”

Bucky steps into the apartment with a sheepish nod. “Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude. You can consider me backup too.”

Jessica squints at Bucky suspiciously before sauntering up to him. “You mean backup for this guy, right?” She claimed, pointing back at you.

“Jess…” You groaned before turning and glaring at Bucky. “Sergeant, do you mind if I spoke to you privately in the hallway?”

Bucky nodded before following you out of the apartment, you stood a few feet away from the main door. Your hands now on your waist, waiting for an explanation from your boyfriend.

“Listen, sw-“

“Songbird when we’re on the field.” You interrupted him, making him nod sheepishly at you.

“Listen. I was just a little bit worried.” Bucky started explaining and when you opened your mouth to speak, he put his hand out. “I know you have a life outside of the Avengers, outside of me but I wished you told me a little more about it. I didn’t mean to betray your trust and disrespect your boundaries, I just wanted to know that you were safe. I’m sorry, I’ll leave if you want me to.”

You looked into Bucky’s eyes, unsure of what you wanted to find but you were only met with sincerity and regret. “Okay. I accept your apology and for what’s it worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

You reached out for Bucky and tugged on his jacket, rubbing the material of the jacket between your fingers as a way to ground yourself in the moment.

“I’m nervous, Buck. I know I’m used to the most whacky shit known to man but to go in with a team that I’m not familiar with? Everything could go wrong, if we’re not careful.”

Bucky takes your hand into his, bringing it up to his face to kiss your knuckles softly. “It’s okay. I’m here, I’ve got your back.”

You smiled and nodded before making your way back to others. Walking in, you see Matt’s already changed into his Daredevil costume.

“Are you gonna walk out with us looking like that?” You asked him, making Matt chuckle and grin.

“Nope,” he points out the window. “I’ll be traveling by the rooftops. You’d be surprised how hardly anyone ever looks up nowadays.”

You walk up to Matt, eyeing his costume. “Honestly this is pretty impressive for a local lawyer. Must’ve saved a fortune to look this badass. Also, nice ears.”

Matt sighed. “They’re horns. I bet you look pretty good in your costume too but alas,” he waves his hand across his face for comedic effect, making you laugh. “I’m a blind man at the end of the day. You have a pretty voice though.”

Matt then proceeds to walk up to the window, getting ready to jump out. “I’ll see you at the docks.”

“Pretty voice?” Bucky mutters under his breath, unamused by Daredevil’s blatant flirting of which you seemed to be impervious to.

Everyone watched as Daredevil, jumped out before collectively heading out for the docks.

When you reached the docks, the sun was already setting. No sign of either Triad or Hand members around. All of the workers had already left as well, leaving the place completely empty.

Colleen and Jessica went to find the shipment while you and Bucky decided to patrol around the docks for any sign of suspicious activity.

“Haven’t seen Devil Man around yet. You sure he’s dependable?” Bucky said as the both of you walked by a random crate.

“Daredevil and yes, Jessica vouches for him so I’ll do the same.” You turned a corner, disappointed to find absolutely nothing. “Besides I feel like out of everyone here, he has the most experience with The Hand and their ninjas.”

Bucky hummed in response. After a few minutes of silence, Bucky spoke up again. “You know, I think your voice is pretty too.”

You stopped walking and turned to Bucky in confusion. “You think my voice is pretty?”

“Yeah. Just thought you’d hear it from me instead of someone else.” Bucky shrugs as he leans on one of the crates.

You stared at him incredulously, not sure where this was coming from and quite frankly, you’re not really in the mood to play twenty questions at the moment. “Okay? Thank you, I guess. Can we focus on the task at hand, though?”

Bucky pouted but quickly shot his metal arm out at you, intercepting a throwing knife that was aimed right at your throat.

Your eyes widened and you looked around only to find a man in a blue body suit, that only showed his eyes, staring at the both of you. A faint logo of a bullseye shown on the top of his mask.

“Avengers? Definitely wasn’t expecting you to show up. Don’t mind me, just doing a job I’m getting paid for. I’m sure they won’t mind losing a person or two in their roster.” The man manically laughs as he throws out more knives that Bucky blocks with his metal arm.

The man throws another knife but it hits one of the nearby crates, ricocheting the knife and cutting Bucky in the cheek instead.

“Bucky!” You yelled.

Bucky staggers, not fully prepared for whoever this assailant was. Normally he’d just charge in but that would expose you to the man’s knives and he couldn’t take that chance.

“You Avengers don’t belong here. How about you guys just turn around and go home? I promise, I’ll try not to stab you in the back.” The man laughs at his own joke.

You and Bucky tense up when he takes a step closer, taking out another knife. You see him lift the knife up, only for it to be knocked out of the man’s hand by a red billy club.

Daredevil then swoops in and delivers a flying kick making the man fall to the ground.

“Colleen and Jessica need help, go now! I got Bullseye.” Daredevil tells you and Bucky.

Bucky turns to you. “You need to go help them, I’ll help Daredevil take care of this guy. We’ll come find you after.”

“But-“ You didn’t want to leave Bucky alone but when you looked into his steel blue eyes, you hesitantly nodded before making your way to where the shipment was held at.

Daredevil was with him, they’ll have each other’s backs.

As you run off to find the others, Bucky turns back to see Bullseye stand up. The man exchanges a few punches with Daredevil who blocked and parried most of the attacks.

Daredevil quickly delivers an uppercut making Bullseye stumble backwards into Bucky; who turns him around and punches him right in the forehead with the metal arm, effectively knocking the man out cold.

“What kind of a dumbass puts a literal target on his forehead?” Bucky scoffed down at Bullseye, Daredevil chuckling before nodding his head in another direction.

“We’ve got company.”

The two turn from Bullseye’s body on the ground only to be faced with a bunch of the Hand ninjas.

Back to back, Bucky and Daredevil get ready to fight.

“Let’s make this quick, pretty bird’s waiting for us.” Daredevil quips, making Bucky’s jaw tense.

Bucky flexes his metal arm. “Right but try not to call my boyfriend pretty again or I’ll knock you out too.”

He hears Daredevil chuckle before they start their rumble.

Once you reached the shipment, you noticed that Jessica and Colleen were pinned down behind a crate as bullets wheeze pass them.

The triad had arrived and immediately opened fire as soon as they saw the two of them.

“Cover your ears!” You yelled at the two of them before running forward from your hiding spot to let out a powerful sonic scream that deflected all incoming bullets and send all of the men flying backwards.

You watched as the men slowly recovered before backing up and retreating from the docks. Sighing with relief, you turned when you heard slow claps and a low whistle from Jessica.

“Seems like you do have a pretty voice.” Colleen laughed as she patted you on the back. “Thanks for saving us back there.”

“Guess we missed the party.” You hear Daredevil say as he walks up to you with Bucky in tow.

“Be glad,” Jessica chimes in. “He’d probably have burst those sensitive eardrums of yours.” Daredevil laughed in response.

Bucky walks up to you, immediately wrapping an arm around your waist. “Wanna go home?”

“Go home.” Colleen said. “We got this, you look like you’re about to drop at any second with how loud you screamed back there.”

You grin before leaning most of your weight on Bucky, your head resting on his shoulder. “You got that right. I’ll see you guys around. Jess, I’ll text you, okay?”

Jessica nods before following Colleen and Daredevil to see what was inside the shipment. You and Bucky went back home, happy the night was over.

Once you reached the tower, the both of you retreated into your respective rooms to clean off the dirt and grime from the night.

Just as you had finished donning your night apparel, you hear a knock on the door. You opened it revealing, Bucky in shorts and a tank top.

Your eyes roamed his muscular form before settling on his handsome face, a smirk resting on his face at catching you openly leering at him. You noticed the small cut from earlier and immediately reached out to check on it.

Bucky leaned in to your palm with a small smile on his face.

“Can I come in?” Bucky whispered to you.

You smiled at him. “Of course.” You moved away from the door to let him in before shutting it.

Bucky settling on the bed, like he usually does.

He makes grabby hands at you, which makes you laugh before walking up to him and letting him pull you into his lap.

Bucky’s face immediately going to your neck to take a deep breath, your scent always calms him down.

You played with the hair on the back of his head as the both of you sat silently in each other’s arms for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry.” You broke the silence, Bucky pulling back from your neck to look up at you in confusion. “You were right. I could’ve told you what I was doing all this time when I was away but a part of me was selfish thinking that this was only something I had.”

Bucky kept quiet, making circles on your hip with his thumb to help soothe your nerves.

“Ever since I joined the Avengers, it felt like everything I did or have was out in the open for everyone to see but then I met you,” Bucky gave you a soft encouraging smile.

“It’s our little moments with each other that no one else on the team gets to see. You are the one in my life that I get to selfishly keep to myself and I would never do anything to keep you out of the dark when you’ve been transparent with me with everything that you do, even in therapy.”

Bucky leans in to kiss you on the mouth. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his eyes meeting yours.

“God, I’m so lucky to have you, sweetheart. I love you.”

You froze, mouth open. “You love me?”

“Every day.” Bucky responds confidently. “I love you so much. You’re my rock, doll. There’s no one else I’d rather go through this life with but you.”

You rolled your eyes at his sappiness. “I love you too. Always and forever.”

Bucky leans in to kiss you sweetly, you returning with the same energy but your gentle pecks slowly turned into heavy tongue action as you rocked back and forth in his lap. Sighing into his mouth as he grabs your ass to grind up into you.

You push him back for a second, halting all movement. His eyes now dilated staring back into yours.

“Let’s do it.” You gasped out, Bucky raising his eyebrows. You were a virgin and the both of you agreed to wait. Bucky never once pushed you for more intimately, happy to settle with just make outs and a little dry humping here and there.

“You sure, doll?” Bucky asked, you nodded before standing up and shedding off all your clothes.

Bucky watched in awe, his shorts now tented with an impressive size. “You look beautiful, I can’t wait make you all mine.”

You chuckle as he makes quick of his own clothes before pulling you into bed with him. His naked body now on top of yours.

The two of you hissing in pleasure once the front of your bodies make contact.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. I’m gonna take care of you so well tonight. You’ll never need anyone else again.” Bucky growls out before kissing your neck, making you moan and roll your body up to his.

Let’s just say a lot of firsts happened that night and you were left deliciously wrecked.

**************

Okay so not my best, the story went a little bit everywhere

I honestly just wanted to put my favourite Defenders here and have y’all SEEN Charlie Cox lately? Be still my hole heart

But I still wrote it and maybe I’l go back to more fluff? I’m still learning about smut and I really wanna make that fic the hottest thing on here.

Again, thank you for your support :)

Appreciate it

All mistakes are mine!

[formulakracing]

just how things come together, they fall apart - d.r.

pairing: female driver!reader x red bull!daniel ricciardo

word count: 2.5k

warnings: cursing, angst, unresolved romantic and sexual tension, a falling out of a friendship, some banter, the other drivers being little shits (especially kimi), allusions to smut, light alcohol use, "it was always you" trope, yadayadayada

a/n: this is my first time for our ol' boy danny ric! i hope i did a good job with this one! <3 i always love writing angst!

song inspo: friends by chase atlantic

"so this is it?"

"i mean," he won't even look at you, his eyes fixated on the floor, his head dipped low, "i guess so."

your lower lip trembles, fiery, frustrated tears welling up in your eyes, "i don't even know what the fuck i did wrong. i haven't done shit to you and here you are, kicking my ass to the curb."

"oh come on," he groans, bringing a hand to his temple, "you can't even be that upset with me. it's nothing personal. i just need to distance myself from you for a while. maybe forever. i don't know. i just know that i need to do this."

"i would be okay with it if i did something to make you upset with me or hate me," you wipe a tear, careful to not let him see you like this, "but i thought we were good. i guess not."

daniel grimaces, "like i said, it's nothing personal or against you. i think it's best if we're no longer friends."

"right," you nod, sucking in a sharp breath, "got it."

"i'm sorry-" he begins, but you stick up a hand, swiftly interrupting.

"don't even start with that bullshit. don't act like you're sorry just because you feel guilty."

"fine," he exhales, throwing his hands up in the air, "fine! i won't be sorry."

"see you around," you mutter, shaking your head, the tears streaming now, caking your heated cheeks.

storming out of the garage, you keep your head low, the other drivers mingling about, their voices hushed. yet, as they notice you, their attention shifts. sebastian makes his way towards you, concern plastered across his features.

"hey!" he calls, "what the fuck just happened?"

"ask daniel about it," your voice is shaky, "just fucking ask daniel about it."

"hey," arms envelop your frame, bringing you in close, "you can talk about it if you want."

"trouble in paradise?" a voice rumbles.

kimi.

"kimi," sebastian hisses, placing kisses along the crown of your head, "did you guys just fight?"

well, it more than just a little spat.

merely minutes ago, daniel announced that he was no longer interested in a friendship with you. a friendship that had blossomed and developed over the course of two years was gone in an instant, with no explanation why.

your heart felt like it was being torn into shreds, your breathing labored as you sobbed into sebastian's chest, the driver rubbing your back, his chin resting on top of your head.

"did something happen?" another voice cuts in, crisp with that oh so familiar accent.

lewis.

"i think they got into a pretty heated argument," sebastian murmurs, "he's kind of a piece of shit for doing that right before a race."

"what a dickhead," lewis whistles, "do you know what it was about?"

"no idea," sebastian shrugs, still clinging onto you, "she hasn't said much since she left the garage. just told me to ask daniel about it."

"hey," lewis places a tender hand on your shoulder, "you don't need that loser anyway. you have us. we'll be your besties."

"now is not the time," you grumble, "can we just get this fucking race over with?"

"only if you dust his ass," lewis pries you away from sebastian, wrapping you up in his own embrace. he squeezes you gently, "if you manage to get on the podium, will you please fill us in after?"

"so nosy," a giggle manages to bubble up in your throat, "nosy, nosy, lewis. always wanting the gossip."

"you know me," a chuckle vibrates in his chest, "i do love a good gossip session."

thank god for sebastian and lewis. and well, kimi was there too.

as one of the few female drivers in formula one, you were thrust into the oh so competitive world of racing around the 2016 season, right at the time max verstappen started his career. although it was your lifelong dream to drive for red bull, you were offered a seat at mclaren due to jenson button's announcement that he was retiring.

since it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, you decided to take it, accepting the contract offer.

not many women competed in formula one, and you were determined to make the world know your name.

that burning desire to win and your outspoken nature is what initially drew daniel ricciardo in, the red bull driver approaching you one night after qualifying in sochi. he struck up a simple conversation, complimenting your lap and your ability to navigate the track despite some unfavorable weather conditions.

from that moment, the two of you were inseparable, attached at the hip. if you weren't in the red bull paddock between races, he was at mclaren, the team principals grumbling to one another at your tight-knit friendship.

there were tons of sleepless nights where the two of you would lie awake, bodies snuggled together, rambling about everything and anything that came to mind. after the first grand prix where you scored points in 2016, daniel was right there after the race, hugging onto you so tightly, lifting you up in the air and spinning you around.

there were plenty of hungover mornings where he would hold your hair for you as you threw up in the toilet, rubbing your back, encouraging you to let it all out. there were nights where he would need your affection, begging you to come over to his motorhome so that he could fall asleep on your chest, your hand tangled in his curly locks as he dozed off.

sure, there were moments in which it was a little more than just a friendship.

there was the unforgettable night in azerbaijan, where daniel won. that night, you found yourself completely intertwined with the australian driver, skin on skin, his mouth roaming every inch of your body.

that was the first night daniel told you he loved you.

and there was something more than just a platonic sort of love in those words.

something along the lines of romantic love.

the kind where his presence sent your heart fluttering, bliss rippling in your chest the moment he flashed you that beautiful smile, dimples and all.

the kind of love where the moment his eyes met yours, you found yourself spiraling, completely and utterly speechless at the sight of his gorgeous mocha-hued gaze.

the kind of love where his touch sent a shiver down your spine, every movement electric.

there was no denying the feelings you harbored for the red bull driver.

you were in love with him.

completely and hopelessly in love.

and there was no going back, not since that night in azerbaijan.

you were in deep. probably way too deep for a friendship.

there was that minuscule hope that you clung onto nearly every second of every day. the inkling that maybe, just maybe daniel felt the same way.

after all, he had told you he loved you.

more than once.

surely that meant something, right?

the chemistry between the two of you was undeniable, often clouding over like an intense fog. the other drivers on the grid noticed it. your team principals were aware of it. fuck, even the media speculated the two of you were involved romantically, that you had more than just a friendly "buddy-buddy" relationship.

friends didn't fuck, right?

friends didn't snuggle together every night, drifting off together, right?

friends didn't share longing glances in the paddocks, right?

"hmmph," kimi's lip curls in disgust, "look over at the red bull garage."

your head swivels to your right, the blood roaring in your ears as you spot what kimi was referring to.

out of the garage comes daniel, greeting a slim, lithe blonde. he pulls her in for a lengthy embrace, peppering her face with chaste kisses. your palms calm up, your heart thumping against your rib-cage.

daniel's attention hones in on the four of you, the aussie waving a hand over.

"hey guys! come meet my girlfriend, anastasia!"

"you. have. got. to. be. shitting. me," sebastian's eyes widen, his lips parted.

"yeah," lewis runs his tongue along his teeth, placing his hands on his hips, "i'm not participating in any of that fuckery."

yet, you're silent, the tears threatening to spill over once again, your hands trembling.

how the fuck were you expected to race when your entire world was just flipped upside down?

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

all around you, the space is swathed by darkness.

you're buried beneath your blankets, swiping through your camera roll, pressing that fateful icon in the bottom right corner.

dried tears plastered your cheeks, your hair an unkempt mess, sweats clinging to your frame. inside your chest, your heart ached, the pain consuming you whole.

there's nothing but silence, the dull whir of fans merely white noise.

a sharp noise rattles through your motorhome.

the sound of a knock.

three of them, actually.

groaning, you untangle yourself from the blankets, shuffling down the hall to the main room. once you approach the door, you stifle a yawn, swinging it open.

there stands daniel, his hands shoved in his pockets, shifting uneasily.

"hey."

"shouldn't you be with your girlfriend?" there's a venom laced in your tone, oozing with a bitterness as you begin to close the door.

yet, daniel stops you, quickly wedging his foot in, "let me in."

"why should i?" you retort, brows furrowing, "you literally ended our friendship hours ago and now you want inside my home? fuck that. i'm not going to be some little side piece to fill your cravings while your little girlfriend is away. i'm worth more than that."

"can you just let me in for fuck's sakes?" he lets out an exasperated sigh, "i just wanted to make sure you were okay. jesus fucking christ. am i not allowed to do that?"

"i don't know," you shrug, "did you girlfriend give you permission to come by?"

"is that what you're all upset about?"

"no!" you retaliate, "i'm fucking upset because you never mentioned her until now! you never once said to me, 'hey, i'm dating this girl named anastasia. she's pretty neat! how about you meet her sometime?' fuck, daniel. you know i'm in love with you for fuck's sakes. you should know how much this fucking hurts me!"

as you finish, your knees buckle, wails rising in your throat. daniel swallows a lump in his throat, taking a step forward.

"why do you think i ended our friendship today? i couldn't bear the thought of you having to see me with her."

"you told me you loved me," you sob, shoulders shaking, "you fucking tell me you love me all of the time. i thought that-"

that's when his arms nearly crush you, squeezing you against his chest. he holds you for a moment, murmuring words you can't quite decipher.

"i'm sorry. i'm so fucking sorry."

"i don't know if that's going to fix everything," you mumble, sniffling, "apparently to you, words only mean so much."

"i thought that pushing you away would fix everything. that it would make my life easier. that i wouldn't have to worry about hurting anyone in the long run. i know i was wrong for that, and i'm so sorry."

his hand glides along your back, going in soothing, slow circular motions. you can't help but nuzzle into the fabric of his crewneck, inhaling his oh so familiar cologne.

as much as your head was screaming at you to push him out of your doorway, to tell him to leave and never come back, your heart yearned.

it yearned for him. his touch. his presence. the sound of his voice.

it craved him, fluttering as his mouth connects with your temple, pressing tender kisses down to your cheekbone.

"obviously i can't stay away," his voice is barely audible, "you just do something to me."

"and what's that?" you tilt your head upward, meeting his gaze.

"you make me weak. i only pushed you away because i thought that was the solution to the way i felt. if you were out of the picture, i wouldn't end up getting hurt. now look at both of us, nearly in tears and utterly heartbroken."

his fingers caress your cheek, tracing along your cheekbone as your lashes flutter, savoring the touch, "why didn't you just talk to me first about things? why did you think that getting a new girlfriend was the answer?"

"you know how i am about expressing how i feel. and i don't know, i thought it would fix temporarily fix things."

"i think it ended up fucking you over even more than you thought," you brush a curl out of his face, careful to not let him too close.

"you're right, per usual. what do you want me to do then? break up with her?"

"well you love me," you counter, pursing your lips, "don't deny it either, daniel. we both know you do."

he leans in, the corners of his lips curling into a giddy grin, "i wasn't saying i didn't love you."

"if you loved me you'd end things with her."

"if i did that, you would have to promise me one thing," his mouth hovers above yours, the tension accumulating by the second.

"and that is?" you arch a brow.

"you would never let sebastian hug you like that ever again."

"oh? did that get you a little riled up all the way over in the garage?"

daniel rolls his eyes, scoffing, "how did you think it was going to make me feel?"

"okay fine," you tut, pressing a finger to his lips, "i'm not going to kiss you until you end things with anastasia. get that phone out of your pocket right now and call her. let her down gently, though. she seemed sweet."

"surely not as sweet as you though," he teases, yet fumbles with his pocket, fishing out his phone.

as he steps away for a moment, bringing the phone to his ear, you tap your foot against the concrete, pointing to your wrist. daniel shakes his head, putting a finger up as if to say, one more second.

the call doesn't even last two minutes, the austrailian making his way back to you.

before you know it, his mouth is on yours, an open-mouthed kiss brimmed with a needy passion. your head rolls back, granting him more access and his hands grip your waist, one sliding further and further down as the kisses intensify, cupping the curve of your ass.

he pulls away, breathless.

"i love you. i love you. i love you. it's always been you, and it's always going to be you. i'm sorry i'm such a dumbass and can't navigate my feelings."

"you know you can talk to me about things, right?" you suppress a giggle, "you don't have to ruin a friendship over it."

"well i didn't quite ruin it," he leans in once more.

"oh yeah? how do you know that?"

"because you're still in love with me. and you're going to be my girlfriend in no time."

[spark-my-nature]

Good Vibrations

Word Count: 5.3K | Warnings: Smut! (Handjobs, light toy play), language, general graphic stuff. 18+!

EXTRA SPECIAL BIRTHDAY POST!! Happiest of birthdays to Rou!! Everyone go wish her a happy birthday!! Cause she’s so cool!! @ofthecaravel you’re cool!

-------- ⭐︎☽⭐︎☾⭐︎ --------

As he slowly drifted into consciousness, Sam found himself staring with bleary eyes at the tiny red dot indicating “AM” beside the absurdly late (or early?) time displayed on his miniature alarm clock. Blinking slowly, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness as his mind started piecing together his surroundings.

Bringing his fingers up to rub at his eye, his mouth stretched open with a silent yawn and he rolled his head to the side, eyes struggling to focus on the privacy curtain separating him from the sleeping area of the tour bus. As the last nonsensical images of his dream faded away, Sam found himself wondering why it was he was awake at this god forsaken hour. He was comfortable, not too warm, didn’t need to use the bathroom, and the ambient sounds of the steadily rumbling bus usually helped him fall asleep.

Then again, the bus wasn’t actually moving at the moment, and it was only then in Sam’s sleep-muddled confusion that he realized the droning noise he was hearing wasn’t actually the engine or the wheels rolling over a stretch of highway. He could hear it even over the gentle ambience of the sleep sounds machine that broadcasted a steady white noise from nearby.

Furrowing his brow in mild frustration, Sam gently pushed his curtain aside, letting moonlight stream across his bunk. With his surroundings mildly illuminated, he squinted in the general direction of the mystery sound that was contributing more and more to his late-night grumpiness.

His eyes focused, through the shadows and dim lighting, on the outside of Danny’s closed curtain. Mostly closed, as Sam could see the faint glow of what he assumed to be Danny’s phone screen around the edges of the thick material, and a sliver of dark curls splayed across his best friend’s pillow.

Keeping his eyes on that tiny glimpse of the drummer, Sam rolled onto his side, settling with his pillow wedged between his arm and cheek with a faint smile, all his irritation subsiding with a sleepy sigh.

In Sam’s mind, he wondered absently about what Danny was doing on his phone so late at night. He relaxed into his sheets, and his eyes had just started to drift closed again, the strange buzzing noise forgotten, when he heard a sharp intake of breath, muffled by the thick curtain.

Brow furrowing again, Sam’s eyes opened, watching curiously as the top of Danny’s head shifted against his pillow. There were several seconds of silence, almost making Sam doubt he heard anything at all, but then after an undeterminable amount of time, another small sound unmistakably slipped through the opening of Danny’s curtain.

“Fuck…”

It was hardly even a whisper, more of a breath sighing out past his friend’s lips, but it made Sam’s heart rate double in a split second. Every muscle below his collarbones tensed up, and with the small rush of adrenaline, Sam woke up fully, lifting his head and propping himself up on his elbow. He listened closely, staring intensely at his friend’s curtain as though the fabric itself had perpetrated the sultry noise gracing his ears.

The sheets rustled, and Sam heard Danny’s chest rumble with a whisper-quiet groan, a sound which under any other circumstance would’ve had him worried that his friend was in pain.

If only it were any other circumstance. Then Sam might’ve been spared from the immediate and unwanted discomfort under his sheets. But as it were, he found himself shifting on the bunk mattress to shake off some of the sudden restlessness of his hips as his ears strained for more.

Another hitching breath from behind the adjacent curtain, and this time, now that Sam was wide awake and keenly eavesdropping, he picked up on a distinct clicking sound that increased the volume of that inconspicuous buzzing. Followed by an entirely new noise, one that Sam could only describe as a quiet, drawn-out whimper.

Feeling his face go hot, he blew out a harsh breath, and went to brush his sleep-mussed hair away from his forehead. As his hands lifted to his face, he unintentionally knocked his elbow against the privacy curtain that hid his bunk, and the resulting jangling was nothing but jarring in the relative dead silence of the night.

In hindsight, the next sounds from Danny’s bunk were rather comical, but there was no humor in the way Sam’s entire body froze as Danny hissed a soft curse, audibly thunked his head against the alcove, and then groaned. A moment later, there was a soft click and the buzzing ceased, leaving both men in deafening, ringing silence.

Several moments passed with Sam’s heart beating in his ears until Daniel broke the silence.

Croaking through the strain in his throat, Danny managed a timid, “Sam?”

Through the dead silence, Sam took a careful breath, “Yes?”

Entire body alight with nerves he wasn’t used to having with Daniel, Sam watched the rings of the curtains jingle as they were pushed to the side, unveiling the slightly flushed and, to Sam’s relief, bashfully smiling face of his best friend. Completely automatically, Sam matched the rather goofy smile painting Danny’s spit-sheened lips and the quip flew past his tongue before he could remember thinking it.

“Having fun over there?”

Danny’s eyes widened ever so slightly, before humor overwhelmed the shock and he breathed out a bashful but pleased little giggle that made Sam’s stomach flip violently.

“Yeah,” he whispered conspiratorially with a lingering smile, biting his lip as though in gleeful anticipation of Sam’s reaction.

Adrenaline starting to slowly ease its grip on Sam’s nervous system, Sam arched a teasing, graceful eyebrow at him and flicked his eyes pointedly in the direction of Danny’s lower half.

“Sure sounds like you are.”

Danny let out another giggle, his cheeks pinkening and his curls falling endearingly over his face and - oh, hello - bare chest, as he looked down at the mattress and shrugged one shoulder, only offering a little hum of acknowledgement. Sam watched him, helplessly endeared to this coy, shameless but shy version of his best friend.

“Are you…” he started, a bewildered smile twitching at his lips, “…are you using a vibrator?”

Once again, Danny simply nodded, the same bashfully pleased smile handsomely fixed on his blushing face.

When Sam failed to come up with any coherent response to his little confession, Danny offered quietly, “Feels good.”

Stunned, and heart racing fast enough to make him dizzy, Sam slipped into his default pestering, gaze fixed on his friend’s low-lidded eyes and cheeky expression.

“How long have you… had it?”

Danny gave a breathy giggle, his hand appearing and running over his face sleepily. “Couple weeks.”

Nodding a little, Sam finally tore his gaze away to examine the blankets beneath his hands, picking at them casually. “D’you use it every time you…?”

Danny huffed a soft laugh, rolling his head to look at the low ceiling of his own bunk. Sam grinned at the crack in his cool demeanor, a swell of butterflies rising in his chest at the blush darkening Danny’s cheeks.

Danny rolled onto his side after a moment, smiling at the ground and murmuring, “Yeah, it’s like… I dunno, I-“

He paused, grinning wider and chuckling awkwardly.

“It’s more intense.”

The noise Sam choked out and swallowed down made him flush brighter, and he prodded Danny further after clearing his throat, “You… like, uh…”

Danny’s gaze lifted to meet Sam’s through his dark lashes, and he mumbled, “I cum harder, yeah.”

It was then that Sam suddenly became painfully aware of his own situation between his thighs. He tried to shift subtly, lifting his hips and spreading his legs just enough to relieve the ache of his erection, but Danny’s hawk-eyes followed his squirming movements.

To Sam’s dismay, there was zero relief when Danny’s voice dropped an octave suddenly, the drummer lifting up on one elbow to give Sam his full attention. “What about you, do you have any toys?”

“Uh, aha, no,” Sam answered honestly, discreetly tugging at his uncomfortably tight briefs below the sheets. “Never, um… never tried that.”

“Huh.”

Sam glanced up at him, awkwardly laughing at the apparent disbelief in his friend’s voice. “That surprises you?”

“I kinda thought…” Danny trailed off, scrutinizing Sam with his eyes before ducking his face down and laughing softly and shaking his head.

“What?” Sam matched his posture, hoisting up on one elbow.

“Nothing, forget it.”

“No, tell me!”

Danny cocked an eyebrow at him challengingly, and Sam squinted at him, a silent showdown of wills. Several moments later, Danny groaned and rolled his eyes, ”I guess I just assumed you might like to- are you really gonna make me say it?”

When Sam’s eyes bugged at him affirmatively, Danny’s eyes locked on the ceiling of the bus as he smirked flatly, “I kinda pegged you as someone who might like to be… little spoon. Once in a while, anyway.”

“Little spoon?” Sam squawked.

Danny’s eyes slowly landed on Sam with the same, ironic smirk and challenging look in his eyes. “Yes. Like,” Danny trailed off, miming with his hands the particular action he was referring to with one finger inserting into an “O” made with his thumb and pointer.

Sam, whose entire face felt in flames, gawked at Danny’s crudeness as if he hadn’t actively engaged in incomparably worse immaturity during his youthful years alongside his band mates. “Danny-“

When Sam couldn’t find the ending to his sentence, Danny merely raised his brows at him, as though asking for confirmation.

Balking, Sam babbled, “I never- like, it’s not like I’ve ever tried, I mean- I guess, I’ve? Thought about it? But I-“

“You’ve thought about it?” Danny interrupted, smirk spreading dangerously.

“Haven’t you?” Sam squeaked defensively.

Danny nodded, face scrunching as if to say ‘obviously.’ “Who says I never tried?”

Fuck.

Reduced once more to gaping at his friend, Sam floundered as Danny dissolved into giggles again. “You’re so tense.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam sarcastically retorted “Oh, sorry. Maybe you can lend me your little friend to relax.”

He’d said it as a mindless bit of banter, with (basically) no real meaning to it, but Danny’s eyes instantly lasered in on Sam’s face with interest.

“Well that’s an idea…”

“…excuse me?”

Danny grinned, and in the moonlight Sam couldn’t help but find it rather predatory. “You could. If you wanted to.”

Sam blinked.

Danny grinned wider.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he continued, his tone dropping into a velvety caress, “I mean I’d be interested to see what you think.”

Swallowing down the ringing in his ears, Sam desperately tried to match the confidence in Danny’s voice but cursed the way his breath shook. “You want me to use your vibrator.”

Danny merely shrugged, easy as a summer breeze, head tilting to the side as his eyes trailed over Sam’s dumbstruck features. “Kinda,” he smirked. Hesitating for a second, his eyes darting down and then to the side, Danny’s shark like smirk faltered a bit into his lopsided smile, which did nothing to quell the violent fluttering in Sam’s stomach when he murmured, “kinda wanna see your face.”

As subtly as he could, Sam shifted his arm from his side to between his thighs, trying to mask the way he pushed his hips into his forearm to relieve the pulsing ache that wouldn’t leave him be. “…what, like now?”

Danny’s eyes flickered to Sam’s shoulder distractedly, and then locked back on his nerve-wracked eyes. “Only if you want to.”

Sam held Danny’s gaze for a moment, considering if he was truly about to go along with this, but ultimately he was only as strong as his biggest weakness, which was unfortunately the man laying across from him with unwavering interest.

“Okay… yeah, okay.” Sam nodded, smirking shyly. “Can I see it?”

Danny’s eyes widened a little, and he had to look away, clear his throat, and cough out a quiet laugh, making Sam realize the double entendre and snort, “Shut up, you know what I meant.”

Danny shrugged one shoulder, looking down in his bunk as he searched, “Answer isn’t gonna be no either way.” Finding his prize, he reached, handing it over to Sam with a debilitating smirk.

Sam blushed, breaking Danny’s pointed gaze and grabbing the toy with a hissed, “Jesus, you’re fired up tonight.”

That won a genuine laugh out of Danny, and while he mindlessly matched Danny’s twinkling eyes and bright smile, Sam turned his attention to Danny’s little silicone secret. It was a fairly simple toy, a baby blue miniature wand with a button on the end of the handle. The material was soft in Sam’s fingers, and he ran his fingers over the head of the toy with the shuddering realization that his fingers weren’t the only thing it had touched tonight.

He then became hyper aware of how quiet it had gone, and he cut his gaze to Danny, who watched Sam familiarize himself in unblinking fascination.

“You press and hold the button to turn it on. And then short press to make the vibrations higher.”

Sam nodded, looking down again and turning the toy on hesitantly, jumping a little when it began buzzing abruptly. He started to lower it down his body, and then whipped his gaze over to Danny, who laid still as a statue, eyes glued to Sam’s movements.

Sam let out a short, manic-sounding laugh, “You’re just gonna watch?” His stomach flipping as Danny blinked slowly, his eyes half lidded and his lips parted just so.

“Is that alright?”

Taking a slow, measured breath, Sam held Danny’s loaded stare and nodded a little, switching the toy to his right hand and not breaking Danny’s gaze as he lifted his hips off the bed. His left hand lifted the waist of his pyjama pants and wrapped around the base of his cock, and he blinked rapidly, fighting to maintain eye contact as his cheeks burned and his dick twitched.

“Yeah. That’s… that’s fine,” he murmured, giving himself a few slow strokes.

Danny’s eyes lowered, following the movement of Sam’s arm to where it disappeared behind the curtain. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, waiting.

Situating the toy between his fingers, Sam broke the staring contest to look down at what he was about to do, bringing the toy to the tip of his dick, and gently, pressing it to the sensitive underside of his head.

“Oh fffffuck-“

His eyes immediately squeezed shut, his long waves splaying out under his head as it fell back onto the pillow.

Across from him, Danny’s brows came to a pinch in the center of his forehead, and his own restless hand unconsciously made a beeline beneath his flannel sleep pants. Soft as rain, he breathed “oh my god…”

Heat rushing down his body at the sound, Sam rolled his head to look over at Danny, eyes freezing on the rhythmic motion of his arm. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and he started stroking himself in earnest.

The vibrator was a shockingly pleasurable addition, Sam found out. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of using a toy before, not like this anyway. From the moment it made contact with his weeping tip, he already felt so teasingly close to the edge.

And this embarrassingly fast race to the finish line was not aided whatsoever by the faces Danny was making beside him. His lips parting with shallow breaths, then getting bitten and licked at by his restless pink tongue. His eyes, all dark and predatorial in the nocturnal light. And his pure, unwavering focus on the faces Sam was making.

He felt so deliciously on display, and the only thing Danny could see was his face.

He’d been holding in his moans, too shy to make any sudden noises, sure that they’d be jarring and embarrassing in the relative silence of the bus. Other than their respective quickened breathing, there wasn’t a peep outside of the rustling of sheets.

Danny’s shoulder shifted, to switch up his grip Sam assumed with a sudden jerk of his hand, and Sam watched in dumbstruck awe as Danny’s eyes rolled back and fluttered shut. With his lips parted, between gentle pants, he murmured, “God this is so hot,” as he opened his eyes again.

Sam whined quietly, biting it back and squeezing his cock. He nodded, meeting Danny’s flustered gaze, “Fuck, I- mm.”

Danny’s eyes flicked down Sam’s body and back, and he whispered, “turn it up.”

“What?” Sam blinked incredulously.

“Turn. It. Up,” Danny smirked, arm steadily moving up and down behind the curtain.

Blushing hot, Sam held eye contact and found the button with his thumb, pressing once. The buzzing doubled in intensity, more than he’d expected, and another pathetic noise slipped through Sam’s nose.

Danny’s brows knit together, his jaw dropping. He picked up some more speed, audible sounds now making it to Sam’s ears with each movement of his hand under his pants. “Fuck me, Sam.”

Brain going fuzzy from the constant vibrations, Sam’s eyes roamed dreamily over Danny’s upper half, and of his own accord this time, he clicked the button again. And jolted on the mattress.

With his head tossed back, and through spit glistened lips, he finally broke and let out a candy-sweet whine, “Dannyyyyy…”

Danny’s eyes squeezed shut with a deep groan, and his hand squeezed tightly around the base of his cock, his entire body seizing up and staying frozen for several frantic heartbeats.

When he finally felt in control of his own body, his eyes slowly fluttered open, and he found Sam staring back at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Sammy,” he croaked, eyes darting around Sam’s perfect body helplessly. Locking eyes with him once more, Danny swallowed harshly, and still panting gently through parted lips, gave a quick but pointed flick of his eyes downwards, a questioning gesture. Seeking invitation beyond the velvety curtain obscuring Sam’s hands and beyond the furthest point of their relationship thus far.

It only took a second for Sam to process Danny’s unspoken request, and another second for him to nod and beg through a shy whisper, “Yeah, please…?”

His heart beating in his ears, Danny nodded quickly, shoving his own curtain aside. Hauling himself to his feet, he only gave Sam a split second to gape at the impressive outline straining his sleep pants before Sam’s curtain was pushed off to the side as well.

Danny lifted his knee and rested it at Sam’s side, letting his leg dangle off the edge. His hand came to rest beside Sam’s head, supporting his torso as he leaned down over Sam, and before Danny could ask if all this was okay, Sam’s leg lifted to hook around Danny’s and used this new leverage to pull Danny completely on top of him to straddle his hips.

Danny’s other hand reflexively landed by Sam’s other shoulder, caging him in with all four strong limbs, and once settled, Danny’s eyes landed on Sam’s face.

Feeling his heated stare, Sam’s gaze flicked up from Danny’s painfully tempting chest to meet his eyes, and his breath was knocked from his chest. Hovering over him, all dark curls and impossibly long lashes, freckles and soft pink lips, hazel eyes with pupils blown wide, Danny chewed on his lip for a moment while the vibrator buzzed between them.

Sam, stomach erupting in butterflies, found himself smiling adoringly up at Danny without even thinking, and, finding himself reassured, Danny returned that easy, dopey smile and brought one broad hand to Sam’s face, cupping his jaw as he shifted his weight over to his other arm. Then, gently, he lowered his hips flush with Sam’s.

They both gasped, hidden cocks sandwiched between their simultaneously tensing stomachs and the insistently vibrating toy. While Sam’s breath morphed into a drawn out whimper, Danny’s panting interwove with a groan of “Fuck, Sammy-!”

Already past the point of politeness, Sam started grinding up into Danny, his long fingers snaking their way up around Danny’s torso and digging into his lower back. His mouth hung open, soft gasps and hitching breaths freely rising to Danny’s ears as Danny matched his desperation and started rutting his hips in time with Sam’s.

Struggling to keep them open, Danny blinked down at Sam through heavy lidded eyes and stroked his thumb absentmindedly over Sam’s cheek. Biting down on his lip, Danny’s gaze helplessly slipped just below Sam’s eye level, landing on his bite-swollen and glistening pink lips. Watching him losing the battle with self control, Sam grinned faintly, digging his nails into Danny’s waist and tipping up his jaw invitingly.

Catching Sam’s hint, Danny’s eyes shot to Sam’s with want, and seeing only a reflection of his own need in Sam’s fucked-out expression, Danny swallowed down a whine of relief and lowered himself down to his elbows, angling his jaw with Sam’s and kissing him deeply.

Sam moaned, eyes rolling back beneath closed lids, one hand shooting up from his hip to tangle in Danny’s wild curls. Somewhere in the back of his mind registered that he’d never been kissed like quite this before, ravenous and desperate, but steady. As if Danny couldn’t get enough of him, but was savouring the feeling and taste of his mouth as it worked against his own.

Fingers sliding from Sam’s jaw to cradle the back of his head, Danny’s cock insistently reminded him that their hips had come to a standstill through this new development, and as ecstatic as he was to be kissing the breath from Sam’s lips, he was equally as powerless to stop his own body from beginning to shift and squirm into Sam’s once more.

Pressed even tighter together now, the vibrator having tumbled to the bed beside them at some point in the chaos of their first kiss, Danny groaned into Sam’s mouth as he felt Sam’s own pulsing erection sliding alongside his own.

Gasping for air against Danny’s lips, Sam squeaked, “D-anny-y-!” insistently bucking his hips to meet Danny’s thrusts.

Breathlessly, Danny nodded and let his forehead rest on Sam’s. “I know, I- I know baby, you’re so fucking- so good, Sammy… so fucking good.”

With wide eyes, Sam nodded along mindlessly with Danny’s rambling, desperation getting the better of him. His hands, practically shaking with lust, managed to snake down between Danny’s arms, pushing and shoving at Danny’s waistband. Getting the hint, Danny hummed quietly, “You want them off?”

Dizzy with the way Danny switched on that seductive, confident tone, Sam merely nodded, hoping Danny would take over responsibility for that task.

And, lucky for Sam, Danny obliged with a half-manic grin, lifting himself up to his knees and pushing his ratty old pyjamas down his thighs.

”God-“

Danny looked up at Sam’s dumbstruck face and giggled softly, bringing his hand to his dick and giving himself a couple of slow strokes. Relishing in Sam’s dreamy reaction for a moment, Danny let himself go in favor of teasing his fingertips beneath Sam’s waistband. “Can I get you out of these too?”

Swallowing quickly and blinking up at Danny’s face, Sam nodded bashfully and obediently lifted up his hips for Danny to tug his bottoms down to his knees.

Groaning quietly in his throat, Danny lifted one hand to palm at Sam’s soft tummy, his eyes fixed a bit lower. “Oh, Sammy...”

Blushing hot, Sam squirmed, trying to will Danny’s hand lower with his mind. He was far-too-aware of what a mess he surely looked like, arched up and dribbling against his stomach, twitching impatiently.

“Can you just…” he started softly, voice breaking.

Danny hummed quietly, then carefully climbed up and lowered himself over Sam once more, letting his weight gently drape over Sam’s dainty frame. Whining high in his throat, Sam arched his neck and ground his hips up into Danny’s soft hair with a broken, “Yeah…”

Danny groaned softly, burying his nose in the hollow of Sam’s neck. Pressing his lips to damp skin, he murmured between wet kisses, “You’re so soft.” He started to match Sam’s insistent pace, rolling his now bare cock alongside Sam’s in tandem, breaking into a pant as he latched gently onto Sam’s neck with his teeth.

With a hitching breath that shuddered into a moan, Sam tangled his long legs around Danny’s, sank a hand into his curls to hold his face steadily against his neck, and dug one of his heels into the mattress for leverage as the last of his patience ran out. Picking up to a desperate, choppy pace, he humped Danny’s rock solid shaft and sobbed out an unrecognizable string of moans and whines into the safety of Danny’s broad shoulder.

Danny later wondered where he found the brainpower to even remember its existence, but he suddenly became aware of the faint buzzing noise they’d managed to drown out throughout the last little bit. Sucking one last love bite into Sam’s luxuriously soft skin, Danny lifted his face to watch Sam’s expressions twist and contort. A proud smirk spread across his flushed face, watching Sam struggle to focus his eyes.

Blindly, so as to not miss a second, Danny reached down, feeling for his vibrator. Finally getting his fingers around it, he smirked wider down at Sam and held the toy to his tip.

Crying out, Sam’s nails sunk painfully perfect into Danny’s shoulders, “Oh-! Oh fuck, Danny-!”

Sam’s voice spiking Danny’s adrenaline, he sat up, straddling Sam’s hips. Wrapping his free hand around Sam’s cock, and holding the vibe tight to Sam’s leaking head, he started stroking Sam’s cock with purpose, watching with bated breath as Sam’s face twisted into pure ecstasy, his best friend clawing at the mattress as his body tensed up.

Breath caught in his throat, he barely managed to squeak, “Danny- gonna-!”

Pumping his pulsing cock mercilessly, Danny watched Sam shudder and shake beneath him as he finally let out a raspy whine and came hard all over Danny’s fist and his stomach.

Slowing down gradually, Danny finally let go when Sam gasped and jerked away, smiling wide in satisfaction and carefully crawling up to lay alongside Sam’s body. Clicking off the poor, overheated vibrator, he set it down on the bed and propped himself up on his elbow, watching Sam’s flushed face slowly unwind and his breathing slow back to normal.

Sam felt his gaze with his eyes shut, and his lips betrayed him by quirking up into a tired, involuntary smirk.

Rolling his head to the side, he blinked his eyes open, meeting Danny’s tender (if a little smug) gaze.

“Hi,” he rasped, giggling quietly.

Smiling wider, Danny giggled back, “Hey.” Letting a beat of gentle silence pass, he then quipped, “You’re so hot.”

Snickering, Sam rolled onto his side, chest to chest and face to face. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Fixing Sam with his best bedroom eyes and teasing his face closer, Danny murmured all low in his chest, “Mmm, so sweet.”

Suddenly breathless, Sam’s mouth opened but nothing came out, and it made Danny’s infuriatingly debilitating smirk grow wider. He whispered, “Did you like the vibrator?”

Sam nodded slightly, leaning closer to Danny’s lips. “Mm. I think you’re onto something there.”

It was right around then that Sam realized Danny was still waiting patiently for his turn, and with a rush of eagerness, Sam closed the gap between their lips with a soft sigh. Danny returned the kiss easily, leaning into it with a caressing hand through Sam’s soft messy waves. He pulled Sam deeper into the kiss by the back of his head, his tongue carefully prodding at the tip of Sam’s just as Sam’s sneaky hand reached his cock and curled around it.

Pulsing immediately in Sam’s grip, Danny’s surprised moan echoed unrestrained into their kiss, spurring Sam on to pull and stroke Danny’s thick cock faster.

Panting against Sam’s lips, Danny swallowed harshly and croaked, “fuck me-“ with a breathless chuckle. Sam watched gleefully as Danny’s brows twisted up tightly, letting his thumb swipe over Danny’s glistening tip with each twist of his wrist.

His mouth popping open, Danny moaned out suddenly, “oh god Sam don’t- don’t stop, please don’t-“

“Cum for me,” Sam whispered, awestruck as Danny came apart from his touch.

Nodding sharply, Danny’s eyes screwed shut with a whine, “C-close…”

Reaching down with his other hand, Sam palmed the tip of Danny’s cock as he stroked rapidly, and murmured, “Give it to me.”

Danny’s head fell forward, curls tumbling over his forehead. He groaned hoarsely as he started to cum, his cock twitching and jerking in Sam’s fist as it covered his wrist.

Before Danny could even catch his breath, Sam was on him, kissing him senseless as he came down from his high. They rolled on the mattress, Danny landing on his back with Sam plastered to his heaving chest.

Languidly making out for some time, Danny let his lazy hands roam over Sam’s body. Across his smooth chest, down his gently curved back, over his shoulders. Grabbing a handful of his ass earned him a playful squeak and a bite to his lip.

“What,” Danny giggled breathless against Sam’s lips.

Cheeks pink, Sam laughed, “I refuse to believe you recover that fast.”

Smiling up at him all cheeky, Danny countered, “There’s lots of other things we could do.”

Scoffing incredulously, Sam shoved his shoulder as Danny laughed. “Fuckin’ hell, I let you- … do all this, and you already want more? Nympho.”

“Let me?” Danny balked humorously.

“That’s right,” Sam grinned brattily, heart warmed by Danny’s eye roll and wide playful smile. “Plus you’ve got all these ideas about what you wanna do to me? How long have you been cooking those up, freak?”

Danny flashed his teeth at Sam playfully before quickly flipping him flat on his back. Squawking in surprise, Sam laughed brightly and snaked his arms around Danny’s neck.

Grinning down at his lips, Danny admitted softly, “…For a while.”

Softening, Sam ran his thumb back and forth over Danny’s shoulder blade. “Really?”

Nodding bashfully, Danny raised his eyes up to meet Sam’s. “And y’know… not just freaky stuff,” he added in a joking tone even as his eyes grew slightly more serious.

Nodding up at him, Sam smiled gently. “Cute.”

Raising his eyebrows expectantly, Danny waited silently.

Smiling wider, Sam blushed and rolled his head to the side, “…Yeah, me too.”

Peaking at Danny again, he found him failing to hide a brilliant smile, one which he quickly buried in Sam’s neck with a jubilant little giggle. “Nice,” he muffled.

Snickering, Sam toyed with a stray ringlet that draped across his chest from Danny’s head. “Nice? You’re such an idiot.”

Having started to kiss along Sam’s neck, Danny mumbled against skin, “Takes one to know one.”

Tilting his head to the side and letting him continue for a moment, Sam smiled wide and lazily sighed, “well I fucked you, so- ouch!!”

Danny laughed into the fresh bite mark he’d just left on Sam’s collar and lifted his head out of the cavern of his neck. “We fucked each other, actually.”

“Well if you wanna get technical, neither of us actually fucked each other.”

Danny paused, then smirked slowly. “Hm. Good point. Good thing tomorrow’s a rest day, then,” he nodded.

Jaw falling open, Sam’s face flushed pink, “I- tomorrow?”

Giggling quietly and lowering his face down to brush his nose against Sam’s, Danny whispered, “Kidding, love.”

Sam casted his gaze to the side rather petulantly, “Oh…”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“You want to?”

“Well you put it out there!” Sam squeaked, defensively.

Gaping down at him for a second, Danny then closed his eyes and shook his head a bit, laying himself back down in Sam’s neck. “Insatiable,” he remarked teasingly.

Closing his eyes and grinning at the ceiling, Sam’s heart fluttered thinking about all the ways Danny was about to find out exactly how right he was. But that could wait til the morning.

For now, Danny’s soft lips slowly came to a standstill along the hollows of his neck, and his soft breathing evened out, and that was more than enough.

-------- ⭐︎☽⭐︎☾⭐︎ --------

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[foxtrology]

unchained melody (7)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 14.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut, mentions of suicide.

Harry woke up without an alarm. No noise. Just instinct.

His eyes opened to the slow hum of night, the villa wrapped in silence except for the rhythmic pulse of her breath against his ribs. She was still asleep—curled around him like always, one leg slung over his hip, hand resting on his stomach like they’d grown roots there.

He blinked once. Then looked over to the clock.

11:32 PM.

The article had dropped. Thirty-two minutes ago. Or so he thought.

What he didn’t know—what no one had told him—was that Carrie Roth had gone rogue. That the article had been published early. That he had already lost the fight. That her face, her body, the weight of mystery surrounding her name and all the blanks the internet was now trying to fill had been dissected and distributed and devoured long before Harry ever opened his eyes.

But none of that existed in this room. Not yet.

For now, there was just the weight of her sleeping on his chest. Her skin warm. Her hair curled like ink along his collarbone. He hadn’t moved in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

She made stillness feel like something sacred.

Harry slid his hand gently down her spine. Stopped at her waist. Let it rest there. Then, careful not to wake her, he reached over and grabbed her phone and his—both forgotten on the floor, one tangled in the strap of her tote.

He didn’t read the article. Didn’t read the comments. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need to. Whatever was written didn’t matter.

He knew what came next—lawsuits, statements, narrative control. Danny would have already started calling the legal team and would be on the phone with every editor he had dirt on.

Harry simply slipped both phones into her bag. Out of sight. Away from them. Just for the night.

Then, quietly, he grabbed the landline off the nightstand and called down to the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he murmured, voice low enough not to disturb her. “For two. Whatever’s ready. Wine too.”

He hung up. Laid back. Wrapped his arm around her again.

And let the weight of the day start to bleed in—slow, like dusk.

The knock was too loud. Too sharp. Too sudden. It startled her awake. She gasped softly against his chest, eyes blinking open with a confused sound in her throat. Harry moved instantly—lifting his head, tightening his hold on her like instinct.

The knock came again. He exhaled, already annoyed.

“Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her hair.

He got up in one motion, pulling on the first shirt he found—still rumpled from the afternoon. When he opened the door, the poor villa staff member barely got a word out before Harry’s expression did the talking.

The tray was delivered. The door shut behind him. No thank you. No smile.

When he turned back, she was sitting up in bed, sheets pulled over her chest, hair wild, lips parted.

She blinked slowly. “Was that—?”

“Dinner,” he said. “For us.”

“What time is it?” she mumbled, voice thick.

He checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

Her brows lifted. “You ordered dinner at midnight?”

“You were asleep. I figured we might want something. Or wine.”

Her lips curled. “You’re not real.”

“I am,” he said, already walking the tray over. “Unfortunately.”

She scooted up against the headboard as he set the tray down on the edge of the bed. There were two covered plates, a bottle of wine already uncorked, and two small glasses.

She reached for one. “You're mad at the poor guy who brought this?”

“He knocked like it was urgent.”

She smirked. “You’re an asshole.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t deny it. They ate in bed. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee.

There was pasta—still warm, tossed in olive oil, garlic, and shaved parmesan. A bowl of roasted vegetables. Bread they didn’t ask for but devoured. The wine was deep red, smooth and heady, and the glasses were barely half-full before she started to feel it.

For a while, they didn’t talk. Just passed bites back and forth. Shared a fork. Ate slowly, deliberately. Letting the quiet sit between them like something earned.

Eventually, she glanced at him.

“You okay?”

Harry looked over. “I am now.”

She didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, she reached for the wine again. Poured them both another splash. Then turned her body to face him more fully—her bare legs tucked under her, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder like it was made for it.

She studied him.

“You are quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He looked down at his glass. Then set it aside. She didn’t speak. Just waited.

And finally—he let it out. Slowly. Like a confession. Since Lucy.

“My mother died when I was seventeen.”

She blinked. Sat straighter. “Harry…”

He shook his head once, like it wasn’t something he wanted sympathy for.

���She was young.”

The room held still.

“She used to sing while she cooked,” he continued. “Even if it was just eggs. She never remembered the words, always made them up. My sister would be right by her side too.”

She stayed silent.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t go back to the house after the funeral. Not once. Haven’t been in it in thirty-five years.”

“Why not?”

He took a breath. “Because she was the only thing in it that made it feel like home. After that…it was just walls.”

She reached out. Touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“She would’ve liked you,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “I would’ve liked her.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

Then reached for her hand. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles once. Gently.

“You never talk about your family,” he said quietly.

And just like that—the air shifted. She pulled her hand back, slowly. And for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t say anything.

But then—

“My brother died too,” she said softly.

Harry froze.

Her voice didn’t waver. But her eyes did.

“He killed himself when we were twenty.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, looking down at her lap.

“I haven’t told anyone in years.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She looked up at him. “I know you saw the tattoo. The T.”

He nodded once.

Her voice was steadier now. “It’s for Teddy. He was my twin.”

That stopped him. Cold.

He stared at her. “Twin?”

She nodded. Harry sat back slightly, absorbing it.

“You never told me.”

“I don’t talk about him.”

She didn’t elaborate. And Harry didn’t ask. But it lingered between them now—something heavy and sacred.

She tucked her legs under her. “We were born five minutes apart. He was the loud one. The reckless one.”

Harry watched her. Waited.

“He died on a Tuesday,” she added, voice quieter now. “I still hate Tuesdays.”

Harry reached for her hand again. This time, she let him take it.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“I’m glad I do now.”

She didn’t smile. But her fingers curled around his. And that said more than anything else.

They finished eating slowly. The plates were pushed to the side. The wine was nearly gone. The night curled in around them—quiet and forgiving.

She laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers still tangled with his. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was for more than just dinner.

It was for still being here. For not asking more than she could give. For holding the truth gently, like it was something delicate and worth keeping. Harry squeezed her hand once. And they stayed like that—

Long into the night. Not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

But knowing this—

For now, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was enough. But only for the night.

Because the morning arrived with a fist. A very loud, very manicured fist.

It slammed against the villa door just after eight, shattering the silence with a rhythm more fitting for the police than a houseguest.

“Harry! Open this fucking door right now—what the hell did you do?!”

They both jolted upright in bed.

She blinked, disoriented, Harry’s arm still around her waist, breath still warm on her neck. His face was unreadable, but his grip on her tightened instinctively.

Outside the door, Livia screamed again.

“Do you think you can just kill the Wi-Fi like this is a monastery? I have work! I have a fucking following!”

Harry didn’t move.

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, hair mussed, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Did she say...Wi-Fi?”

Harry ran a hand down his face. “I had it cut last night.”

She stared. “You what?”

“Just for today.”

“For what reason?”

His jaw ticked.

She blinked. “Wait—is this about the article?”

Before he could answer, Livia banged again, full dramatic rage now.

“I was filming a sponsored review for a blush that melts! I’ve been trying to upload it for hours! I already sent the invoice! This is fucking sabotage.”

Harry swung his legs off the bed. Didn’t bother replying. Didn’t bother dressing either—just pulled on yesterday’s slacks and stalked across the room with the terrifying calm of a man who had throttled Wall Street brokers for fun and been thanked for it.

She wrapped the sheet tighter, following him with her eyes as he opened the door with one swift pull.

Livia stood there, barefoot in kitten heels, her white robe slipping dramatically off one shoulder, a silk headscarf tied haphazardly atop her head like a fashionable war widow, phone clutched in her hands.

Her face fell the second she saw who else was in the room. “Oh,” she said flatly, eyes cutting to her.

She offered a tight smile from the bed, tugging the sheet higher. She knew this open fucking bedroom would cause her problems. 

Harry didn’t react. “You’ve had Wi-Fi your entire life. You’ll survive twelve hours.”

Livia’s voice dropped to a hiss. “We are not in the Hamptons, Harry. We’re in the Tuscan countryside. It takes six weeks to get high-speed here. And I have deliverables.”

He didn’t blink. “Cry about it.”

Livia blinked. “You—did you seriously just say that to me?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Do you want me to say it again slower?”

She took a half-step forward, daring. “I swear to God, if this is about Lucy—”

The air changed. She stopped. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with something colder. More lethal.

“I’d choose your next sentence very, very carefully.”

The hallway went still. Livia blinked.

Then, like any decent survivor, turned on her heel and muttered, “Fucking tyrant.”

Harry closed the door slowly. Locked it. Turned.

She was staring at him from the bed, wide-eyed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly more human again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was...horrifyingly hot.”

That got a tiny smile out of him.

He didn’t leave the room that morning. Not for breakfast. Not for emails. Not even for the 10:00 a.m. meeting Danny had arranged with three investors who had flown in from Zurich.

Danny called twice. Harry didn’t answer. She watched him from the armchair in the corner—barefoot, hair pulled into a bun, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, a mug of lemon tea balanced on her knee.

“You’re skipping the meeting?” she asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“Won’t they be mad?”

“They’ll get over it.”

“Will Danny?”

Harry sipped his espresso. “Danny’s already got a lot of shit on his plate.”

That made her laugh.

Harry sat at the edge of the bed, one ankle propped over his knee, flipping through a leather notebook, pen tucked behind his ear like he was sketching out the next version of the world.

He looked completely at ease. Except for the muscle in his jaw.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

He looked up. “Do I not look okay?”

“You look like you’re playing chess with people’s lives in your head.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Do you know what was in the article?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t read it.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Not interested in anyones narrative.”

He paused. She nodded slowly. But something still itched at the edge of her ribs.

“Will everything be okay?” she asked, barely audible.

Harry looked at her. And for the first time, the cool, coiled stillness broke.

“Yes. Don't worry,” he said. “Danny’s already got people watching the blogs. The subreddits. The gossip accounts. If anything comes up, we kill it before it spreads.”

She swallowed. “But what if it's not?”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of her and knelt, one hand resting on her knee.

“Then I'll burn them down.”

She searched his face. And found something terrifying there. Not fear. Not hesitation. Conviction. The kind that doesn’t flinch.

“You’d burn them down?” she whispered.

His voice didn’t change.

“I’d do anything for you.”

She believed him. And that terrified her more than the article ever could.

Meanwhile, in the converted office across the villa, Danny was having the worst morning of his career. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved from his desk in hours.

The Wi-Fi Harry cut had taken down two printers, a backup router, and a $15,000 digital projector that Lorenzo was now threatening to return to France in protest.

He was fielding calls from six continents. Allegra was ghosting him. And two junior employees had locked themselves in a bathroom over rumors that “Castillo was spiraling.”

He’d already flown out three more team members overnight—Sadie from PR, Robyn from legal, and a fixer named Ben who used to work for Russian oligarchs and didn’t blink.

When Lorenzo asked if Harry was canceling the investor lunch, Danny responded by slamming a folder down and saying, “If Harry wants to picnic in hell today, we’re all going with him.” Nobody asked again.

Back in the villa suite, her and Harry were still in bed. It was noon.

She was braiding a section of her hair absentmindedly, the balcony doors cracked open behind her. The breeze drifted in soft and slow, carrying the scent of rosemary, dust, and something vaguely citrus.

Harry laid beside her. Watching her like he was memorizing every movement.

She looked at him. “You really didn’t read it?”

He shook his head. “The only story that matters is the one we write.”

“That’s a nice line.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a decision.”

She chewed her lip. Then shifted closer.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then laid her head on his chest.

“If you ever find out something about me…something I couldn’t say out loud yet… would you still look at me the way you do now?”

His hand moved through her hair.

Slow. Gentle.

“I already know I don’t deserve you.”

She looked up, startled. But he wasn’t finished.

“So whatever it is—whatever you’re afraid of—it doesn’t change what I feel.”

She stared at him. Long and quiet.

Then whispered,

“I believe you.”

And she did.

Even if her chest still burned. Even if the truth still lived behind her ribs like a locked room. Even if the wolves were circling. Because right now? He was here. And the rest of the world could wait.

The hours bled. Through stone. Through linen. Through the brush of her fingers along the lip of a ceramic mug.

She had stayed curled beside him as long as she could bear it. Skin warm. Sheet tangled around her hips like an afterthought. There was honey in the air. And rosemary. And something sour just beneath it—the scent of stillness going stale.

She needed to move.

She didn’t say it out loud at first. Just sat up. Pulled her hair away from her neck. Walked barefoot across the room to where the windows overlooked the orchard, the gravel path, the ache of quiet that clung to the hills like fog.

He was still in bed. Watching her.

She didn’t turn around. Just said, softly, “I can’t stay in here all day.”

A beat passed.

“You said we’d stay in,” he murmured, voice frayed by sleep.

“I know,” she said. “But I feel like I’m losing track of time.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “Please.”

She turned. And found him already watching her. It was the please that did it. The shower was brief. Not for lack of effort.

Harry, as always, was a saboteur in disguise. She caught the glint in his eye the moment the water hit her collarbone. The slow, deliberate way he pressed her against the tile. His mouth dragged along her shoulder like he was writing something. His hand ghosted down her stomach.

“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t what?” he asked, too innocent.

“You’re going to distract me.”

He kissed her ribs.

“You always say that.”

“And you always prove me right.”

His tongue moved lower. She grabbed his face with both hands.

“Harry,” she said, laughing now. “Stop trying to ruin the day.”

“I’m improving it.”

She stepped out of the water.

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re wet.”

“I’m leaving you in here.”

He sighed like a man deprived of oxygen. “Fine.”

They dressed quietly.

She wore a cotton sundress with tiny pearl buttons down the front and a pair of old sandals. Her hair was damp and half-tucked into a scarf she found in her bag. He wore black again—short-sleeved linen, slacks rolled slightly at the ankle, sunglasses tucked into his collar like punctuation.

She didn’t ask if he was nervous about being seen. He didn’t ask if she still felt like running. They didn’t have to.

The car into town was old. Beige leather, sticky in the heat. The driver didn’t speak except to nod once when Harry gave him the name of the town. Not the one they had went to the other day with Francesca and Luca. Not the one with influencers and Aperol spritzes and rented designer bags.

The one past it. Where the hills stopped being curated and the people stopped pretending. She leaned her head on the window.

Harry laced their fingers together without looking. She exhaled.

“I need something stupid today,” she said.

He turned to her. “Like what?”

“A book I’ll never finish. A dress I can’t afford. A bag of lemon candy that hurts my teeth.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The village was empty in the way only real places are—half-shuttered shops with peeling signs, a church bell that rang too loud for no one in particular, a woman sweeping her doorway like she’d been doing it for decades.

No one looked at them. Not once.

They slipped into a bookstore that smelled like thyme and printer ink.

The owner didn’t speak English, but smiled kindly when she held up a copy of La Noia and asked, brokenly, if he had it in English. He did. He pulled it from a low shelf, dusted it off with the sleeve of his cardigan, and handed it over like it was a secret.

Harry watched her leaf through it with that quiet reverence she saved for real things. Books. Cats. Tiny ceramic bowls that held nothing but dust and memory.

They left with three books. One for her. One Harry picked out without telling her. One she grabbed last-minute because the cover reminded her of her brother. He paid for all of them in cash.

The next stop was a boutique tucked into a stone alleyway—no name, no mannequins, just a beaded curtain and the smell of vanilla. Inside, it was chaos.

Lace and linen and buttons made of bone. Dresses that looked like they’d belonged to Italian actresses in the seventies. Shelves lined with scarves dyed the color of bruises and citrus rinds. Jewelry tangled in bowls.

She held up a pair of vintage sunglasses. “Do I look like I sell weed to college students?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“I like that for me.”

“You’d ruin them in a week.”

She handed them to him anyway. “Good. Then they’ll have character.”

She tried on two dresses. Bought neither. Harry bought her both when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed only when they were halfway down the street and he handed her a wrapped bundle.

She paused. “I said I didn’t want them.”

“You lied.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he was smiling.

They passed a café with blue umbrellas and tiny espresso cups. He bought her a lemon granita and a slice of almond cake.

She ate both with her feet up on his lap, a paperback open across her knees, his hand resting low on her thigh like it had always belonged there.

No one took a photo. No one whispered. No one called her anything at all. He felt invisible. And for the first time in days, that was a relief.

They walked back to the car slowly. No rush. No panic. She had a bag of marzipan in one hand. His fingers in the other.

The afternoon had turned amber. The kind of light that only exists when you’re not trying to capture it.

Back at the villa, the gravel was still warm underfoot. They slipped inside without speaking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. The quiet was golden.

Until—

“Harry.”

They both stopped.

Lorenzo.

Standing in the corridor like a painting. Hair too perfect. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he spent more time in mirrors than the markets.

Harry’s hand clenched slightly. Lorenzo smiled.

“We’re having a farewell dinner tonight,” he said. “My yacht. Final celebration before your flight.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked to her. Then back to Harry.

“Should be intimate,” he added. “Just the core group. Paolo. Francesca. Luca. Livia. Me.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’ll pass,” Harry said flatly.

Lorenzo didn’t blink. “That wasn’t a question.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. Her stomach turned.

She could feel it happening—the shift. The slow, deliberate slide toward something ancient. Pride. Power. That edge of violence that lived in quiet men who had too much to lose.

She stepped forward. Touched Harry’s hand. Took it in hers. Looked up at Lorenzo with a smile so practiced it hurt.

“We’ll be there,” she said softly.

Lorenzo tilted his head. “Wonderful.”

He turned. Walked away.

Harry didn’t move. She didn’t let go. He looked down at her, the edge still sharp behind his eyes.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s just dinner.”

“It’s a performance.”

“So perform.”

A pause. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“I should be the one protecting you.”

She smiled. “Harry, I can protect you and thats okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then pulled her in. Pressed his forehead to hers.

And in that breathless second between silence and surrender, she knew—

He would do anything for her. Even smile at men he hated. Even go to dinner with ghosts. Even pretend. If it meant she stayed.

They walked the rest of the hallway in silence. Her hand still in his. His body still braced for a fight that had not yet arrived.

But by the time they reached the room, it was already beginning to dissolve. The heat of it. The tension. The echo of Lorenzo’s voice. All of it started to fade the second he opened the door for her, and she stepped back into the space that had briefly felt like a sanctuary.

She let go of his hand only to set her bags down gently on the bed. A scarf slipped out—burnt orange with blue stitching at the edge. Harry caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of the chair.

She toed off her sandals. Turned to him.

“Help me unpack?”

He nodded. Wordless. Of course.

It took longer than it needed to. She did it slowly—like if she stretched each act out long enough, the rest of the evening might somehow never arrive.

She took each thing out of the bags one at a time, smoothing the tissue paper between her fingers, holding things up to the fading light like they might tell her something.

Harry stood behind her, occasionally reaching for the things she handed him—books, scarves, a delicate linen blouse she’d claimed was “too sheer to wear in public,” which of course meant she’d already imagined wearing it the next morning.

He folded everything with surprising precision. Sharp creases. Quiet attention.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“Military school,” he said, without looking up. “You learn fast when your roommate’s a sadist.”

She laughed softly. Set a small paper-wrapped box on the dresser.

He glanced over.

“What’s that?”

She shrugged. “Jewelry. Kind of. I think it was meant to be a choker but it’s made of beads and string and I just liked how it felt in my hands.”

Harry said nothing. Just watched her unwrap it—slowly, delicately, like the beads might break if she breathed too hard.

She held it out.

“Put it on me?”

He took it. Stepped behind her. Lifted her hair. Fastened the string with a quiet gentleness that made her chest ache.

His hands lingered at the base of her neck afterward. Then dropped.

She didn’t turn around. But she reached for his hand. Held it for a second. Then let go.

They sat together on the edge of the bed for a while after that.

Just the long slope of light across the stone floor, the breeze curling through the half-open windows, the sound of forks clinking faintly downstairs where staff had begun prepping for the night.

She rested her head on his shoulder. And for a little while, they didn’t talk. Eventually, he kissed the top of her hair.

And said, “We should get ready.”

The getting ready was not hurried. It was careful. Quiet.

Intimate in a way that had everything to do with knowing someone’s rhythm well enough to match it.

She went first—starting with her hair, standing at the small vanity table with a round mirror and a glass tray filled with little hotel bottles that all smelled faintly of lemon and woodsmoke. She brushed slowly. Methodically. Let her hair fall naturally, then twisted it up in a loose, soft knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with two pins and one of the new scarves.

Harry sat behind her on the bed, silently buttoning his shirt—black again, always, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, the collar slightly open. No jacket tonight. No tie. Just quiet confidence and careful rage tucked beneath the surface.

She glanced at him in the mirror. He looked at her reflection. Neither of them smiled. But something passed between them. Something warm. Unspoken.

She turned back to the vanity and touched her fingers to the edge of her mouth. Then leaned forward and pressed on a little lip color—nothing bold. Just enough to look like she’d been kissed recently.

She stood. Slipped into the dress she’d picked out that morning in town. The one she told him was “too much” for a dinner but bought anyway. A pale mauve silk that fell low at the back and clung just enough to make her feel like a poem instead of a person. She hadn’t worn a bra. Didn’t need to.

Harry looked up. His hands stilled. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He stood. Crossed the room. Touched the strap of the dress like it might fall off if he didn’t anchor it.

“You’re not real,” he said under his breath.

She smiled. “Neither are you.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then stepped back.

She helped him with his cuffs. Folded each one slowly, smoothing the fabric. Buttoned them without looking up.

“You hate him, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Lorenzo?”

She nodded.

“I don’t hate him,” Harry said. “I hate what he represents.”

“Which is?”

“Everything I thought I had to become.”

She met his eyes. Didn’t speak. But she squeezed his wrist, gently. He kissed her forehead. They finished dressing in silence.

He found her shoes under the bed. Slid them on for her, one by one. Then stood and straightened his collar, checking her once more.

“You ready?”

He exhaled.

“No.”

He knew it would be sort of a long drive. The closest Marina to them was about an hour away.

All because Lorenzo wanted to throw a send off dinner for him on a yacht. He knew the man did it on purpose. 

“Too late.”

The villa was quiet when they opened the door. The hallway still. The lights warm and low.

Their steps echoed softly against the stone floors as they made their way down toward the main entrance.

Neither of them spoke. She adjusted the strap of her dress once. Harry reached over and fixed it for her before she could.

They were both beautiful. Both calm. Both armed. And neither of them had any idea what they were walking into.

The car Lorenzo sent them was sleek. Black. Clean in that sterilized, soulless way that suggested it was used for too many things—contract signings, last-minute getaways, discreet apologies to mistresses and board members alike.

The driver didn’t speak at first. Just nodded.

They pulled away from the villa in silence. Gravel cracking under the tires. A distant bird scattering somewhere behind the orchard. The roads twisted softly, curling through dusk. Golden hour was gone now.

Everything outside the window had turned that particular shade of blue that felt like the bottom of a swimming pool—hollow, glassy, waiting to hold something heavy.

She had one hand resting on her thigh. Harry’s was on top of it. Not moving. Just there. Like a claim.

She was staring out the window, watching vineyards fall away like memory, when the driver suddenly said—

“You’re her, huh?”

She turned. Harry did not.

The man cleared his throat. “I mean. Sorry. I just—uh. I saw your face earlier. On—on Twitter. Or X. Or—what is it now? Is it still Twitter? I feel like I should call it Twitter but everyone keeps saying X, but that just feels like a fake porn site—”

Harry looked up slowly.

The driver swallowed. “I mean, it’s none of my business, obviously. Just—my cousin in Palermo sent me a screenshot. You’re all over it. Every social media platform actually.”

He was talking too fast now. Trying to recover. Mumbling something about hashtags and name-blind profiles and how “the internet doesn’t sleep” before trailing off entirely.

She had gone still beside Harry. But he hadn’t moved his hand.

She turned her head. Met his eyes. Worried. Quiet. Not panicked. Just quietly terrified.

He looked at her for a long second.

Then, calm as ever, murmured, “You’re safe.”

She nodded once. Didn’t believe it. But needed to hear it.

What she didn’t know—what Harry hadn’t told her, at least not yet—was that while she was in the dressing room two hours ago, trying on a second dress she’d claimed she hated but couldn’t stop looking at, his phone had buzzed in his lap with a call from Danny.

Harry had stepped outside. Shut the boutique's door behind him. And listened.

Danny had been quick.

“Legal’s drafting the suit. We’re going after Carrie for invasion, misrepresentation, defamation—if we can tie in Lorenzo and Livia, we will.”

Harry didn’t interrupt.

Danny continued, “I also pulled Sofia, Ben, and Claudine. Had them flown in early this morning. Sofia’s already doing back-end wipe work. Scrubbing keywords. Dox block protocols. She’s working with two Reddit mods who owe her favors.”

Harry had only said two words,

“Make it clean.”

And Danny had replied,

“We’re trying.”

They reached the marina about an hour later. 

It was quieter than expected. The kind of quiet that made your skin feel too thin.

The sky was dark now. Bruised purple bleeding into navy. The water held the moonlight like a mirror with fingerprints.

Lorenzo’s yacht was docked at the far end. Lit up. Grand. Excessive in a way only old money could justify. The kind of boat people threw parties on just to get photographed walking off of it.

The driver parked. Didn’t say anything this time.

Harry got out first. Opened her door before she could reach for the handle. Offered his hand. She took it.

And the moment their fingers locked, she felt something strange—something subtle and electric and undeniable.

Like the gravity around him had shifted. Protective. Sharp. She didn’t let go.

They walked the length of the dock in silence.

The water lapped softly at the pylons. Distant music drifted from the yacht—something ambient, expensive, designed not to offend or invite too much thought.

They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the deck. And were immediately surprised. They weren’t late. For once.

Livia and Paolo weren't here yet.

Francesca was the first to spot them. She broke into a grin so genuine it made something loosen in her chest.

“There she is,” she said, crossing the deck in sandals and linen like a dream. “I’ve missed you. Were you avoiding me?”

The girl smiles. “Only because you’re too pretty.”

Francesca laughed. Pulled her in for a hug. Held her longer than expected. She let herself sink into it.

When they pulled apart, Francesca smiled again—gentler now. “You look... really good.”

She opened her mouth to thank her.

But then—

“Harry.”

Luca.

Crossing the deck with a glass of scotch in one hand and a suspiciously sincere expression on his face.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once.

Luca grinned. “Still the friendliest man I know.”

Harry said nothing. But his hand stayed on the small of her back.

Francesca looks at her. Her voice softened, slightly. “The way he looks at you, you know.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

She smiled anyway. “Trust me I know.”

The two girls giggle making their men smile.

Then came Lorenzo. And Marcella. The hosts. Gilded. Chilled. Radiating civility like a fog.

Lorenzo offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You made it.”

Harry’s silence was a weapon. Marcella kissed both their cheeks with an efficiency that felt like surgery.

“So lovely,” she said, air-light, to no one in particular.

Then turned to Harry. “You’re glowing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Marcella laughed. He didn’t.

They drifted away. Two ghosts in designer linen. The moment they were gone, she turned to Harry.

“Are we...in a play?”

He smirked. “You’re the lead.”

“And you?”

“Supporting role. Best in show.”

“Villain?”

“Obviously.”

She laced their fingers again.

And even in the low light, in the quiet tension of the yacht deck, in the heat of eyes that watched them like they were both flame and fuel—

Harry looked only at her. Like she was the anchor. Like she was the point. And if the world decided to burn that night—

He’d burn it back. With both hands. And her name on his lips.

They didn’t know what was coming. But they were ready for each other. And sometimes, that was enough. Even when it wouldn’t be.

The deck had been transformed.

Somehow, beneath the twilight and the soft groan of waves brushing the yacht’s hull, it looked almost… charming. Tables set in a crescent curve beneath low-strung lights. Linens crisp. Napkins folded like something ceremonial. A long, slender floral arrangement that looked like someone had plucked it from the edge of a dream and fastened it into a centerpiece with gold wire. The chairs were padded, heavy, far too luxurious for sea air.

And the food—

Well, the food hadn’t even arrived yet, but already, the air smelled like butter and salt and whatever it was rich people paid chefs to do with fish and patience.

She sat beside Harry, as always. Not across. Always beside. His hand rested on his thigh, and hers found it without thinking.

There were only eight seats. They were six. So far. And by some small miracle—some twist of fate or calculation—they had not been the last to arrive.

Francesca was already sipping from a wine glass like it was part of her anatomy. Luca had leaned back already annoyed at something Lorenzo had said. Marcella looked like a woman who had never let her face register inconvenience, and Lorenzo had adopted that particular brand of smirk worn only by men whose mistakes were always cleaned up by assistants.

But everyone was…calm.

The tension Harry had expected—the whispers, the glances, the brittle edge of politeness laced with too much curiosity—had not arrived.

Not yet.

The table hummed with that early-dinner politeness. Low voices. Faint laughter. The clink of a fork against an appetizer plate. Her glass was full of something pale and gold that she couldn’t pronounce, and Harry’s was untouched.

He looked around the table with slow, calculated precision.

Nobody mentioned the article. Nobody even looked at her like her face had been on social media all morning.

He leaned closer, voice low. “See? I told you.”

She nodded once. Still unsure. But grateful.

The chef emerged as the sun dipped fully below the waterline. French. Forty, maybe. Hair too perfect to be accidental.

He spoke with his hands. Described the first course like it was a poem about inheritance and garlic.

“Tonight, we begin with a courgette blossom stuffed with a delicate lemon-infused ricotta, resting on a green garlic velouté and finished with a saffron oil.”

The table applauded. Softly.

Francesca clapped once and said, “God, I missed food that tastes like money.”

Harry didn’t react. She just smiled around her wineglass.

The course arrived. Delicate. Precise. The kind of dish that made her feel like she should sit up straighter just to deserve it.

The fork was cold in her hand. But Harry’s hand stayed warm against her thigh.

And for a moment—a full, uninterrupted moment—it felt like maybe it would be fine. Maybe they could laugh. Maybe the wine would dull the edge. Maybe the wolves had gone quiet.

And then—

Footsteps. Hushed talking. A door opening somewhere on the upper deck.

Francesca glanced up.

“Ah,” she said. “The devils arrive.”

Livia. And Paolo. Late. By design.

Livia was wearing red. Her heels were high enough to be violent. Her makeup was severe in the way only expensive things could be. She looked like a warning.

Paolo, by contrast, looked like he’d been woken up from a nap and handed a blazer. They descended onto the deck like they owned the ship.

And immediately—

She felt it. That thing.nThat look. Livia’s eyes found her like it had been practiced.

A flick up and down. A tilt of the head. A curl of the mouth that wasn’t a smile—it was a warning.

Harry’s posture changed immediately. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But something about his silence sharpened. Like he was measuring windspeed.

Paolo clapped Luca's shoulder. Made a joke in Italian that only Lorenzo laughed at. Livia kissed both of Marcella’s cheeks, air only.

Francesca sipped her wine harder.

And then—

Livia made her way around the table. Slow. Like a lion circling the last guest at a garden party.

When she reached them, she didn’t greet Harry first. She turned to her.

Smiled. And said,

“Well. You clean up nice.”

She blinked.

Managed a polite, “Thanks.”

Livia’s gaze lingered a beat too long.

Then turned to Harry.

“Harry,” she said, like she was tasting the name.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

Livia smiled wider. And sat across from them. Just far enough to seem unbothered. Just close enough to catch her eye every time she looked down at her fork.

The second course hadn’t even been served yet. And already, she felt her stomach shrink.

The chef returned. Oblivious. Radiating joy.

“The second course,” he said proudly, “is a handmade crab agnolotti in a shellfish bisque, garnished with fennel pollen and a whisper of citrus zest.”

She tried to listen. Tried to be polite. Tried to breathe.

But across the table—

Livia was watching her. Not speaking. Not smirking. Just watching. Like she knew something. Like she was waiting.

Harry noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t move. But he reached under the table. Took her hand. Squeezed.

She looked at him. He didn’t look back. His jaw was tight. His mouth set. But he held her hand like a promise.

And even though Livia was still staring still. Still.

Still sitting there in her red dress like a warning wrapped in perfume—

Harry made sure her hand never left his. Not once. Because she was the only reason he’d shown up tonight.

And he’d burn this yacht to the waterline if anyone touched her. Even with a look. Especially then.

As dinner dragged on beneath the strings of warm light and the low hum of the sea, Livia’s silence began to thicken. Not the kind that suggested grace or boredom. The kind that held heat. Calculated. Manufactured. Edging toward combustion.

She didn’t speak. She barely touched her food. But her eyes—

They stayed fixed. Not on the conversation. Not on Lorenzo’s inane commentary about French vintners or Marcella's Cannes Festival experiences.

On her.

Livia watched her like she was decoding something. Studying a painting she didn’t understand but deeply hated. Her gaze moved over her bare shoulders, the scarf tucked into her hair, the way Harry’s hand stayed anchored on her thigh like it lived there.

She felt it. The scrutiny.

The weight of being seen not as a person, but a project. A theory. A problem.

Harry felt it too.

His hand never left hers. But she noticed the change—his fingers tightening slightly. The occasional glance across the table like a warning. The way he reached for his wine glass only to set it back down, untouched.

He was bracing. And she didn’t know for what.

Until Livia finally spoke.

“We almost didn’t make it back in time,” she said breezily, adjusting the strap of her dress like she hadn’t just been sitting in loaded silence for an hour.

The table went still.

Francesca lifted a brow. “Where were you?”

“Portofino,” Livia answered. “Had to post something. You know how it is. Deadlines.”

Marcella made a sound that might’ve been agreement.

“I had to get the posts up somehow,” Livia continued, sipping her wine like it didn’t taste like venom. “Someone decided to turn his villa into a monastery.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’ll survive.”

Livia smiled at him. “Will I? Because I had to drive three hours just to get a connection. It’s barbaric, really. The Tuscan countryside is beautiful, but I’m not trying to be digitally off-grid in the middle of a media cycle.”

Francesca cut in lightly. “What media cycle?”

Livia turned. Too quickly. Too eagerly.

She smiled. Not kindly.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?”

Her voice was honeyed and fake.

“I passed a newsstand in Portofino.”

Her fingers tapped the base of her wine glass.

“And imagine my surprise when I saw Harry’s face staring back at me.”

Livia's eyes flicked to her.

“And hers.”

The table went quiet.

Francesca’s smile dimmed. Luca stopped mid-cut into his steak. Paolo looked like he was pretending not to listen.

Harry didn’t move. But she felt his hand flex against her thigh.

Livia leaned forward slightly.

“You know it's crazy,”

Harry’s voice was ice. “Drop it.”

“But I mean—” she continued, sweet and sharp, “it’s a stunning photo. Really. I see why you wanted it buried. You look…” Her eyes scanned the girl again. “Domestic.”

Francesca shifted in her seat. “Livia.”

Livia waved her off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…interesting.”

She sipped her wine again.

“Especially when the article says no one knows her last name. No one can find where she’s from. Or what she does. Or what she’s done.”

Harry set his wine glass down. Hard. The sound echoed.

“I said,” he repeated, voice steady, lethal, “drop it.”

Livia smiled again. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing faintly, “you’ve always been so dramatic when you’re hiding something.”

And then—

She reached into her purse. Pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved with practiced ease. And she held it up. Face lit up by the screen.

“This,” she said, turning it so the whole table could see, “is why I’m curious.”

The screen showed a headline. Grainy. Dated. But clear.

Daughter & Wife of Convicted Fraudster Vanishes After Twin Brother’s Suicide.

It felt like the world dropped out from under the table. She went still.

Francesca inhaled sharply.

Harry’s hand froze.

Livia swiped. Another image. A courtroom.

Two women seated together—her and her mother.

Her expression was blank in the photo. Empty-eyed. Holding herself together in a dress that didn’t quite fit. A ghost caught on film.

Swipe. A photo of a memorial. Flowers. A framed picture of a boy who looked like her. Same eyes. Same mouth. A candle burned in front of it.

Swipe. The article open again.

Livia’s voice was quiet now. Laced with acid.

“She’s not just a nobody. She’s a disgrace.”

Her words cut through the air like glass.

“She’s not mysterious. She’s a cover story. Her family bankrupted entire counties. North Carolina, South Carolina—ring a bell? Her dad’s in prison for life. Her brother couldn’t handle the fallout, so he fucking shot himself. Her mother? Oh, she left to Europe, leaving behind her only living child. And now she’s here, dressed like an Italian heiress, trying to what? Reclaim the crown?”

She turned the phone back around. Smiled cruelly.

“She’s a gold digger. She doesn’t want you, Harry. She wants her old life back.”

And just like that—

The room detonated.

Harry stood. Fast. Violent. Chair screeching back.

She flinched.

The table went dead quiet.

Livia blinked. Harry didn’t say a word. He reached across the table. Snatched the phone from her hand.

And, without a breath—

Threw it. Hard. Over the railing.

It sailed clean into the dark water. A distant splash. Livia gasped.

Harry turned to her—his.

Took her hand. Didn’t look at anyone else. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. He just pulled her up from the table and walked.

Fast. Sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back.

Francesca and Luca called after them. But Harry didn’t stop.

He held her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. They reached the stairs. The dock. The cool night air hit them like a slap.

She tried to speak once—tried to say his name. But he didn’t respond. Not yet. He was moving too fast. Like if he slowed down, something would shatter.

At the end of the dock, a row of cars idled quietly. Drivers waiting, smoking, checking their phones. Harry found theirs in seconds. The driver startled when he saw him.

Harry opened the door. She slipped inside without a word. He followed. The doors shut. The silence hit like a bell.

The driver turned, cautious. “Would you like…music?”

Harry nodded once.

“Low.”

The man reached for the dial. Turned the volume up just enough to mask the breathless tension. Soft classical music filled the space.

But it didn’t help. Because inside the car, she wasn’t breathing right.

And Harry? Harry hadn’t said a word since the table.

She stared straight ahead, fingers clenched in her lap, the scar from her past bleeding through the fabric of her dress, visible now in ways it never had been.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But her throat burned. And Harry still hadn’t looked at her.

Still hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t touched her. She tried again. Quiet.

“Harry.”

Nothing.

She turned her head. He was staring out the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Like he was trying to kill something in his mind.

She shrank back against the seat. The hour felt like ten. The mountains passed them in slow shadows. The vineyard fences blurred. The stars outside sparkled like they didn’t know what had happened.

When they reached the villa, the driver pulled into the gravel driveway and didn’t speak.

Harry got out first. Came around to her door. Opened it like he always did. But he didn’t meet her eyes. He just offered his hand.

She hesitated. Then took it.

Because it was habit now. Because it was muscle memory. Because it still meant something.

But her chest was splintering. Because Harry hadn’t looked at her. Not really. And she didn’t know if it was because he was protecting her—

Or because now he saw her the way the world did. Like a headline. A scandal. A past that couldn’t be washed away.

They walked into the villa without a word. The door shut behind them.

And the silence returned. Worse now. Thicker. Unspoken.

And she—

She stood in the middle of the room like she didn’t know where to go. Like she didn’t know if she still belonged.

Harry stood at the window. Hands on the sill. Looking out. Like he needed to calm the storm in his chest before he came near her.

She watched his back rise and fall. Once. Twice.

Then whispered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

So she said it again. Stronger. More desperate.

“Harry. I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

Still, no response. And it broke something in her.

She turned. Walked to the bed. Sat down slowly. Face in her hands.

The shame crawled up her spine like fire. She didn’t know if he hated her now. Didn’t know if he regretted everything. Didn’t know if the silence was grief or fury or both.

But she couldn’t take it anymore.

So she whispered, “Say something.”

And finally—

Finally—

He turned. Crossed the room in three strides. Knelt in front of her. Hands on her knees.

Eyes searching hers like a lifeline.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said hoarsely, “because I didn’t know how to say I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Tears down her cheeks.

“What?”

He reached up. Touched her face.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve burned that story to the ground before it ever saw print. I should’ve never let you walk into that dinner.”

Her lip trembled. He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers.

Breathed in like she was oxygen.

“I don’t care about your past,” he said. “I care that you had to live it alone.”

She broke. Right there. In his hands. Tears slid down her cheeks silently. No sobs. Just a collapse.

He wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her onto his lap. Held her like something sacred.

Like she wasn’t broken. Like she was his. And when he kissed her hair, he whispered it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Over. And over. And over.

Until the silence softened. Until her hands clutched his shirt and wouldn’t let go. Until her breath steadied. Until he knew—

She still believed him. Even now. Especially now

Harry didn’t know how long she cried in his arms. But eventually—inevitably—she wore herself out.

Her breath slowed. Her grip on his shirt loosened. The weight of everything—the article, the shame, the dinner, the past she never asked for—tugged her under like sleep was the only mercy the night had left to give.

She fell asleep in his lap. Her face still pressed to his shoulder, lashes damp, fingers curled like a child’s against his ribs. He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let the room breathe again. Let the storm pass through him too.

Then, as gently as possible, he shifted. Lifted her carefully—arms beneath her knees and shoulders like she weighed nothing. She stirred for a second, murmured something against his chest, then went quiet again.

Harry laid her softly on the bed.

Paused. Looked at her for a long moment.

Then he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. Unfastened it slowly.

Pulled the silk down her body with reverence, like it was something holy. Like she was something holy. And she was. Even now, even like this—her hair clinging to her cheek, her eyes red from crying, her chest still heaving with the remnants of grief—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He dressed her in one of his shirts. The soft black one with sleeves too long for her arms. And a pair of drawstring sweats she always claimed were too big but wore anyway when she was cold.

Then he tucked her in. Folded the blankets up to her chin. Brushed her hair off her face. Kissed her cheek.

And when he pulled back, his throat ached. Because you could still tell she’d been crying. Even in sleep. Even with the room quiet again. Even with her tucked safe beneath layers and love and silence.

He stood there for a long time. Staring at her. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Then he turned. Slipped out of the room.

The hallway was still. The air sharp with Tuscan night.

He didn’t knock on Danny’s door. Just opened it.

Danny was still awake. Still at the desk. Still surrounded by printouts and screens and glowing things that wouldn’t stop blinking. He looked up the second Harry walked in, eyes bloodshot, tie loosened, jaw tight.

“I was about to come find you,” Danny said. “Livia’s phone is at the bottom of the sea and Lorenzo’s been calling since they docked.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him. Then stood there. For a beat. Two.

And finally, quietly—

“She’s not who they say she is.”

Danny blinked. “Okay.”

Harry stepped closer. Ran a hand down his face. Exhaled.

“She’s not a gold digger. She’s not after anything. She’s…she’s not trying to be anything other than someone who survived.”

Danny leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

Harry stared at the floor. “Her father was a fraud. The worst kind. Bankrupted counties. Destroyed families. Her brother—” he stopped, jaw clenched, then shook his head. “Her brother didn’t make it.”

Danny didn’t speak.

“And her mother?” Harry added. “Vanished. Moved to Europe. Left her with nothing. Not even a phone call.”

Danny’s face softened.

“She was twenty,” Harry said. “Barely twenty. All that chaos, all that press—people stalking her, blaming her, speculating. She left the country. Changed her name. Disappeared. She’s been rebuilding ever since.”

He paused. Looked up.

“I didn’t know until tonight.”

Danny nodded once. Still silent.

Harry walked to the desk. Put his hands flat on the surface.

“I’m canceling the deal.”

Danny blinked. “What—?”

“All of them,” Harry said. “Lorenzo. Paolo. Anyone else tied to this. Anyone who sat at that table and let her be humiliated.”

Danny exhaled.

“You sure?”

Harry looked at him. “They don’t respect me. And they sure as hell don’t respect her.”

Danny leaned back in his chair. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll shut it down. Pull the paperwork. Call legal.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll handle everything,” Danny added, voice quieter now.

Harry looked at him. Grateful.

Then he stepped back. One hand on the doorknob.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “As soon as she wakes up.”

Danny blinked. “New York?”

Harry nodded. “She needs to be home. Somewhere she can breathe.”

Danny was already typing. “I’ll have the jet ready.”

Harry lingered in the doorway for a second longer. Then left.

Back in the suite, the room was still dim. She hadn’t moved. The covers hadn’t shifted. Her hand was curled near her face, one wrist poking out from the sleeve of his shirt.

He moved slowly. Quietly. Started to pack. Not for the first time. But with a different kind of focus now.

He folded her things one at a time. Smoothed the fabric. Laid them in her suitcase with more care than he’d shown in any boardroom or billion-dollar negotiation. Every scarf. Every book. The dresses he bought her. The choker made of beads and string. Her sandals. Her sunglasses. Her hair pins.

He packed it all. Because she wouldn’t have thought to do it. Because she was still bleeding somewhere inside. Because she was asleep and exhausted and hurting and he loved her so much it ached.

He zipped the suitcase shut gently. Set it by the door.

Then packed his. Less carefully. More rough. He didn't care about his things as much as he cared about hers. He didn’t need much. Just whatever he needed to get her back safely.

When both suitcases were lined up by the door, he paused. Stared at them. His and hers. Side by side. Like they belonged to people who’d been married for ten years. Like this was just another business trip. Another morning. Another moment.

But it wasn’t. This was something else. This was a line in the sand. And he was choosing her. He was choosing her past. Her future. Her name. The shame she had to manage alone. Her silence. All of it.

Harry turned. Looked back at her. Still asleep. Still soft. Still his. And in that moment, something settled inside him. Something final.

She could’ve told him she was a storm. A wreck. A ruin. He still would’ve chosen her. Every time.

Her shame was his shame. He would defend her. Even if she killed somebody. No matter what the world said.

He crossed the room. Turned off the last lamp. Slipped into bed beside her. Didn’t wake her. Just slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close again.

She shifted slightly. Exhaled. Settled against his chest like gravity knew him.

And Harry—

Harry closed his eyes. Held her. And waited for morning. Because soon, they were going home.

It was still dark when she stirred.

No sunlight yet—just the blue of early morning crawling through the windows, brushing the stone floor like a whisper. Outside, the hills slept. The air was thick with silence, the kind that only exists just before dawn, when even the birds hesitate to speak.

Harry hadn’t slept much. He’d laid there, holding her, counting her breaths, his thumb brushing slowly over her ribs like the motion alone might protect her. He’d watched the hours crawl past on the little travel clock near the bed.

3:17. 4:09. 5:01.

He didn’t mind. So when her body tensed in his arms—barely a flinch, just the subtle stiffening of shoulders and the catch of breath—he noticed instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed his lips to her hair and held her tighter. Not enough to trap. Just enough to anchor.

She didn’t open her eyes. But he felt it—the dread blooming beneath her ribs, the way her breathing changed. Not panic. Not fear exactly.

Just pain. Old. Familiar. Worn thin like a favorite shirt.

And then, softly—his voice still rough with sleep, or maybe something gentler—

“Hey.”

She didn’t answer. So he tried again, this time brushing his thumb along her arm, soothing.

“It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then, “You’re safe.”

She shifted slightly. Tucked her face into his chest.

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. Small. “What time is it?”

He glanced toward the window. “Still early.”

Another pause.

Then—barely audible—

“Did it really happen?”

Harry exhaled.

And nodded against her temple. “Yeah.”

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

She just curled tighter into him, like the confirmation settled something—like she’d needed someone to say it out loud, to mark it real. To make it something they could move past.

He pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder.

Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We’re leaving,” he said softly. “In a little bit.”

She didn’t ask where. Didn’t ask why. But he told her anyway.

“Back to New York. Jet’s ready. Packed your things.”

That got a tiny flicker of something—a shift in her body. A breath caught between resistance and relief.

“I don’t want you doing all of this,” she said quietly.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t get a say.”

Her brows knit.

“I’m taking care of you,” he said. “Because I want to. Because I love you. And because you deserve someone who does it without being asked.”

He loves her. He said he fucking loves her.

She blinked. Soft. Unsure.

He ran a hand down her side, slow. Reassuring. Then he said it—what had been pressing into the base of his throat since last night.

“I don’t care about your past.”

She looked up at him then. Really looked.

Harry’s expression didn’t waver.

“I care that you had to go through it alone,” he said. “I care that no one protected you. That no one stood up for you. That people looked at you and saw the story instead of the person.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him, heart cracking open again—but slower this time. Less violent. Just a soft, slow unraveling in the face of something so rare it felt sacred.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me,” she whispered.

Harry’s hand moved up to her cheek. “I’m not fixing you. I’m loving you.”

She swallowed hard. And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.

“People don’t usually stay once they know.”

“I’m not people.”

He said it simply.

Firmly.

Like it was fact.

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

He tilted his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom.”

A beat passed. She blinked slowly.

Shrugged once. “She’s… she was traditional.”

Harry waited.

“She believed in casseroles and church and southern charm. Makeup on before eight. Hair done for the grocery store.”

He smirked faintly. “A real debutante?”

“Almost.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “She loved my dad. In the old way. Cooked for him. Stayed small so he could feel big. When he went down, she didn’t know how to stand on her own. So she left. Said she had nothing left to give.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“She wasn’t cruel,” she added softly. “She just didn’t know how to stay.”

He brushed her cheekbone with his knuckle.

“You stayed,” he said.

She looked up.

“And that’s why I’m here.”

That silenced her. For a long, quiet second.

Then—

She whispered, “I’m scared.”

Harry shook his head once.

“You don't have to be.” he said.

Then he leaned in.

Pressed his lips to her forehead.

And added, “I got you.”

They laid there a little longer.

Curled together in that fragile pre-dawn quiet, the world outside just beginning to stretch awake. When she finally pulled back and sat up, Harry was already moving—grabbing the hoodie he’d left out for her, slipping it over her shoulders before she could protest.

“I can dress myself,” she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “I know. I just like doing it.”

She rolled her eyes. But let him. Because she could tell. He needed to.

They didn’t talk much as they got ready.

She brushed her teeth slowly. Tied her hair up. Didn’t look in the mirror for too long. Harry moved around the room quietly, efficiently—double checking their bags then zipping them back up, folding a scarf he had forgotten she’d draped over a chair, making sure everything was in place.

He wouldn’t let her carry anything. Not even her tote.

When she reached for it, he shook his head. “No.”

“I can handle a tote.”

He didn’t respond. Just took it gently from her hands, added it to his shoulder. She didn’t argue after that.

Because the look in his eyes wasn’t about control. It was about care. He was holding the weight for both of them because he could. Because he wanted to.

Because after everything, she was still the only thing that mattered.

They left before the sun crested the horizon.

The villa was still half-asleep. Staff lights dimmed. The air thick with rosemary and earth and silence. Gravel crunched under their feet as they walked to the car, her sandals quiet, his steps deliberate.

Danny was already outside. Waiting in a hoodie and slacks, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

He looked up when he saw them. Gave Harry a nod.

“You’re set,” he said. “Jet’s prepped. Flight plan filed. Pilot’s already on deck.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Danny looked at her then. Something gentler in his expression.

“If you ever need someone to scream into a void with,” he said, “I’ve got access to a few very satisfying voids.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks, Danny.”

“I’ll stay back,” he added. “Wrap things up. Pull the plug on the deal. Handle any fallout.”

“You sure?” Harry asked.

Danny nodded once. “They don’t deserve the win. And you’ve got more important things to do.”

Harry clapped him once on the shoulder. Then opened the car door for her. She slid in slowly.

Looked out the window as Harry said a few more words to Danny—quiet, brief. Then he grabbed the suitcases. Loaded them into the back without fanfare. Climbed in beside her.

The driver pulled away without a word. The hills fell behind them. And the world turned pale. The sun hadn’t risen yet. But the sky was warming. That soft, tender blue that lives only between night and day.

She reached for Harry’s hand. Found it already waiting. Their fingers laced. She closed her eyes. And breathed.

Because they were going home. Together.

The word felt heavier now. Heavier than suitcases. Heavier than shame. Heavier than every whisper that tried to reduce her to headlines.

They boarded the jet without a word.

Harry helped her up the narrow staircase, his hand at the small of her back, quiet and unwavering. The stewardess greeted them softly—eyes down, voice respectful—as if she could feel the exhaustion radiating off their bodies like heat.

“We’ll be taking off in fifteen,” The stewardess said. “Can I get you anything before we do?”

“Breakfast,” Harry said, without looking away from her. “For two. And something sweet.”

The woman nodded. “Of course.”

They moved down the corridor, past the leather seats and polished wood and too-perfect lighting. The hum of money was everywhere—but quieter here. Like the jet knew not to interrupt.

When they reached the back, Harry paused.

His hand curled around the gold handle of the last door.

“I’ve never used this room,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “This room. Never had a reason.”

Then he opened the door. The bedroom was dimly lit. Soft grey walls. A wide bed draped in dark linen. A window near the headboard framed the sky like a painting still in progress.

He let her walk in first. And when she turned to face him— hair messy, still wearing his hoodie and sweats, no bra underneath, eyes red-rimmed but defiant—he saw her.

All of her. Everything she’d tried to bury under silence and shame.

And he wanted her. Not to distract. Not to possess. But to worship. To remind her she was still flesh and hunger and fire—not just a story someone else tried to write.

Harry shut the door. Locked it. Then crossed the room like gravity had lost its patience.

“Take it off,” he said, voice low, rough.

She looked up, breath catching. “What?”

He stepped closer. Fingers already curling beneath the hem of the hoodie. “I want to see you.”

Her heart thudded. Loud. Chaotic. But she lifted her arms.

Let him pull the sweatshirt up, over her head, exposing her bare chest beneath—soft and real and vulnerable in a way that made his throat ache.

He let the hoodie drop to the floor. Ran his hands down her arms slowly. Palms flat. Reverent.

Then he kissed her. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he was starving. Like if he didn’t taste her right now he might never breathe again.

She moaned into his mouth. Clutched his shirt. Dragged him closer.

His hands were everywhere. On her back. Her hips. Her ass. Gripping. Claiming.

He walked her back toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Without breaking anything at all except the air between them.

She hit the mattress with a gasp, and he followed—hovering over her, already pushing the sweats down her hips.

“Harry—”

“Lift.”

She did.

He peeled them off, slow and brutal, along with her underwear. Just skin and heat and the ache between her thighs that had been building for days.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

She spread her legs a little. Just enough. His gaze darkened.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, pulled her to the edge, and buried his face between her thighs like he was trying to erase everything the world had ever said about her.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

She gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting.

His tongue was filthy. Obsessive. He licked her like he owned her. Like he could solve her. Deep, slow drags that had her legs shaking, her mouth falling open, her body arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He kept going until she came. Hard. Loud. Her thighs trembling around his face, her hands clawing the sheets, her voice breaking on his name like a prayer turned pornographic.

He didn’t even pull away. Licked her through it. Tasted her like he’d waited his whole life for this exact moment.

And when she finally collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat on her lip—he stood.

Unbuckled his belt. Undid his pants. And pulled his cock out—already hard, already leaking, already furious.

He stroked it once. Twice. Then climbed over her.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want it.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He pushed in hard.

One thrust. Deep. All the way. She cried out. Clutched his back. He didn’t stop.

Fucked her deep and slow. Then harder. Faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cabin, obscene and beautiful and raw. She wrapped her legs around him, dragged him in deeper, begged for more.

“Fuck me, Harry. Please.”

“I am, baby,” he panted. “I fucking am.”

He kissed her like he couldn’t stand to be separate. Fucked her like she was his salvation. Every thrust was a promise. Every groan a declaration.

She came again. This time around his cock. Tight. Shaking. Screaming. And he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over. Fucked her from behind. One hand in her hair. The other gripping her hip like a threat. She gasped. Moaned. Took it all.

“Yours,” she kept saying. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

Harry lost it. Pulled out. Turned her back over.

Finished between her legs. On her stomach. Chest. Neck. Painted her in it. Marked her. Owned her.

Then collapsed beside her, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She smiled. Pulled his hand to her mouth. Kissed each finger.

“I love you too.”

The plane hadn’t even taken off yet. But they were already flying.

She laid sprawled against the sheets, hair wild, skin flushed, his breath still soft against her shoulder. The air was thick with them—salt, sweat, sex. That slow, sacred stillness that only came after being devoured and loved in the same breath.

She was half-asleep, cheek turned toward him, lips parted in that way that made his chest ache.

Harry didn’t move at first. Just looked at her. Let himself have the moment. Then, slowly, he sat up.

The room was dim, still gently humming with the lull of ascent. The window behind them glowed faintly with dawn—high above the clouds now, the sky soft and endless and blue.

He reached for the towel folded on the bench at the end of the bed. Not hotel standard—his own. Cashmere. Embroidered. Unused.

He wet it under the small sink in the en-suite, came back, and carefully cleaned her up. She barely stirred, just hummed faintly when the cool cloth passed over her thighs.

“There we go,” he murmured, brushing hair off her cheek. “All clean.”

She blinked once. A lazy, satisfied kind of blink.

He kissed her temple. Then stood, walking to the small built-in drawer beneath the bed. There was a sweater in there he’d forgotten about. Still neatly folded. Still faintly smelling of lavender and something long buried.

He paused. Fingers hovering. Then pulled it out.

A dark navy pullover. Soft. French. Lucy had bought it for him in Marseille—one of the last things she’d given him before the end. They’d fought on the flight home, he remembered. Screaming match over something stupid. She’d told him he was incapable of love. He’d thrown the sweater into this drawer the same night, not even bothering to take it out of the packaging.

He stared at it now. Then exhaled. And walked it back to the bed.

She’s not Lucy, he murmured to himself.

He gently slipped it over her arms. Over her head. Let the soft wool fall around her thighs like armor. Then found his boxers on the floor and tugged them gently up her legs, dressing her like she was a painting he needed to protect from the world.

She stirred faintly.

Eyes half-lidded. “You dressing me again?”

Harry smirked. “Better than leaving you cold.”

She smiled, drowsy and soft.

Then—knock knock. Sharp. Delicate.

Harry turned. The stewardess.

He moved quickly to the door, opening it just enough to keep the bedroom’s warmth from escaping.

“Breakfast,” she said politely, balancing a tray.

Harry nodded, took it from her silently, then shut the door with a finality that left no room for conversation.

He carried the tray to the bed and set it down gently. She was already sitting up, hair a mess, legs tucked beneath the sweater, blinking like she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

Harry handed her a fork.

“French toast,” he said. “Fruit. Coffee. Some kind of lemon tart.”

She blinked. “You ordered sweets?”

“I figured you deserved something sweet.”

That made her smile. They ate on the bed. Quiet. Close.

The toast was still warm, and the butter melted into the corners just right. She made a small sound when she took a bite of the lemon tart, the kind of sound that made his blood stir again.

He just watched her. Coffee in hand. Silent. Soft.

Her head eventually dropped to his shoulder. She sighed once. And passed out. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just sat there while her weight settled against him again, her breath even and deep, the hem of his sweater rising and falling with every exhale.

She was exhausted. Of course she was. She’d cried herself sick. Been exposed. Stripped bare in front of people who didn’t deserve her name in their mouths. Then fucked like a fever broke loose inside her.

He carefully slid her down onto the pillows, adjusted the blankets around her, then sat on the edge of the bed again—watching the sky change outside the window.

Halfway back to New York, his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Danny.

He declined the call. Not interested.

She was still asleep. Still curled in the sweater he’d forgotten he ever owned. One hand beneath her cheek. One leg tangled in the blankets.

Then—buzz. Text.

Danny: Call me. Urgent.

Harry frowned. Another buzz.

Danny: Her mother is here.

Danny: Screaming at staff. Security is trying to calm her down.

His body went still. Another buzz.

Danny: She showed up at the villa screaming. Wants to see her daughter. She said she saw the article.

Harry stared at the screen. Another text.

Danny: I told them not to let her in. She’s calling your name now. Saying she “just wants to talk.”

Another.

Danny: Harry, what do I do?

Harry stood. Carefully. Walked across the cabin. Set the phone down. Ran a hand through his hair.

Her mother. Her fucking mother.

He’d just listened to her talk about that woman like a ghost—someone who left. Someone who couldn’t love her out loud. And now she wanted to show up like it was convenient? Like her daughter hadn’t built a life from nothing?

Harry clenched his fists.

Everyone always came crawling back when there was something to gain. Exposure. Fame.

A second chance to rewrite their name into someone else's headline.

He walked back to the bed. Looked at her. Still sleeping. Still unaware. Still wrapped in a sweater she didn’t know the history of.

His chest burned. He grabbed his phone again. Typed.

Harry: Keep her out. I don’t care how loud she gets. She doesn’t go near the villa. She doesn’t see staff. She doesn’t speak to anyone.

Another buzz.

Danny: Understood.

Harry stood at the window. Watched the sky darken slightly as they shifted time zones. His jaw set. Because there was no version of this where he let that woman hurt her again. Not now. Not ever.

He turned. Looked back at the bed. She stirred again. Brow furrowed faintly. The way people do when dreams start to turn.

He walked back over.nSat down beside her. Smoothed a hand through her hair.

And whispered, just barely—

“I’ve got you.”

Because she was his now. And anyone who wanted to get to her—

Would have to go through him first.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, it was early morning in Cape Cod.

The light outside was muted, soft and winter-pale, filtering through the gauzy kitchen curtains with the kind of stillness that came before the wind. The house smelled faintly of salt and last night’s red wine, a half-empty bottle still perched on the edge of the farmhouse table like a leftover guest overstaying its welcome.

Lucy had been awake for hours. Not out of restlessness—but purpose.

Her phone had started buzzing at 5:42 AM. Her friend Chloe, the kind who always found drama before the tabloids did, had sent her a flood of texts with screenshots and breathless voice notes. Chloe didn’t even say good morning.

Chloe: Is this his girl? The one from the article? Because HOLY SHIT...Lucy! Her dad BANKRUPTED SO MANY PEOPLE.

Lucy sat upright in bed before the last text came through.

By six, she was in a robe and socks, laptop open, tea gone cold, eyes bloodshot. The article was everywhere.

Carrie Roth’s expose had detonated overnight. Comments flooded in faster than anyone could moderate. Twitter. Reddit. Instagram. Facebook mom groups. Even Pinterest threads had gotten hold of it. People were sharing old court documents. Yearbook photos. Deep-cut gossip from towns Lucy didn’t even know existed. But one name kept being repeated.

Harry Castillo’s new girlfriend.

And beneath it—

Lucy’s name. Because of course. Because people loved a narrative. Because somehow, Lucy had become the woman he left. The one who "couldn’t hold his attention."

And the new girl? The one with a scandalous past and a messy family? She’d become a headline. A warning. A fascination.

But what made Lucy’s stomach turn was the girl’s past. It was everywhere. Lucy scrolled. And kept scrolling. Until the comments began to turn.

The hate wasn’t just about her anymore. People were dragging Harry now. For being with her. For keeping her hidden. For falling in love with the kind of story that made people feel better about their own.

Lucy leaned back in her chair. Eyes heavy. Jaw tight.

The ocean outside was calm. The wind hadn’t picked up yet. The sky was still a pale bruise.

And then—

John stirred.

From the other room, Lucy heard the soft creak of floorboards as he walked into the kitchen. The sound of the cabinet door opening. The click of the kettle.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. John yawned, scratched his chest, and reached for a chipped ceramic mug. Still shirtless, still half-asleep, still painfully unaware.

Lucy stood. “I left my sweater in the bedroom.”

He nodded absently, watching the water start to boil.

When she disappeared down the hall, he looked around—glancing at her laptop only to check the time.

And that’s when he saw it. The image on the screen. The girl. The lobby. The headline.

He froze. Brows furrowing. Not at Harry. Not at the headline.

At her. The girl in the photo. The girl now being dragged by the entire internet.

When Lucy came back, sweater in hand, John didn’t look at her right away. Just pointed toward the screen with a slow, distracted gesture.

“I know her.”

Lucy blinked. “What?”

He finally turned to face her. “The girl. In the photo.”

Lucy frowned. Repeated herself again. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I actually know her.”

Lucy’s spine straightened. “From where?”

John set the mug down.

“I used to work her family’s events.”

Lucy blinked. “What events?”

“Down in South Carolina,” John said, pulling out a chair. “Back when I was just starting out. You know I picked up catering gigs before I moved to Brooklyn.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You served food at parties.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And her family, they threw a lot of them. Fundraisers. Galas. Birthday parties that probably cost more than our rent. She was always there, running around barefoot with a lemonade or hiding from the cameras. She hated being the center of attention.”

Lucy stared at him.

“I didn’t recognize her at first,” he admitted. “But seeing this photo again… yeah. That’s her. I used to help her sneak leftovers into her room because her mom was obsessed with diets. Sweet girl.”

Lucy’s mouth tightened.

“And after everything happened?” he went on. “She disappeared. Everyone thought she left the country. But she didn’t. She showed up in New York. Looking for work.”

He looked at Lucy then. “She reached out to me. Found me through a friend. Said she remembered I was working in restaurants. Needed a job. I helped her get hired at the same spot I was serving at.”

Lucy’s face went cold.

“She was a wreck, Luce. Quiet. Barely ate. Flinched when people raised their voices. But she worked harder than anyone.”

Lucy didn’t speak. Just crossed her arms slowly.

“And when she started getting noticed—when people started looking at her again—it wasn’t because she was chasing it,” John said. “It was because she couldn’t hide anymore.”

Lucy’s lips parted. Then closed again. John turned back to the kettle.

“I hope she makes it to the wedding,” he said simply.

The words struck her like a slap. Lucy blinked.

“I hope she’s okay,” John added. “I hope he takes care of her.”

Lucy didn’t answer. Just stood there, frozen in the doorway, holding onto the sleeves of her sweater like they were reins. She stared at his back.

Then said, flatly—

“You’ve always had a soft spot for stray dogs.”

John paused. Then turned around. His face wasn’t kind anymore. It was steady. And disappointed.

“She was just a kid,” he said. “A kid who lost everything.”

Lucy flinched. And John didn’t soften.

“She didn’t choose what happened to her family. She survived it. There’s a difference.”

Lucy turned away.

John exhaled, voice quieter now.

“Not everyone has parents who can pay half their mortgage, Luce.”

Silence. Lucy walked to the window. Stared out. She didn’t say anything else. Because what could she say?

That the girl Harry had chosen was someone John used to pity? That she couldn’t stand the idea of her being loved by a man who’d once called Lucy his home? That somewhere—buried beneath all the rage and insecurity—she was afraid Harry had found someone real?

Someone soft and haunted and full of the kind of truth Lucy had never had to carry? She didn’t say it.

She just stared out the window. While John sipped his coffee.

And the world, outside, kept burning.

─────

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[nathanbatemanfucker]

Let Me Go (No Puedo) Pt. III

summary: the day you meet Joaquin is the day you decide that you won’t fall for him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!wilson!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, eventual smut, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend, romantic tension, KISSING!!, angst

wc: 2,157

an: wanted to give you guys something while i try to finish laid in moss for mickey garcia. it’s really kicking my ass 😭 but it’ll be here soon, pls enjoy 🫶🏾

let me go (no puedo) masterlist | danny ramirez characters masterlist

Why had you not checked the weather before you left the house to go grocery shopping? It had been slightly cloudy when you were waiting for the bus, not in the smell of rain in the air. But, now as you stand under the entrance awning a few bags in tow its pouring down. There’s no way you can stand in the rain for the next bus, it doesn't come for at least 30 minutes.

You try to think fast— your first thought is Sam but he’s in D.C. probably with Joaquin, who is decidedly not an option ever. Maybe you could call Sarah if she isn’t chauffeuring Aj and Cass.

You’ve haven’t spoken directly to Joaquin in nearly two months, only hearing his voice in the background of your calls with Sam. And yet the feeling of his arms around you, of your hands linked together still haunts you whether you’re asleep or awake.

“Querida?” A familiar voice calls from behind you.

That dread that’s become familiar, the one that’s marked by grieving something that you can’t have settles into your belly.

Turning around you meet Joaquin’s warm gaze. It’s clear that he’s happy to see you and whole part of you returns the sentiment you know that if you let yourself sink into him, you’ll betray Sam. Some of the only true family you’ve ever known.

“What are you doing here?” It comes out more harshly than anticipated.

“Sarah asked me to come look at the roof, said it was leaking again and I happened to be free.” He glances outside and sees the rain before asking, “Did you take the bus here?”

You completely ignore his question, still stuck on the fact that he was invited here by Sarah. While Sam is gone. Does Sam know? Why hadn’t Sarah told you? Warned you?

“Sarah knows you’re here,” You murmur, mostly to yourself.

Joaquin frowns, laughing a little awkwardly— sibling conflict again he imagines. “Yes. Querida, what’s—“

“Does Sam know you’re here?”

Joaquin’s shoulders tense ever so slightly. “No. But, I don’t know where he is either. It’s not a secret.”

“If he called right now, would you tell him?”

Joaquin purses his lips, studying you. You look…sad. Nervous. Defensive. He isn’t sure he understands why you’re speaking to him like this, especially after the time you spent together. Gently, he asks, “Why don’t you just let me drive you home?”

“That isn’t really a good idea.”

“And letting you and you groceries get soaked is? You’ll get sick, hermosa.”

You hesitate, gripping the handles of your paper bags a little tighter. A gust of wind sweeps through, sending a spray of rainwater onto your shoes. You glance outside once more, at the heavy downpour and the growing puddles on the pavement. Then you look down at your bags, flimsy under the weight of your groceries. They won’t survive the walk, even if you do.

Damn it.

“Fine,” you mutter, shifting the bags in your arms.

Joaquin doesn’t gloat or tease, just reaches to take them from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t stop him.

The silence in the car is suffocating.

The low hum of the engine, the rhythmic swish-swish of the windshield wipers, the occasional ping of rain against the hood—every sound feels louder in the thick tension between you.

Joaquin’s hands flex on the steering wheel, his jaw tight as he watches the road. You’re acutely aware of the way the space between you crackles, something unspoken stretching and fraying with each passing second. The scent of his cologne lingers in the cabin, sharp and familiar, pulling at something deep in your chest.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs, trying to focus on the rain-streaked window instead of the warmth radiating from his body.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this.” His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

Your head snaps toward him. “Like what?”

“Like I did something to you.” His knuckles are white where they grip the wheel, but he doesn’t look at you. “Like we didn’t—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Like we didn’t what? Like you didn’t let him in? Like you didn’t lose yourself in the way he held you?

Like you didn’t want more?

The words sit heavy in the space between you, unsaid but understood.

A red light forces Joaquin to slow, and for the first time since getting in the car, he turns to look at you. His gaze is unreadable, but there’s something intense simmering beneath the surface. His fingers drum once against the wheel before he speaks again, softer this time.

“You can hate me all you want, querida. But don’t lie to yourself. Don't pretend that it was nothing.”

The words echo in your mind, settling somewhere deep in your chest, a slow-burning ember that refuses to die.

You should say something—deny it, argue, deflect—but your throat is tight, and your heart is hammering, and all you can do is stare ahead, fingers clenched in your lap.

Joaquin doesn’t push any further, letting you sit with what he said. He just drives, his grip firm on the wheel, profile sharp in the dim glow of passing streetlights.

The heat is on low, the air just warm enough to cut through the dampness clinging to your skin, but you feel feverish, restless. You shift again, pulling your sleeves over your hands, trying to steady yourself.

The next few minutes are silent, laced with something you don’t want to name.

Then, his fingers move. Just barely—his right hand flexes, his thumb dragging over his palm like he wants to reach for you. Like it’s muscle memory. Like he has to remind himself not to.

You swallow hard and force yourself to look out the window instead, at the familiar route to your place. You’re almost home. Almost free of this.

But that word lingers in your head—lie. The way he said it, the way he sees right through you. It terrifies you.

The car slows as he pulls up to your building. Joaquin puts it in park but doesn’t kill the engine. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face before resting it on his thigh.

“I’ll carry them in,” he says before you can argue. His tone is firm, leaving no room for debate.

You could fight him on it, but exhaustion has settled deep in your bones, and the faster you get inside, the faster this night can end. So you just nod, pushing open the door and stepping into the cold drizzle.

Joaquin turns the car off and follows after you, pulling the grocery bags from the back seat. His broad frame moves easily despite the weight, and you hate how natural it looks—him carrying your things, walking beside you, like he belongs here.

Inside, the apartment is dim and quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge. Joaquín steps in behind you, his presence too big for the small space.

His eyes roam, taking in the books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the blanket draped over the couch, a framed photo of you and Sam on the bookshelf. There’s a softness in his gaze, something unreadable but heavy, and you don’t know what to do with it.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.” It comes out softer than intended.

Joaquin just nods and sets the bags down. You busy yourself immediately, pulling out damp paper sacks and sorting groceries. He helps, wordlessly separating pantry items from fridge ones, though he doesn’t go any further—he doesn’t know where anything belongs.

The quiet should be suffocating, but it’s not. It’s thick, weighted, full of everything left unsaid.

Then, he shivers. It’s barely noticeable at first, just a subtle tremor. But then another one runs through him, more violent this time, and you catch the way he presses his lips together, as if trying to suppress it.

“Quieres té?” The question slips out before you can think twice.

Joaquín glances at you, surprised. Then, after a beat, he nods. “Si, por favor.”

You move around the kitchen, lighting the stove and setting the kettle on. The motions are automatic, grounding, an antithesis to the energy between you. You don’t look at him as you prepare it, and he doesn’t speak, just watches as you slide a mug in front of him.

The two of you sit side by side at your kitchen island, perched on the barstools, hands wrapped around warm colorful ceramic.

The silence stretches, thick with tension—not the sharp-edged kind that begs for an argument, but something quieter, heavier. Sadder. There’s a finality in the air if you let it be…but you don’t want to.

You don’t Joaquin to walk out the door thinking that you hate him. That you hate the idea of being with him.

So, barely above a whisper, you say it. “I don’t hate you.”

Joaquin stills.

You don’t look at him, staring down into your tea instead, watching the steam curl into the air. “I don’t. I could never hate you. I hate that I can’t have you.”

His fingers tighten around his mug. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. But you feel it—his focus, his quiet intensity. He listens. And you keep talking.

“I hate that for the first time in years I’m interested in someone that could be good for me and it can’t go anywhere. I hate that you’re the Falcon— that your job is to back up my brother, the person that saved me life.”

Joaquin watches you as you rant, his gaze unreadable—until it softens into something tender and devastatingly patient. His hand lifts, fingers grazing your cheek so lightly it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with your clothing being rain soaked.. You should pull away, stop this before it spirals further, but when his thumb brushes just beneath your eye, tracing the weight of everything said and unsaid, you break.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to deny him, but you don’t.

You can’t.

And when his lips finally meet yours, it’s nothing like you expected—no urgency, no desperation. Nothing but warmth just like when he held you close a couple months ago. Steady, grounding, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have. Your body betrays you instantly, softening into him, hands grasping at his jacket as if anchoring yourself to something real.

He moans quietly into your mouth and you become acutely aware that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be. You should never know what Joaquin tastes like, but you’ll never be able to forge it.

You push him away— angry at yourself, angry at him for letting this happen. In the same moment, you know that you want it again and again. The feeling of his lips on yours is something you’ve never felt before. You have been kissed and coveted many times in your life but nothing has ever made you feel so…safe.

Loved.

The thought makes your anger burn brighter. This is so fucking stupid. Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to be so persistent? Why did he have to be everything you’ve ever wanted?

He takes a step towards you and you take a step back. “Don’t,” You command sharply, glaring at him.

His hands go up, eyes rising. He swallows loudly, “I thought—thought it was what you wanted.”

“Stop trying to give me what I want when I tell you that I can’t have it. No podemos hacer esto, entiendes? Don’t you fucking get it? I won’t do that to him and you shouldn’t either.”

“So we’re supposed to be miserable for the rest of our lives because of your brother? A stupid fucking code that the two of you made up?”

“My brother, is your best friend, my brother means the world to us both so yes. Exactly. Except, you’ll meet someone, Joaquin. You’ll meet someone who will make you happy and eventually you forget that we ever met. Whatever you feel for me it’ll pale in comparison.”

“I couldn’t forget you.”

“Then you’ll realize we were never supposed to meet. I hate that too.”

Joaquin’s voice is deathly quiet when he speaks again. “Hate what?”

“That we ever met!”

He looks at you like you’ve just slapped him across the face— completely astonished and for several moments he’s completely silent. Processing the fact that you would ever say that to him.

“Maybe it’s you, then, that needs to forget,” He suggests, his voice uncharacteristically cold.

With those words, he peels his jacket off the back of the bar stool and leaves, the door shutting in a painfully gentle way behind him.

You don’t try to stop him, or chase after him. You know that you’ve lost that privilege for good.

It’s finally over; that’s for the best.

> pt. iv

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