a-goose-on-mars

[a-goose-on-mars]

Am I the only one who finds the term Pedrosexual cringe

[a-goose-on-mars]

Dirty Work

When you need a bit of lovin' 'Cause your man is out of town That's the time you get me runnin' And you know I'll be around

Your husband should've known better than to leave you all alone in that big house with Joel Miller.

----------------------

no outbreak contractor!Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings/Tags: no outbreak au, author rambles, infidelity, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), joel miller is a man of few words and multiple orgasms

(this has been sitting in my drafts for over a year and i finally got the motivation to finish it, it's a bit of a re-imagination of the first fic I wrote because I <3 kitchen sex)

Read below or on AO3 ->

It was wrong. You were married. You’d said “I do.” In sickness and in health. ‘Til death and all of that. You had moved across the country for him; left your friends and family behind. You quit your job for him. You cooked for him. You cleaned for him. You were talking about trying for a baby, even. He loved you, and you loved him.

But your husband was gone on business trips increasingly frequently. You saw a smudge of red lipstick — not your shade — on the collar of his shirt when you did his laundry. He’d moved you to Texas, where you knew no one, and left you all alone in a big house that he insisted on making even bigger. Maybe he expected you to look elsewhere, too.

The house he bought had only been built a couple of years ago, the one that you’d described to your oldest friend as a temple to bland opulence. Naturally, your husband thought it needed to be updated. Expanded upon. A new detached garage and a complete kitchen renovation were good places to start, he supposed. He told you the kitchen renovation would be your “little project,” the garage his, and made sure to tell the contractors there was no budget before he set off for his second business trip that month.

Your husband showed affection by letting you spend as much money as you could and occasionally with increasingly passionless sex. The former was more satisfying, and so you told the contractors you wanted the most expensive Carrara marble countertops they could track down.

Miller Contracting came highly recommended to your husband by your new neighbor Mrs. Collins, who said they were a "pure joy to have around.” You understood why: the brothers were very handsome. The older one caught your eye especially. He introduced himself as Joel, wiping grime onto his pants before offering his hand and a preemptive apology for the mess. Sometimes you had a hard time pulling your gaze from his broad shoulders. A single curl at the nape of his neck would entrance you. More than once, you found yourself staring at the tool belt slung low around his hips—a hammer pushing the hem of his shirt up just enough to expose his tanned torso. He was completely oblivious to how hot and bothered his mere presence made you, which somehow made you want him even more. It wasn’t normal how many times a week you found yourself with your hand down your pants thinking of Joel. It couldn’t be normal that you fantasized it was Joel, not your husband, sleeping next to you on the rare occasion your husband was home.

You needed a distraction from temptation. You tried to make a life for yourself in Austin. Or, if not a life, at least keep yourself occupied and out of the house. Tennis and shopping and massages could only fill so much of the void. You busied yourself with various boards and societies and leagues at your husband’s request: it was a good way to make connections, he said, to make friends before you start having kids.

In the beginning, your interactions with Joel were brief and practical. Joel would ask about fixture placements or clarify blueprints the architect had drawn up, and you’d find yourself too focused on the veins in his forearms to respond right away. Once, when Tommy was running late, he asked you to hold a two-by-four steady while he cut it, and you stood shoulder to shoulder, the sharp scent of sawdust and his skin overwhelming your senses. You felt the vibration of the saw through the board and wondered what it would feel like to touch him, just for a moment. When he looked up, your eyes met for a fraction too long. Neither of you said anything.

Joel stayed late one evening, finishing the countertop installation long after Tommy had gone home for the day. You offered him a celebratory drink and he accepted to your surprise, leaning against the island with you. The silence between you stretched, not awkward but thick. When he set the glass of your husband’s whisky down, his fingers brushed yours. You didn’t move away. He looked at you for a long moment, then back at the glass.

“She’s gorgeous, Joel,” you murmured, drawing your fingers along the length of the new marble countertop. The slab was cold and smooth beneath your palm, a coolness at odds with the heat rising up the back of your neck. It was your favorite slab out of the four you’d vetted with Joel, the one you’d insisted upon even when he warned you about its endless tendency to stain, how every glass of red wine or ring of coffee would etch a memory into it forever. Still, you wanted it, and so, there it was: a swirl of creamy white, mottled and streaked, luminous under the new pendant lights. You slid your hand across the veiny surface all the way to the edge and back again.

The rest of the house felt hollow, half-lit by the lingering sunset, but here the air was thick and warm with spice and plaster dust and the faintest trace of sandalwood—Joel’s deodorant, you’d realized, after catching a whiff of it more than once on his discarded shop towels. The kitchen was only lit by a work lamp on the floor behind you, casting your shadows onto the new, bare wall in front of you.

Joel glanced up from his glass at you, a smirk spreading across his face, “mhm,” he nodded in agreement, “real beauty.”

You raised your glass, whisky trembling among an oversized ice cube, and with a gleeful bravado you declared, “To the most beautiful countertop this side of the Mississippi.” Joel suppressed an amused snort but dutifully picked up his own glass and held it toward yours. His hands were broad and nicked in places with old scars; the juxtaposition of a laborer’s calluses wrapped around a delicate tumbler made your pulse quicken. As the glasses met with a restrained clink, the sound sparked in the stillness like the strike of a match.

The whisky scorched a path down your throat, igniting a heat in your chest that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the man sitting six inches from you. The discrepancy between the polite, measured conversation and the animal yearning in the air made you giddy, almost lightheaded. You felt like a teenager who’d never been kissed, pulse racing.

Joel’s voice startled you, the low register of it vibrating through your chest. “Is your husband gonna mind that I’m here this late?” he asked, and the words fell into the heavy air like an ice cube shattering on tile. You could tell he regretted them as soon as they were out—his jaw flexed, a faint flush blooming along his cheekbones. The question itself was so at odds with the moment you’d both let yourselves slip into. You’d half expected him to lean in, to close the last gap between your faces, but instead he’d summoned your husband back into the room.

You searched Joel’s face, trying to decide if he cared about the answer or was simply fishing for a reason to excuse himself before something happened. Maybe he was only being gentlemanly. Maybe it was a test, and you’d already failed by not mentioning your husband first. Maybe you’d misread the entire situation and made a fool out of yourself.

“Not like he’s here to know,” you said, and it came out much sharper than intended. You cringed in the next instant, hating the way the bitterness in your voice had hung a hard, ugly edge on the air. You hadn’t meant it as confession, or even as a complaint. You didn’t elaborate, didn’t ask Joel to consider the last time he’d seen him there, though you hoped he thought about it.

You tried to remember what rules governed these sorts of situations. Was fidelity measured in minutes, in miles, in the number of times your husband remembered to call you before bed? Was loyalty a question of what you did, or what you wanted to do? Every woman in your family had opinions on this—your sisters, your aunts, your own mother. You’d heard them compare marriages by the way their men failed them: the ones who drank, the ones who gambled, the ones who left red marks and bruises.

You understood that every marriage was an accumulation of secret grievances, some profound and some petty, most never spoken aloud. Your mother’s plight was familiar: the husband and father who spent all day in the garage with an AM radio and a case of Bud Light, the one who started out promising all the right things but, by their fifteenth anniversary, didn’t even pretend to believe in anniversaries at all. Your Aunt Lisa’s husband once spent the mortgage payment on poker. Aunt Carla’s husband crashed a car into a neighbor’s fence and blamed it on an allergy pill. And the women, for all their complaints, hung on. You watched as they grew used to disappointment and pain.

Your husband didn’t yell or drink or gamble. He wasn’t cruel, not really. Instead, he was just … gone. When he finally returned home from a trip, he was tired, and when he wasn’t tired, he was distracted. He bought you nice things and urged you to spend freely to fill the void. His unprovable infidelities seemed inconsequential comparatively.

You’d never allowed yourself to say it, certainly not to anyone who really knew you, and especially not to him. You told yourself it wasn’t so bad. You told yourself that you didn’t deserve to complain, not when other women had it so much worse. The truth was that you wanted to be seen, and touched, and loved, in a way that didn’t feel perfunctory or purely transactional.

You wondered: if you had children, would this be the version of marriage they’d inherit? Would your daughters one day sit in their own kitchens with their own friends and think back on their mother with sadness and a twinge of pity? Would your sons learn to vanish as a means of survival? Maybe this was just how it was, and always would be.

You did not tell Joel about your birthday last year, when your husband hadn’t called from New York: you celebrated by ordering takeout and eating it, cross-legged, on the living room carpet with the TV on mute in fear of missing the phone ring. You did not tell him about the feeling that had crept up on you that night: something like grief, but also like relief, as if you’d finally been granted permission to admit that you were completely alone. You did not tell him about the time you’d found your husband’s text messages to an assortment of women with unfamiliar names, or the way you’d convinced yourself it didn’t matter, since he’d never admit to it and you didn’t care to bring up. You didn’t tell him how you sometimes lay awake for hours, the ceiling fan spinning its blades like a roulette wheel and tried to imagine a version of your life where you didn’t have to wait for someone to finally come home to you.

The unspoken truth was this: you had already left your husband. You’d just never had a witness to it before.

Could Joel see all of this in your face? Was he quietly adding up your loneliness and cataloguing it alongside all the other minor tragedies he encountered on the job. Maybe he’d heard it all before. Maybe every house he worked in was just a different flavor of the same sadness. Bored housewife after bored housewife, looking for an outlet.

You didn’t owe Joel the whole story — couldn’t have given it if you tried — so instead you watched the way he took your answer, slow and considerate, his hands fitting around the glass as if he might squeeze it into something new.

You became hyper-aware of everything: how close you and Joel were standing, how neatly his boots aligned with your bare feet on the hardwood, how the light from the work lamp painted you both in muddled relief against the still-blank wall. He smelled faintly of sweat and something comfortable—laundry, warm skin. It made your stomach clench.

You reached for your glass again, but Joel gently took it from you and set it on the counter. He didn’t break eye contact. He didn’t lean in, not exactly, but his presence tilted towards you, shifting the gravity in the room. You saw the subtle tremor in his hand as he placed your drink down.

“Tell me to leave,” he whispered, as if he was afraid the house might overhear.

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

You stared at each other through the silence, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw your distinct shadows cast on the wall by the work lamp become one.

His mouth was on yours before you had a chance to breathe. Hot, rough, desperate.

He broke the kiss only to lift you—strong hands gripping beneath your thighs, setting you on your new countertop like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your knees parted instinctively, heart thundering, pulse thrumming so loud it filled your ears.

His hands slipped under your dress. Callused fingers dragging up your thighs slowly, reverently, igniting sparks under your skin. And then he paused, his hand stalling along your wet slit.

His eyes met yours, dark and burning. And then he crouched down, nudging your legs over his shoulders as he dove between them.

You made a sound — breathy, shaky, resembling his name — but he was already there. Already sinking to his knees, already kissing up the soft, trembling inside of your thigh. His mouth was hot and open, each press of his lips reverent and greedy, his stubble rasping your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. When his teeth scraped gently, teasing, you flinched. You didn’t care if he left a mark. You wanted him to. Something to find in the mirror tomorrow, a secret bruise that would confirm that this was not just a dream.

The first swipe of his tongue through your folds made your hips jerk like you’d touched something electric, your spine bowing as your fingers slammed down onto the countertop behind you with a loud, ungraceful thud. A breath left you like a punch. “Fuck,” you gasped, eyes fluttering.

Your husband had never just… dove in like that. Never knelt between your legs like he couldn’t wait, like it was an instinct, like he’d die if he didn’t taste you. The few times he’d gone down on you had been cautious, transactional—bookended by negotiations and implied debts. You’d had to convince him. And afterward, you’d had to fake your moans so he’d think he was doing a good job. Bastard.

But Joel—he groaned like he meant it, like he’d been starving for this. That sound vibrated into you, low and raw, and then he latched onto your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. Your knees nearly buckled. You barely kept yourself upright with one hand gripping the counter, the other tangled in his hair, fisting it tight. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned in harder, letting you use him for balance while his mouth ruined you.

You came fast. So fast it shocked you, ripped the breath from your lungs. One second you were gasping, the next you were gone, unraveling with a strangled cry. The orgasm crashed over you like a wave that didn’t wait for permission, hot and dizzying, legs trembling around his shoulders as your stomach seized and fluttered and let go. Your head tipped back against the cabinet behind you, jaw slack, fingers still clutching his hair.

When the white faded from your vision, Joel was still there, slow and deliberate now, licking you through the aftershocks, as if easing you back down. As if soothing the very nerves he’d just lit on fire.

You breathed out his name then and finally loosened your grip, letting your hand fall to his shoulder. Your legs were still shaking. You weren’t sure they’d hold you.

Somehow, you found the strength to lift them, one then the other, back down to the floor. It wasn’t graceful. You slid off the counter, your thighs sticky and weak, bracing yourself as your feet hit the ground. Joel looked up at you, lips wet, pupils blown wide.

Joel stood, chest heaving, face slick with you, eyes dark and dazed, and kissed you again. You tasted yourself on his tongue and the whole thing felt perverted and wrong — and you didn’t care.

He pulled back just enough to speak, a string of his spit clinging between you.

“You come like that for your husband, darlin’?”

You shook your head, breath still catching. God, you’d never come like that for anyone.

Joel’s lips curved, slow and smug, but there was something else in it too, something awed. Like he was proud of what he’d done to you. Like he wanted to do it again just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

“Thought so,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek, then dragging it down your jaw, tracing the edge of your lips. “You had that … look.”

Before you could interrogate him – what fucking look? – he kissed you again. You pulled him closer, feeling the hard press of him through his jeans.

He shifted against you, so slightly, but the friction made you gasp. You thought you couldn’t handle anymore but the weight and heat of him gave you a second wind. He kissed you deeper, his hands sliding up your sides, your dress somehow still on.

Your hand slid down to feel him, fingers fiddling with his belt in a poor attempt to get his pants off.

You wrapped your hand around him and felt his cock twitch in anticipation of your next movement. You stroked him once, maybe twice, your thumb teasing along the head, slick with precome.

“Shit,” Joel hissed, jaw tightening. His hips jerked forward into your fist.

But then he grabbed your wrist, fingers curling around it tight, pulling your hand away like he was barely holding on. “Don’t — fuck, darlin’, don’t.”

You looked up at him, breathless, eyes wide, scared you’d crossed a line.

“I’ll come in your fuckin’ hand if you keep that up,” he growled, voice thick with warning — raw, half-wrecked, smirk spreading across his face. “An’ I’m not done with you yet.”

You hopped back up on the counter in excited anticipation.

“Uh uh,” he tutted, pulling you off the counter.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

Joel’s brow furrowed, mouth still red and wet from where he'd had you moments ago.

“The marble,” he said, nodding toward the countertop. “Ain’t fuckin’ you on it. You’re soaked, darlin’, and I warned you that a speck of dust could stain this thing.”

You almost laughed before he lifted you with one arm, the head of his cock still pressed against you, and shifted down to the floor in one practiced movement. He sat back against the kitchen island, legs spread, pulling you into his lap. You were both completely naked by now, clothes stripped at some point.

Joel’s cock slapped up against your belly and you reached for it, blindly greedy, wrapping your hand around the thickness, feeling the pulse of heat radiating upward into your palm. You glanced down at the length of it, envisioning how much it would fill you up. His skin was burning, lined with veins that throbbed under your touch; his whole body was wound tight, muscles bunched and trembling from holding back.

You tilted your hips up and guided the head to your entrance, stroking it through your slick, and then with a slow, deliberate motion, you pressed down. The stretch was immediate, stinging, and so, so good. You gasped and let your head fall back, the sudden fullness threatening to buckle your knees even though you were already straddling him on the kitchen floor. Joel gripped your hips in both rough hands and held you steady, but didn’t force you. He let you take him at your own pace, patient but obviously desperate, his teeth bared against a groan as you settled into his lap.

“Fuck. Yeah. That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled, voice low and tight, watching you through narrowed, dark eyes. “Sit right there on my cock.” It sounded like an offering.

You rocked your hips, tentative at first, and the movement made both of you moan at the same time. You braced yourself backwards on Joel’s legs until he leaned forward, hands still bracketing your waist, catching one of your breasts in his mouth and circling your nipple with his tongue.

You shifted your hands to his shoulders, gripping tight, using the strength of his body to steady yourself. Then you lifted and dropped your hips, finding your rhythm as heat coiled deep in your belly.

Joel groaned against your breast, then lifted his head, mouth dragging open and wet along your jaw, up to your ear. His hands left your hips to tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth to his, breath mingling, sweat slick between you.

“This what you need?” he rasped, voice muffled against your jaw.

You could only nod, words lost to the pleasure, your body answering for you as you rolled your hips again and again, chasing the edge he kept dragging you toward.

You kept riding him, slower now but deeper, each thrust sending sparks up your spine. The kitchen floor had vanished beneath you: there was only the heat, the slide, the stretch of him filling you again and again.

But your thighs were shaking harder now, the burn setting in - weak and quivering with every lift of your hips. Your rhythm faltered, a soft whimper slipping from your mouth as your legs began to give out beneath you.

Joel felt you tremble.

“I’ve got ya,” he growled, and suddenly his grip on your waist turned commanding, solid.

Before you could even brace yourself, he thrust up into you — hard, deep, relentless.

You cried out, the air knocked from your lungs, and clung to his shoulders as he took over.

His hands guided you, slamming you down onto his cock as he drove up to meet you. The new angle hit something inside you. Your moans turned ragged, your fingers clawing into flesh.

“Fuck, Joel –” you gasped.

“Yeah?” he grunted, fucking up into you harder now, his breath hot and broken against your neck. “Needed this, didn’t’ya darlin’?”

You nodded wildly, terrified he might stop. Your body was coming apart, unraveling under him. The slap of your bodies echoed off the tile and cabinets, the slick, desperate rhythm of it building and building and building.

He was unrelenting now, chasing the edge with single-minded focus, sweat slicking his skin, his thigh muscles tensing beneath you with every upward drive. You clung to him, helpless against the force of it, your mouth parted in a soundless cry as your orgasm crested fast and vicious.

It slammed into you like a wave breaking against rock. You jerked in his lap, spine arching, every muscle seizing. Part of you tried to escape, the stimulation too much, but Joel held you tight in his arms. A strangled sob left your throat as your vision whited out. You clenched down around him, and Joel groaned.

“Jesus—fuck—” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands bruising your hips now, holding you down as he drove up once, twice more before burying himself to the hilt with a growl and spilling into you.

Neither of you moved, your forehead pressed against the sweat-dampened skin of his neck.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough and low against your hair.

You could barely hear, heartbeat pounding in your eardrums as the room finally stopped spinning. You gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Joel shifted, lifting a hand to cup the back of your head.

“Didn’t mean to take over like that,” he murmured, suddenly bashful. “You just — uh, you started fallin’ apart on me.”

You exhaled a shaky breath. A beat passed, then another, before you managed a weak, breathless laugh—hoarse and low.

“You think I’m complaining?”

His chest rumbled beneath you with a muted chuckle, but he didn’t let you go. Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move except to hold you tighter, like letting go might undo the whole moment.

And maybe it would.

[a-goose-on-mars]

currently lying awake. staring at the ceiling. knowing that the materialists is not being released in the uk until august.

[a-goose-on-mars]

Somebody to Love

Pairing: Harry Castillo x waitress!reader

Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.

Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning

WC: 7.6K

A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.

The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.

Well, more like pouring, actually.

You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.

Harry.

He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.

That's when he spotted you.

He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.

"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"

You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"

He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.

"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.

You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.

"This is... good."

You giggled. "Thanks."

"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."

"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.

"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.

"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.

The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.

There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.

And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.

Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.

"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.

He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.

"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."

"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.

He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.

When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.

"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."

He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.

"I learn from my mistakes."

He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.

You had hoped it was the latter.

About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.

You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.

Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.

Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.

"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.

"Nothing that can't wait."

"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.

"You're worth waiting for."

It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.

"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."

"So what if I am?"

You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.

"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.

"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."

He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.

When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.

"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.

"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"

"Is that when you're free?"

You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."

You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.

"Anywhere?"

He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.

"Anywhere."

"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.

"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.

"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.

"Nova it is."

You laughed and shook your head.

"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"

"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.

"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"

"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.

"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."

He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."

He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.

You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.

"He's here!"

"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"

You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.

"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.

"It's Harry."

You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.

"What does he do again?"

"Who fucking cares!"

"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.

"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.

"I'm Harry—"

"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."

Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.

"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"

"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.

"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.

"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.

"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"

The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.

Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.

"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.

An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.

Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.

"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.

"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.

If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.

"You look—"

You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.

"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."

He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.

"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."

Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.

"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.

"Thank you," you murmured shyly.

The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.

"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.

You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.

"What? I never told you?"

You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.

"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.

And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.

"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.

"You said—"

"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"

You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?

Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.

"Ready?"

You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.

It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.

A far cry from your diner.

"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.

Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.

"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.

Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.

"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"

You giggled and nodded.

"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."

"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."

Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.

"Do what?"

"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."

"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."

"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.

When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.

"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"

"Red."

"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.

You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.

"That sounds really expensive."

"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.

"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"

He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

You nodded and leaned forward, as well.

"I can't tell the difference, either."

You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.

"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.

"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."

After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.

"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."

You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.

"Amber."

He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.

"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"

"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.

Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.

"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."

He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.

You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.

"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.

"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.

"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.

"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.

You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.

"Sounds... interesting."

"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.

"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"

He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.

"I'm good at it."

"But do you like it?"

"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"

You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.

After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.

Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?

"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"

He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.

"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."

Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.

The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.

It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.

"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.

"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."

You frowned, confused.

"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."

"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.

"Yeah. Of course."

He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"

He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.

"I sure as hell hope so."

He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.

"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.

Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

"Can I kiss you?"

He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?

You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.

He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.

You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.

He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.

Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.

You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.

That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.

"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.

"Maybe I should — I should take you home."

You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:

"Or you can show me where you live."

He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.

"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.

"Yep."

"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.

The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.

"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.

Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.

"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.

"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."

They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.

The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.

"Penthouse?" you squeaked.

He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.

Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.

You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.

Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"

He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.

"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.

"Do you like it?"

It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.

"Yes. I do."

You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.

"Then I like it, too."

His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.

When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.

"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.

"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.

You grinned. "I don't care."

Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.

In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.

You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.

His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.

Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"

You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.

"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."

You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.

He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.

When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.

He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.

He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.

"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.

You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.

"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.

He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.

He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.

"You borrow these, too?"

You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.

"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.

"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.

"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."

You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.

"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.

"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."

It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.

He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.

"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."

He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.

So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.

"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."

The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.

He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.

"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"

His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.

He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.

"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.

"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."

Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.

"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.

"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.

You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.

He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.

"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.

"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.

Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.

In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.

"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.

You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.

"Did you just move in?"

He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."

He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.

"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."

"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"

His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.

"Yeah, that's right."

You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.

"I have a confession to make."

Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.

"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.

"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.

"How about both?"

You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."

As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.

"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."

Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."

You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.

"I know."

Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.

[a-goose-on-mars]

OH. MY. GOD.

Swept Away: Season Two

Chapter Seven: Come Clean

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: You and Joel deal with the fallout from the fight and the big secret finally gets revealed.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, physical violence, lots of anxiety, descriptions of injuries, reader has a little bit of a depresh but she'll be alright, have I mentioned reader has a strained relationship with her parents?

WC: 5.3K

Series Masterlist

It was finally quiet.

Darkness spilled into the room from outside. It was darker than usual — storm clouds rolled in off the ocean and threatened to dump buckets of rain any minute. The clock next to the bed flashed close to three in the morning. In front of it sat an orange opaque bottle of pain pills. Joel had taken one and fallen asleep thirty minutes later, but you were still wide awake, replaying the events from that evening, wide eyes pinned to the ceiling fan above your heads.

"Did you fuck my wife, Joel?"

Scott yelled it so it echoed throughout the lobby. Workers and the random guest still floating around late at night whipped around to stare.

Joel looked stunned. He blinked, mouth agape, as he struggled to answer. His eyes flashed briefly to Tammy, who had her arms wrapped around her middle, hovering over Scott's right shoulder. Her lower lip trembled and when Joel managed to catch her eye, she quickly let her gaze guiltily fall to her feet.

With his arm still stretched out behind him, fingers grazing your arm so he could make sure you were out of harm's way, Joel cleared his throat.

"Listen, let's calm down and—"

"You fucking prick!"

Spit sprayed from Scott's lips from the force behind his words. The fire in his eyes and the tight fist at his side warned you to back up further, right against your father. His arms shot up, fingers wrapping around your shoulders, and he walked you and your mother a few more feet away.

But when Scott's gaze snapped to lock with yours, your blood ran cold.

"Did you know?" he sneered. He took a step forward and Joel quickly stretched out an arm to stop him. Scott slapped his hand away and craned his neck, looking around Joel to address you.

"Did you know you're marrying a liar and a fucking cheat?" he asked louder. Your throat tightened. You couldn't form words. You felt frozen in place, wedged between your parents, staring at a man whose marriage was over and looking for someone else to blame.

Then, he dug a hand into his pocket and flicked a white card across the floor. It landed at your feet, facedown, but you knew. You knew what it must have said because the card-stock looked exactly the same as the other two notes you found up in your suite.

After that, it was a blur. You were pretty sure Scott shouted more things in your direction, and then at Joel again. Joel must have had enough because he gave Scott a mild shove to the shoulder, but it was all he had been waiting for.

Fists began to fly, expensive shoes squeaked loudly across the shiny marble floor. The two men wrestled to the ground, each landing punch after sickening punch, marring one another's skin until their shirts tore and blood smeared from their noses and mouths. Then, finally, Tommy rushed across the foyer to break the two men up, along with two bulky looking men from security.

It had only been a minute, but both looked utterly wrecked.

You watched with your hands pressed tightly over your mouth as Tommy hauled Joel to his feet. He angrily swiped at the blood trickling from his lip. His eyes looked dark and crazed in a way you only ever saw once before, back when Brooks assaulted you during your first stay on the island.

It scared you to see that anger lining his face again. The tight, torn fists at his sides and his clenched jaw had fear spiking through your veins. When he blinked, remembering where he was and who he was with, he swiveled around to look at you. You jumped. Instantly, his gaze softened and he forgot all about Scott and Tammy, who were being dragged out of the lobby behind him. Scott's angry, vicious words faded away behind a closed door marked security, leaving the four of you and a handful of guests, who were trying to act normally.

"Honey, I'm— I'm sorry," he rasped. He lifted one bloody hand up, stretched out towards you. Your eyes widened when two dark red drops of blood splattered on the pristine floor. You swallowed and remained planted firmly between your parents.

"Give her a second, Joel," your dad said, squeezing your shoulders. Tommy wrapped a hand around his brother's bicep and gave him a gentle tug, but Joel kept his eyes locked with yours.

"Please," he begged. His brows furrowed and his face filled with panic when you failed to snap out of it. "Please... it's just me. Still ju-just me, baby. I—I promise—"

"She needs time," your mother piped up next to you. She held her chin high, protectively, and it felt like you were back in school again. "She just learned a lot, and it's probably best that she has some time alone to sort through everything."

You shook your head then, your brain finally catching up. Your hands fell from your mouth and you gently slid from your father's grasp.

"No," you whispered, "no. I'm— I'm fine. It's okay, I'm—"

"I think it's best if you think things over. You'll stay with us tonight," your dad said sternly, but you shook your head again.

"No. I'm good. I'm staying with Joel." You took a few steps forward. Relief caused Joel's shoulders to sag and tears to well up in his eyes.

Your mother laughed dryly behind you as you tucked yourself under Joel's arm. He gazed down at you through red rimmed eyes and you managed a small smile.

"You just found out he had an affair with his friend's wife!" your mother exclaimed, exasperated. You twisted your head to look at her. "You don't think that deserves some time to... to—"

"No," you said firmly, cutting her off. "I was just startled. I'm okay, I promise."

The disbelief painted across their faces was obvious, and if it weren't for the public setting, you knew they'd have a lot more to say. Fortunately, they gave up. Your mother threw her hands in the air and looked at your dad, who pinned Joel with a deathly glare that you both ignored.

"C'mon," Tommy urged, pulling Joel's other arm. "Let's get you upstairs. The manager called a doctor, they'll meet you in the room."

"Suppose havin' me bleedin' in the middle of the damn hotel ain't good for business," Joel chuckled, following Tommy onto the elevator. His arm never left your shoulders the entire time. And although he was trying to laugh off what just happened, you knew it was just a mask. You knew having something so shameful being revealed so publicly must have felt like a knife to the gut.

The elevator ride was silent. Tommy helped you get Joel inside your suite, dumping his brother's tired body onto the couch while you disappeared back into the kitchen for some ice.

"Here."

You had just zipped a plastic bag closed and wrapped the cold compress with a towel when you heard Tommy's voice. You turned and when your eyes fell on the white envelope he slid across the counter, you stilled.

"Doc will be up any minute," he added. You nodded, eyes still stuck on the envelope and unable to speak. His knuckles rapped awkwardly across the granite before he sighed and headed towards the door.

"You need anythin', just give me a ring, doll."

You cleared your throat and managed to express your thanks before the door quietly opened and shut, leaving just you alone in the kitchen with the envelope.

With shaky fingers, you reached for it, morbid curiosity winning out against your anxious, racing heart. You flipped it over and held your breath, eyes tracing over every letter:

Joel Miller isn't the man you think he is. He treats women like possessions, including your own wife.

"Safe to say it ain't Scott and Tammy."

"All due respect, sir, I don't rule anyone out until I know for sure."

"That's a lot of bullshit to go through if it is them. 'Specially with no motive."

"I've seen people do much more for a lot less, trust me. What might not be a motive to you could be one for someone else."

Mark and Joel's voices filled the living space right outside your bedroom, where you remained tucked under the covers. You had hardly gotten any sleep, and what little energy you had, you didn't feel like spending talking about the night before, although you knew it was unavoidable.

When you checked your phone, you had a handful of texts and a few missed calls from your parents. Fortunately, their off-island excursion with spotty cell service would occupy them most of the day, but you knew you would have to see them that night since their flight home was early the next morning. You had no idea what you were going to say to try to explain what happened the night before. The longer you laid in bed thinking about it, the more you realized there wasn't going to be anything you could possibly say that would change how they viewed Joel at that point. For the rest of your life, you would have to deal with uncomfortable holidays and birthdays filled with fake smiles and polite conversation while ignoring the elephant in the room.

You wanted to feel angry — angry at Tammy, or Scott, or even Joel — but you couldn't. All you felt was a deep sadness that settled heavy in your chest.

With a sigh, you glanced at the clock next to your bed. After deciding you had moped around long enough, you sat up and swung your legs over the side of the mattress. On the other side of the door, you could hear Mark and Joel bringing up Brooks's name. Already, a dull pain began to pulse between your eyes, but you still forced yourself to your feet.

You went to the bathroom, splashed some water on your face and brushed your teeth, then wandered into the closet. You stared blankly at the expensive clothes in front of you: the dresses, shirts, shoes, purses, and jewelry. If your mother knew the combined worth of everything in that closet was more than her house, it would take a crane to lift her jaw off the floor.

Just as you were starting to admit to yourself you could understand why they both had such a hard time wrapping their heads around your new life, Joel's voice softly saying your name from the opposite end of the closet pulled you out of it.

"Y'alright?"

A lump lodged tight in your throat when you turned to take in his bruised and battered face. The marks had grown darker and the swelling only appeared more enhanced from just one night.

"Yeah," you nodded, clearing your throat when your voice snagged on the word. You turned back to your clothes. "Just... deciding what to wear."

Joel watched you silently for a minute, hoping you would elaborate or maybe say anything else to help him understand what was going through your head, but when you slowly began to sift through your clothes without sparing him another glance, he nodded to himself and took a step back.

"Mark just left. I'll be waitin' for you."

"You aren't working?" you asked without looking his way.

"Not today."

You hummed and he disappeared back into the villa. Eventually, you picked an old shirt you had owned long before you met Joel and a pair of shorts, then got dressed.

Joel was at the dining room table, a folder opened in front of him with a few papers and pictures spread out. He looked up when he heard you walk in and shuffled the papers back together before closing the folder.

"What's that?" you asked.

"Mark's been busy," he said, "you remember the criminal Brooks was meetin' on that boat?"

You nodded but you already regretted asking. The stress from the mysterious notes combined with the fight from the night before was just too much and you could feel it taking its toll.

"Turned out it's a drug dealer," he explained, not catching the way your shoulders sagged, like the weight of the stress was physically pulling you towards the floor. Joel continued to explain how Mark believed Brooks relapsed, which would explain his erratic behavior, and therefore dropped Brooks from being the primary culprit.

"So we're no closer to figuring any of this out?" you asked, voice flat and unimpressed. Joel sighed.

"Not exactly," he said, "Mark's plannin' to set a trap. We know they're watchin' our room, right? So he's gonna set up cameras—"

"I thought we already had security cameras?"

"We do. Just not the right angles. So Mark's settin' some up now and he'll be monitoring them 'round the clock. They're bound to make demands soon 'n they're probably feelin' pretty cocky for workin' up Scott."

"But... Mark still thinks it could be Scott and Tammy?"

Your head was starting to hurt even more and your patience was wearing thin.

"He ain't rulin' 'em out."

"But we're ruling Brooks out?"

"No. Just 'cause the guy on the boat wasn't who we thought don't mean he ain't still a suspect," Joel added, "in fact, I told Mark the drug use makes him even more—"

"Can we maybe change the subject?" you asked, cutting him off. Joel instantly stopped talking, then something in his face changed when he noticed how distressed you looked.

"Yeah. 'Course," he said, standing to join you in the kitchen. Joel wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you gently into his chest. He planted a kiss on top of your head and you closed your eyes, leaning back into him with a deep sigh. He smelled faintly like his cologne mixed with the sun and your muscles relaxed at the comforting scent.

"Don't worry, baby. We'll find out who it is. You don't gotta think 'bout this at all, I got it covered."

"Okay," you replied, hoping he didn't hear the strain in your voice when you spoke. But then he circled his other arm around you and hooked his chin over your shoulder, clearly trying to comfort you but it only made the tears well up faster and your resolve crumble.

"I just want this to be over," you whimpered, lower lip trembling. "I fucking hate this, Joel. I hate it. I want to go home."

He instantly spun you around so you could bury your face into his chest. He shushed you and rubbed your back as you sobbed quietly against him, soaking his linen shirt with a week's worth of tears.

"I know. I'm sorry," he murmured. "We'll be home in a few days. Mark will find out who it is and we'll put this all behind us."

"He's no closer to figuring it out than when he started," you protested, then finally pushed yourself away from his warm embrace to look up at him. Your face twisted into a pained expression when you saw his swollen eye and the bruise on his jaw up close. Carefully, you raised a hand to lightly stroke his cheek, then his nose, then his lips.

"Why do you always have to get into a fight when we're here?"

Joel smirked and you cracked your first small smile of the day.

"Promise I won't get into a fight when we come back for the wedding," he said softly.

"You better not," you sniffled, but the mere mention of the wedding had your face falling once again. With everything else going on, you had managed to put it out of your mind for the past few days. Now you could only imagine what people would be murmuring behind your back while they watched you exchange vows or cut the cake or share your first dance. You had no doubt rumors would begin to swirl about Joel's past affair with Tammy, but now with Mark no closer to finding out who was behind the letters, for all you knew, they'd be whispering about you being hired as a sugar baby, too.

You took a deep breath and took Joel's hands, bracing the both of you for the insane suggestion that was about to leave your mouth.

"What if we asked my dad for help?"

Joel stiffened like he had been slapped.

"...What?"

"He used to be a detective, Joel," you explained, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "He might be able to figure this out. Then—"

"Are you crazy? If he found out how we met, they-they'd... they'd fuckin' lose it."

"Would you rather everyone in the world find out, or just them?" you countered. "And let's face it — they don't have the highest opinion of you or me right now. How much worse could it possibly get?"

Joel pressed his lips together as he thought. He clearly didn't like the idea. Hell, you didn't like the idea, either. But the way things were going, it seemed like your parents would find out eventually, anyway.

"Maybe they'll cut us some slack if we tell 'em, first," he mused. "They ain't gonna like it. They're gonna be real upset, but... maybe if they hear it from us, they'll understand. Eventually."

"Eventually," you echoed. It made your stomach twist at the thought, but you were desperate and apparently, so was Joel. Or he just really didn't want to disappoint you again by saying no.

"We'll tell 'em tonight before they leave," Joel said, pinching your chin. "Whatever happens, we still got each other. This is all that matters, alright?"

You nodded, heart skipping nervously in your chest already.

It was a last resort that you fucking prayed would pay off.

After spending the afternoon going back and forth on how to deal with your parents, you made the difficult choice to go and speak to them alone. Joel didn't like it, but he understood you wanted to go to them without his presence holding anyone back from what needed to be said. You needed to clear the air, and your best chance at doing that would be alone.

Also, you didn't want to run the risk of your father taking a swing at Joel. Breaking up yet another fight was not on your to do list.

Which is how you found yourself in the back of a town car by yourself, heading in the direction of your parents' hotel. You were so nervous you could barely eat dinner. Joel could tell, too. He tried to distract you but you just kept pushing food around on your plate until he reached across the dining room table to take your hand.

"You wanna practice what you're gonna say?"

His thumb lovingly brushed over your knuckles and you gave him a tight smile.

"Yeah. Sure."

So, you did. Joel helped you when you needed advice on what to say and how to say it, reminded you not to get too upset and overwhelmed, and assured you he would come running at any time if you wanted him to. He even offered to sit in the car and wait, but you said no, that it would just make you more nervous, and you promised to call him if you got in over your head.

Your leg was bouncing anxiously as your driver pulled up to the front of The Sapphire. You absolutely hated how you felt like a teenager again, like you were about to tell your parents you just got detention or got into a fender bender. Mentally, you kept reminding yourself of the same thing, over and over: you're an adult, you do not need their approval, this is your life and you are happy.

"I should be done around ten—" you began to say, but your driver held up a hand and shook his head.

"Mr. Miller paid for the whole night. He insisted I stay right here, so whenever you're ready, just shoot me a text and I'll pull around to the front."

You gave him a relieved smile and thanked him before stepping out of the car.

The entire ride up in the elevator was spent softly rehearsing under your breath what you planned to say. You shifted foot to foot, eyes glued to the floor numbers above the doors.

You're an adult.

You do not need their approval.

The elevator slid to a gentle stop and the doors opened to an empty hallway. You took a deep breath and forced your feet to move, each step kickstarting your already racing heart more and more until you approached their room.

This is your life.

You are happy.

You raised a hand, hesitating only for a second before rapping your knuckles three times against the door.

You exhaled shakily while you waited and smiled at another hotel guest who was walking past you with a small dog in tow. Then the door swung open and your father greeted you with a wide smile.

No going back now, you thought.

"Hey, Kiddo," he said, pulling you in for a hug. You circled your arms around his middle, giving him a little squeeze as he patted your back, holding onto you just a little longer than necessary before letting go. "C'mon in. Your mother's packing up the bathroom stuff. We're glad you could stop by before we head out in the morning."

You smiled and stepped inside their entryway. Your father glanced back out into the hall before turning to you. "No Joel?"

"Uh, no," you said, sliding off your shoes. "Just me."

He shut the door then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, leading you further into their suite.

"Reckon he's still nursing a couple of shiners, huh?"

You nodded and cleared your throat. "Yeah but it's not so bad. He's — he's fine."

Your dad hummed and let his hand fall to his side before calling for your mother. Deeper into the room, you heard her shout she would be just a minute while you wandered over to their sitting room. The fire was going, casting the two white couches perpendicular to the fireplace in a warm glow.

"Can I getcha something to drink, sweetheart?"

Your dad was at the bar already clinking ice into a highballer glass.

"No, thanks."

You waited while he poured himself a bourbon, tucking your legs underneath you while silently practicing your speech.

"Gotta say, it's nice to have you to ourselves," he said, stepping down into the room to sit on the couch across from you. "We have some concerns about Joel—"

"I know," you told him, "I know you do. That's why I came alone. We need to talk."

Your father appeared shocked at first, then pleased, but you didn't clock his reaction right away. You were far too distracted with your own thoughts to notice he was beginning to misunderstand the reason for your visit.

"That — that's great," your dad stammered, eyes lighting up happily at you. "Your mother and I would love to talk."

"Talk?"

Your mom entered the room holding an armful of clothes that she plopped onto the couch next to you. "Hey, honey," she murmured, kissing you on the top of your head before eyeing you carefully. "Are you alright? After last night?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you said hurriedly.

"And Joel?" she asked, her voice straining on his name. She walked around the glass coffee table to join your father on the other couch. "Those are the clothes you wanted to wear on the plane," she told him, pointing to the pile next to you.

"Joel's okay," you answered. Your father squeezed your mom's knee and gave it a little shake.

"That's why she's here," your dad said quietly, subtly nodding in your direction and giving your mom a look. "She wants to talk about Joel."

You frowned when your mother's face slowly lit up, and then you began to put it together.

"Did you have some time to think about things?" your mom asked hopefully. "Whatever you decide, just know your father and I are here for you. We even have your room just the way you left it—"

"My room?" you repeated, then your face screwed up in agitation when you realized what they were thinking. "I'm not leaving Joel, Mom. I'm not asking to move back home — what are you... nevermind," you sighed, falling back into the sofa. You couldn't let them get you off track. You needed to stay focused.

"I'm here because we need your help," you finally said, looking pointedly at your dad. His eyebrows raised a bit but otherwise his expression stayed neutral. You took a deep breath before continuing.

"We're being blackmailed," you said carefully, "and before things get worse, I wanted to ask for your help, Dad. We both wanted to ask for your help."

Your parents exchanged a look you couldn't identify before your father turned to address you.

"Blackmailed?" he repeated, and you gave him a nod. "Why?"

You swallowed and nervously began to fidget with the hem of your shirt.

"Well, that's the other thing I wanted to talk about," you said, heart pounding so loud now you were sure they could hear it. "I need to tell you something. About how Joel and I met."

You told your parents the truth. Or, at least, what they needed to know. You explained that Celine introduced you to her agent, that the dating service was perfectly safe and vetted, that you wouldn't have done it if your options weren't so limited at the time but looking back on it now, it was the best decision you ever made. Their faces remained stoic as you told them Joel was the only man who hired you, that he had never explored an agency before, and without getting into the intention of deceiving Glenn to win the bid on the land, told them you ended up falling in love.

"I know this is a lot," you said breathlessly, hands shaking in your lap. "But I promise, it's just like hiring a matchmaker—"

"No, it's not," your mother said sharply, cutting you off. "Joel hired you for sex. He paid you for sex," she added, beginning to sound a little hysterical. You quickly shook your head.

"No, it wasn't like that," you replied defensively. "He just wanted someone to come with him to events and stuff like that. We didn't—"

"It's glorified prostitution," your father said, breaking his silence. Tears began to burn the backs of your eyes. You knew it wasn't going to be easy but fuck, you had at least hoped you were prepared enough to hear those words.

"It's... it's not," you sniffled.

"It is," he said, rising to his feet. "I was a detective for thirty years. You think I didn't come across my fair share of hookers? So he put you in expensive clothes and you think that makes it any better?"

Unable to meet his eye, you dragged in a shaky breath, fingers curling around your purse next to you.

"I blame myself," your mother suddenly said, throwing up her hands. "We must have gone wrong raising you. We never should have let you move to California. And we sure as hell should have never let you hang around that Celine. I always knew she was trouble, didn't I say?"

Your mother looked to your father for him to agree, but he was too busy glaring at you.

"You're lucky you didn't get yourself killed, you know that? You got any idea how fucking dangerous and stupid that was?"

"Stop!" you yelled, standing up with tears in your eyes.

"I always knew something strange was going on," your mom continued to mutter with her arms crossed. "It made no sense—"

"Just stop, I didn't tell you this to hear your opinions on it," you snapped, causing your mother to look at you with surprise. "I'm an adult, in case you forgot, and it was my choice. And I'm glad I did it because I met the most incredible man. He takes care of me, loves me — he would do anything for me."

Your father continued to fume, his eyes dark with anger and jaw clenched as tight as his fists.

Yeah, leaving Joel behind was the right move.

"You're right," your dad said, lowering his voice. "You didn't tell us until you needed something. So tell me — what kind of help do you think I can provide, hm? How can I help my daughter, who just finished telling me she dabbled in prostitution, and her fiancé, the man who dressed her up all pretty to pretend she was someone of status so he could fuck her?"

You winced, his words cutting like a goddamn knife. It was clear by that point your father wasn't going to help you. No amount of words or time would be able to change their minds, so you turned to pick up your purse.

"Nevermind. This was a bad idea. I'm leaving."

Your eyes landed on the pile of clothes your mother put on the couch next to you. A familiar looking football jersey laid on top, one your father always wore for good luck. He wore it whenever the Titans played, swearing up and down if your mother washed it, it would mess with the team's juju.

It made your heart break a little that he still had it. Countless memories of him wearing it throughout your childhood filtered through your mind. It wasn't always easy with your parents, but there were some good times, and football Sundays were always an event at your house.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a step forward until something registered in your brain. You blinked and looked at the jersey again, the name on the back bothering you for some reason.

Behind you, your parents were bickering. Your mother wanted you to stay, wanted to start over. Your father was too heated. He was ranting about Joel and how he oughta go give him a piece of my mind when you slowly turned around.

"Mason?"

They both stopped speaking and looked at you like you had two heads. You clutched the jersey in your hand as you stared at them both.

"Yeah?" your father huffed. "What about it?"

"Steve Mason?" you asked. Your father rolled his eyes.

"Why are we talking about—"

"No. Not Steve," your dad said angrily. "Derrick Mason was the quarterback for the Titans."

You dropped it back onto the couch, strangely relieved. For a second, you thought —

"You're thinking of Steve McNair," your father said, "wide receiver. They were a dynamic duo back in '03."

"Who cares about football?" your mother shrieked, then turned to you again with her hands clasped. "Please stay. Let's talk about this. I know it's easy to fall into this lavish lifestyle, that this world can suck you in and you can easily lose yourself. I see it on television all the time, these reality shows — honey, you really should watch and see how these girls—"

"Steve McNair," you repeated, "and... Derrick Mason."

A chill ran down your spine. It felt like you couldn't move. The last twenty four hours had really done a number on you, it felt like you were operating at half speed, yet you still got there. It just took you an extra minute.

Slowly, you raised your eyes up from the couch and turned on your parents. Your mother was still squawking away and your dad was glowering at you, but it was nothing compared to the way you were looking at them.

"It was you."

Your mother finally shut up and they both gave you a confused look. You took a step forward and raised a shaky finger, pointing accusingly at them.

"You sent all those letters," you seethed, tears finally falling from your eyes.

To her credit, your mom tried to play dumb.

"Wh—what letters? What are you talking about? Don't change the subject!"

But your father knew the game was up. He could see it in your face, in the determination etched in your expression.

He sighed, his shoulders sagged, and he had the audacity to actually fucking smile.

"How'd you figure it out?"

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

[a-goose-on-mars]

wise words of advice that will change your life forever. listen closely. the dolphins toe is the badgers eye (think about it ) don’t ever forget…

hell yeah!

[a-goose-on-mars]

Nora it is!! ❤️❤️

Hey! I'm working on the pitch deck of Swept Away and was wondering if you were to name reader anything. What would it be? As I'm writing a short synopsis of her as a character and feel weird writing just reader lol

- Amy xx

Oh gosh I am terrible at picking names! It's one of the biggest reasons I write reader insert!

So as not to overthink it, let's just pick a name from my baby name list that I never ended up using since I had a boy:

[a-goose-on-mars]

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

Sue Storm, Reed Richards & Franklin Richards!

[a-goose-on-mars]

I've finally figured out how to open my asks, if anyone has any random things to say, ask away I am very bored 😋😋

[a-goose-on-mars]

@punkshort @kteague

subscribing to a fic isn’t enough I need the author to blast a bat signal into the night sky whenever they update

[a-goose-on-mars]

Happy pride month to the tiny cowboy and tiny Trojan man from Night at the Museum

[a-goose-on-mars]

Would you write something about Joel and reader (established relationship) having a big fight, like, raising their voice at each other and reader holding back tears and all that. Ellie comes home to it and stops them. Reader leaves and Ellie gives Joel shit for screaming at her. Happy ending please!!

After the storm

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A late-night fight leaves you in tears and walking out. Ellie steps in, forcing Joel to face what really matters—and fight to fix it. Warnings: established relationship, argument, shouting, crying, make-up, slight angst

The front door slams harder than it needs to.

It rattles through the quiet house, a sharp clap of wood and metal that startles the dog off the rug and leaves a bitter silence hanging in its wake. You pause halfway through drying the dishes, towel clutched between your damp hands, fingers curling into it like it might anchor you.

You already know it’s him.

Joel.

He’s late. Again.

You count the seconds it takes him to hang up his coat, to toe off his boots, to toss his rifle somewhere you’ll have to remind him to clean later. Each sound from the entryway feeds the weight pressing behind your ribs — not worry anymore, but frustration. Sharp. Heavy. Exhausting.

When he rounds the corner, he doesn’t look at you.

And that’s what does it.

"You're late," you say, trying to keep your voice even. Not accusatory. Just... saying it. But it comes out brittle.

He grunts, shrugging off the last of his flannel. "Ran into Tommy. Needed help movin’ somethin’. Wasn't plannin’ on bein' out that long."

No apology. No explanation beyond that.

You dry your hands on the towel slowly, methodically. “I waited for you. Dinner’s cold.”

Joel runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already tired of this. “Didn’t ask you to wait.”

And there it is.

That familiar, subtle sting. Like a match struck too close to your skin.

“You never ask me to wait,” you say, quieter now. “I just do. Because I care.”

He doesn’t answer. Just walks over to the plate you left out and starts eating, cold potatoes and overcooked venison, like it’s nothing. Like your disappointment doesn’t even register.

Your throat tightens.

You cross your arms. “This is the third time this week.”

Joel’s jaw ticks as he chews, but he still doesn’t look at you. “Why’re you makin’ this a thing?”

“Because I’m tired of pretending it’s not a thing, Joel,” you snap, voice rising despite yourself. “You disappear for hours, you barely talk when you’re home, and I’m just supposed to smile and say nothing?”

He sets the fork down too hard on the plate. “I told you—I was helpin’ Tommy.”

“Today you were. What about the other days?”

Joel stands slowly, arms folding across his chest as he looks at you, finally. His eyes are dark and stormy and full of something heavy you can’t name.

“What’re you sayin’? That you don’t trust me now?”

You blink. “No—Jesus, Joel, this isn’t about trust—”

“Then what the hell is it?” His voice cuts through the room like a blade. “You mad I’m not sittin’ at your side every minute of the day? You mad I got other responsibilities?”

Your mouth falls open.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “I never asked you to stay glued to me. I just—Joel, I want to feel like I matter to you. Like I’m not just some afterthought.”

“You think I treat you like that?” His voice is louder now. “After everythin’? After all we’ve been through?”

“You’re treating me like that right now!”

The silence that follows is razor-sharp.

Your chest is heaving. You didn’t mean to shout. Didn’t mean to let your voice crack like that. But he just stands there, mouth a hard line, like he doesn’t even see you.

You turn away, blinking fast. “I—I’m not doing this with you, Joel. Not like this.”

But he’s already speaking, words hot and bitter. “Maybe you shouldn’t, if this is how it’s gonna be every damn time I come home.”

Your breath catches.

There it is. The thing you didn’t think he’d say.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits your knuckle. You turn your head away, jaw trembling as you force yourself to breathe.

The front door opens again.

“Uh...what the hell is going on?”

Ellie.

You both freeze.

She’s still half-in her coat, backpack slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed as she stares between the two of you. Her voice slices through the tension like a gust of cold wind, and suddenly you feel stupid. Small. Embarrassed to be crying in front of her.

“I was just leaving,” you mumble, grabbing your coat off the hook. Your hands fumble the zipper. “I’ll be back later.”

Joel takes a step toward you. “Wait—”

But Ellie puts a hand on his chest, blocking him.

“No.” Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to yell at her and then stop her.”

“Ellie, this ain’t your—”

“The fuck it isn’t.” Her voice is sharp, furious. “You think I didn’t hear you from halfway down the street? You think she deserves that?”

You’re already halfway out the door.

——

The cold hits your cheeks like punishment.

You walk fast, trying to ignore the burning behind your eyes, the throbbing in your chest. Jackson glows warm behind you, windows full of firelight and laughter and comfort, but you feel like a ghost drifting past it all.

You end up near the stables. Alone.

You sit on a wooden bench, pull your knees up to your chest, and let yourself cry for real.

You’re not mad that he came home late. Not really.

You’re mad because he shut you out. Because you let yourself believe that he had room for you in the fortress of grief and guilt he keeps around his heart. Because he made you feel like you were asking for too much just by wanting him to see you.

You sniff, wiping at your face. The wind bites harder now.

You don’t know how long you sit there before you hear footsteps.

And a soft voice behind you.

“Hey.”

Ellie.

You quickly try to clean your face with your sleeve, but it’s useless. She plops down beside you anyway, setting a thermos between you.

“He’s not good at this shit, you know,” she says after a moment.

You say nothing.

She sighs, resting her elbows on her knees. “He’s got this...broken wiring. Like, when he’s scared or sad or overwhelmed, it comes out as angry. Like it’s the only way he knows how to feel.”

You stare at the dark sky.

“I know,” you whisper. “But it still hurts.”

“I know.”

You glance at her. She looks older tonight. Not just tired, but worn-down in the way only people who’ve been hurt too many times can be.

“I gave him shit,” she adds casually. “In case you were wondering.”

A huff of air escapes you. Almost a laugh. “Thanks.”

Ellie nudges the thermos toward you. “It’s hot cider. Maria’s stash.”

You take it. Warmth seeps into your fingers. Into your throat.

“I care about you too, you know,” she says. “You’re good to him. Good to me. We’d be stupid to lose you.”

You blink hard. “Thanks, Ellie.”

She shrugs, but her face is soft. “You gonna go back?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

——

When you return, the house is quiet.

No lights except the lamp in the living room, where Joel sits on the couch with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been sitting there for hours.

He looks up when you walk in.

You don’t speak.

Just look at him.

And he...looks wrecked.

“Hey,” he says softly. He stands. “You warm enough?”

That’s the first thing he says.

Are you warm enough.

You nod. "Ellie gave me cider."

“She’s got a hell of a glare when she’s pissed,” he murmurs. “Might’ve yelled at me more than you did.”

You manage a small smile. But it fades.

Joel steps closer, his voice tight.

“I’m sorry.”

You look at him.

“I shouldn’t’ve yelled,” he says. “Shouldn’t’ve made you feel like you don’t matter. You do. You do, more than I can ever say. That’s the damn problem. I get so scared of losin’ you that I shut down. Get mean. Push people away before they can leave on their own.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not trying to leave you, Joel.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But sometimes my brain...it don’t catch up to what I know. Just what I’m afraid of.”

You step closer.

He reaches for your hands.

“I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Your eyes sting again. You wrap your arms around his middle, press your face to his chest.

Joel exhales shakily and holds you like he means it.

Not like he’s afraid you’ll leave.

But like he wants you to stay.

“I don’t wanna fight like that again,” you whisper.

“Neither do I.”

“I just want to be let in. That’s all.”

He nods against your hair. “I’ll try. I promise.”

You stay there for a long time, wrapped in his arms in the quiet glow of your shared home.

And when you finally pull back to kiss him — slow, tender, trembling with forgiveness — it feels like the start of something stronger.

Not perfect.

But real.

And worth it.

[a-goose-on-mars]

It’s Pride Month Eve, so leave out some milk for Freddie Mercury and his cats.

[a-goose-on-mars]

"normalise this", "normalise that" can i just be a fucking freak please

[a-goose-on-mars]

PEDRO PASCAL & VANESSA KIRBY The Fantastic Four: First Steps | CCXP Mexico

[a-goose-on-mars]

His arm movements when he says "I'm a very supportive person" IS THE CUTEST THING EVER, HE'S SO SWEET

[a-goose-on-mars]

Vanessa KNOWS what she's doing, I love them both sm

literally everyone shut up and just stare 🥵🥵🥵