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gothicpaperback · 2 days ago

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THE WAY HE CARES | PART THREE

<<< PART TWO | PART FOUR: COMING SOON >>>

wc: 2,1k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

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

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

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

THE WAY HE CARES | PART THREE

I woke up with my cheek pressed against Joel’s shoulder and a dull, jack hammering throb behind my eyes. The house was too bright, the air too stale, and I could taste bad beer, whiskey and regret on my tongue.

Joel stirred beside me, groaning low in his throat.

We sat up at the same time, groaning in stereo, both of us squinting like hungover goblins in a cave.

“God,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Did we drink my entire liquor cabinet?"

I blinked down at the coffee table. There, half-slid under an empty bottle, was the notepad we’d used last night. I pulled it toward me, hoping for a tidy list of logical, emotionless ground rules.

They started out like that, but quickly devolved the sloppy handwriting and barely legible notes.

Number twelve: No weird eye contact Number nineteen: Joel is banned from singing lullabies. Number thirty: Must never tell the kid Joel thinks birds are government drones

I stared at it. Then held it up, deadpan. “You got sentimental.”

Joel squinted at it, then snorted. “That was you. You started writing names after your fourth beer.”

“Lies. You said the name Joel Jr was great because we can call him JJ.’”

“Yeah, and I stand by it,” he said, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “But you also said, and I quote, ‘He’s going to be the most emotionally stable Capricorn in the Western Hemisphere.’”

I winced. “I hate me.”

He let out a dry laugh, then leaned back against the couch with a long sigh.

“Anyway,” I said, voice turning more pointed as I dropped the notepad back on the table, “none of it matters. You don’t get a say in anything, remember? That was the agreement.”

Joel’s head turned slowly toward me. His jaw tensed.

“I know that,” he said, clipped. “You were the one who started jotting down nursery colours like we were designing a joint Pinterest board.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t kept saying, ‘You know what this kid needs?’ like you were pitching a product-”

“Oh, forgive me for trying to make conversation while donating my future genetics.”

“Donating? You made it sound like I won a sweepstakes.”

“I mean, clearly I was drunk enough to forget you’re still impossible.”

“Right back at you, Joel.”

We glared at each other. The warm fuzzy truce from last night had vanished like beer foam, replaced by familiar, petty tension that somehow felt even worse with a hangover.

Then Joel's phone buzzed with a text from Joel’s daughter’s contact name: SARAH.

> Mom’s dropping me off in an hour. Can we get donuts after??

Joel groaned again, this time with feeling. “Sarah’s coming back this morning. She cannot see me doing the walk of shame out of your house.”

"Not to mention that bitch Phelps across the street."

I stood up, already formulating a plan that absolutely shouldn’t have made as much sense as it did.

"We need to get you out without anyone seeing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of plan are we talking about here?”

Ten minutes later, Joel stood in my kitchen wearing a hoodie so tight on him it barely reached his wrists, a baseball cap pulled low, and sunglasses that belonged to my last regrettable ex. He was also wearing some of my hair extensions shoved under the cap, trailing around his stubbled cheeks.

“This is your plan?” he asked, deadpan.

“You need to look like some loser I'd date. Dressed like that no one is gonna think you're Joel Miller, helpful

"No, they’re gonna think, drug dealer, let's call the cops."

"So walk fast."

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "fuckin' nutjob."

I peeked through the blinds. Across the street, his porch was still empty. No sign of Sarah or her mom’s car yet, but that didn’t mean the coast was clear.

“Okay,” I said. “You go down the side yard, cut behind the Petersons’ hedges, and take the long route around the back of the Culvers’ place. Then you cross diagonally to your garage from the alley side.”

“This is not a bank heist, it’s suburban espionage,” he grumbled, but he adjusted the cap on his head and followed me out the side door anyway.

We crept along the fence line like two criminals breaking out of a Hobby Lobby. At one point, Joel tripped over a lawn gnome and I had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep him from swearing loud enough for the birds to file a noise complaint.

As we passed behind the Petersons’ rose bushes, we both froze. Mr. Peterson was in the driveway, adjusting his sprinkler.

I hissed, “Act natural.”

Joel straightened his spine as I practically shouted. "Thanks for the delivery GrubHub guy. Your tip has been added!"

Mr. Peterson frowned over at us.

“Oh hi, Mr Peterson,” I shouted, yanking Joel by the arm and speed-walking toward the Culvers’ back fence. "Just thanking the Food delivery guy!"

Mr. Peterson just nodded incredulously before going back to fixing his sprinkler.

“This is humiliating,” Joel muttered.

“You’re welcome.”

Joel was sweating and glaring, but we were unseen. He darted down the alley, across to his backyard.

I was about to leave when Sarah's mom pulled up.

"Shit."

I watched the teen give her mom a kiss before grabbing her backpack.

"See you next weekend, mom!"

"Bye honey!"

Joel was still halfway through his backyard when her mom's car took off. I was standing on the sidewalk pretending to check my mail.

I panicked, knowing that if Sarah turned around right this second she would see her dad creeping through the hedges like a demented pervert.

"Sarah!" I screeched.

When he heard my scream, Joel tugged the hat, hair and glasses from his head. His real hair was a mess and he looked like he’d aged five years in ten minutes.

Sarah was peering at me from across the street. "Yeah?"

"Uh, come here a second."

Sarah looked a bit confused but she did so, shooting me a smile. "Good morning."

I watched Joel from the corner of my eyes, smiling at Sarah. He was inching towards his side door.

"I just wanted to say, Sarah, that I think you are a great kid."

Sarah beamed up at me, all bright teeth and shiny eyes. "Thank you ma'am."

"Oh please, call me by my name," I said distractedly, my eyes on Sarah but my focus on Joel.

"Uh, did you need anything?" Sarah asked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.

Joel was so close. Just a few seconds more. I panicked.

"I wanted to have you over for a cookout. This week. My place. Do you like mushroom burgers?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Sarah said slowly.

Joel was at the side door now. He gave me one last look, equal parts annoyed and begrudgingly impressed before he slipped inside.

"Anyway, something to think about," I said far too loudly. "Bye Sarah! Lovely to see you!"

I smiled hard, turned on my heel, and marched back to my house with Sarah waving after me.

Disaster averted.

Ten minutes and two huge glasses of orange juice later, an alert popped up on my phone.

> Guess our drunk selves wanted us to be in contact

A blurry selfie was saved under his name in my contact list.

Joel 'Babydaddy' Miller.

Jesus.

>At least they did us one solid.

> Considering your devious little plan today I'm surprised we didn't do something worse

I watched the dots bounce as he formulated his response, biting my thumb nail and grinning at the screen.

>You’re terrifying when you’re organized. >And you’re welcome for your spotless suburban reputation.

I imagined I could hear his chuckle across the street. His smile and perfect teeth.

> Sarah mentioned something about a cookout this week? > Oh right. I panicked. Sorry. >It's fine. I'll make up an excuse.

For some reason I felt a little deflated at the response but I couldn't pinpoint why. All I knew was that I needed this conversation to end.

> I want my hoodie back by the way. Have a good week.

And just like that, we were back to whatever the hell this was, two enemies playing house in the dumbest possible way.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller au #joel tlou #tlou #tlou hbo #sarah miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x original character #joel miller x oc #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic

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gothicpaperback · 3 days ago

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THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART THREE | harry castillo x you

<<< PART TWO: VALUATION ERRORS | PART FOUR: COMING SOON >>>

wc: 5,4k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART THREE| LIABILITIES

Harry insists on paying for your cab ride home when you refuse to take his town car. But with the wad of cash from the envelope he gave you, you feel too selfish to agree.

When you get to your apartment you rush to the kitchen table, emptying the envelope of the bills, counting feverishly before sitting back in shock because he actually paid you double like he said he would.

The credit card sits next to the envelope, your name in gold. You still can't believe it, this feels like something out of a dream.

If something feels too good to be true, it probably is. Your mother's voice rings in your head.

You're actually doing this. You're pretending to be the girlfriend of a guy you really don't think you really enjoy the company of.

Yeah, dinner was good, but he was nosy asking you about what you needed the money for. You hate that he rented out the restaurant. And despite the money, you hated receiving it in an envelope like a hooker.

Your phone rings and you see it's your mother calling. You cringe before lifting the phone to your ear.

"Hey mom."

"Hi sugar, I'm calling to make sure you've booked work off for Christmas."

Your mother is all business, in fact you can picture her hunched over her calendar like a vulture waiting for confirmation.

"Mom, that's months away."

"Well your little brothers are excited to see you."

"Step brothers," you mutter.

"I heard that."

"Sorry."

Miles and Noah are your step brothers aged five and eight. Your mother's midlife crisis. Her much younger boyfriends Trey’s kids.

You thought it was a phase when she tried online dating after divorcing your father. You didn't think she and the himbo from long Island would hit it off, let alone fall in love. What's really fucked up is that her boyfriend Trey really tries to butter you up, insisting that you're all some big happy family and not some bizarre modern family rip off.

"I'll book it off, mom," you say quietly, "I promise."

"Okay, kisses to you. I'll email details. Night night."

You end the call, eyes on the table. You stare at the money for what feels like forever, still not quite believing what's happening.

If something feels too good to be true, it probably is.

This continues into the next morning when you wake to the sound of your buzzer. You groan, grabbing a robe. Shuffling to the main room from bed you slam a hand on the button, your voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah?"

A man's voice comes through, staticy and with a thick Bronx accent.

"Delivery for apartment 7G?"

"I'm not expecting a delivery."

There's a pause, a shuffle and then the man's voice again.

"Says here it's from an H. Castillo?"

It better not be more flowers. The ghost orchids are creepy, sitting on your coffee table making the place feel like a funeral home.

"Come on up."

You answer the door to a burly balding man, smiling politely as you sign for your package. The boxes he hands you are glossy black, tied with a deep green bow. The name is stitched into the ribbon, foreign and nothing you've heard before.

You move back into the kitchen, placing the box on the table and making yourself some coffee. As it brews you Google the name and the search leads you to the website of a haute courier designer. Dresses and gowns stare back at you on sleek models, sumptuous fabric and ornate designs.

Coffee forgotten, you tug the ribbon, opening the box. Inside lays a card over tissue paper with the stores name on it and a handwritten note.

Please wear tonight. - H

Damn, he must be really nervous about you meeting his parents. You don't really blame him, he's really throwing you, sink or swim.

You know you have to keep it up though. Whatever curve balls come your way, you won't be distracted from your goal. Because that money is going to help your dad in a huge way, which in turn helps you.

You open the tissue paper, amazed at the scent of jasmine and orange that emits in the process.

You're not exactly surprised to see a dress inside, but you are surprised at how beautiful it is.

You slide out of your pajamas and pull the dress on.

It's a sleek off the shoulder black cocktail dress that emphasizes your best physical features. It fits you like a glove.

"How the...." You mutter to yourself, looking from all angles into the bathroom mirror. "How the hell did he know?"

You open the second now, equally shocked when you see new heels. You’re not a fashion hound, you dress modestly. But you know that red soles mean Christian Loubiton. They too are a perfect fit.

Inside the shoe box is another small velvet box. You reach inside, surprised. You snap it open, eyes wide.

"Wow."

A pair of ruby earrings twinkle back at you nestled in the black velvet. He's already paying you and now he's buying your outfits too? Your heart is starting to beat unsteadily. Is it too late to back out? This feels overwhelming, too much all at once.

You compose a text to Harry quickly, heart beating rapidly. You attach a photo of the earrings, dress and shoes.

These are on loan I assume? Nope. All yours to enjoy. The car will be to pick you up at six. - H

Harry can't remember the last time he was really nervous. That sweaty palm, headache kind of anxious. But that's how it is as he sits in the back of the town car, hand tapping against his kneecap.

What if you've changed your mind? What if this is all too overwhelming? What was he thinking having this as your first public event?

"Fuck."

He hates this cloying feeling, like he's breathing through dirt.

He decides to distract himself, pulling up his email and answering a few work related questions. He usually tries to keep his personal time to himself, but he needs to make his brain stop going into hyper drive.

He notices an alert from earlier in the day, a charge to the credit card he gave you. Curious he taps the statement, reading and then smirking.

You bought a popcorn maker.

All the things in the world you could have bought with that credit card he gave you and you bought a $32 popcorn maker?

"Strange woman,' he murmurs to himself, amused. He's still looking at it when a text from you comes through.

Having trouble walking in these. Promise I'm coming just have to walk slow.

Harry watches as you exit onto the sidewalk, a little wobbly in your heels.

But Harry isn't looking at the heels; he's looking at how your breasts fill out the dress, the curves that he hasn't yet seen on display until this moment, the softness of your skin and the hair that fans out over your shoulders.

He didn't send a hair and makeup team to see you for fear that you would panic or be overwhelmed. He's relieved to see you have a good eye, your. You twist your head, looking back to see if you locked the lobby door and Harry sees the ruby earrings you wear glint in the setting sun.

You wore what he asked. You're really trying. This can work.

He exits the car, smiling at you as you approach. He extends his arm, looking at your shoes.

"Are they uncomfortable?"

"No, they're amazing," you gush as you grab onto his bicep, a little desperate. "It's just I haven't worn heels in so long."

Harry chuckles as he leads you to the car, opening the door for you. You grip his hand, easing yourself. When you're settled he surprises you by bending down and lifting your hand to his mouth. He kisses your knuckles lightly and you hold in a grimace.

"We don't really need to do that, do we? It's just us."

Harry goes pink at the back of his neck before nodding; dropping your hand like it's on fire. That familiar feeling is back, the same one he felt when he first met you: rejection.

He closes the door before going to the other side. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This is why be picked you, no chance of real romantic entanglement But do you have to make it so hard?

He slides in next to you and the car takes off for his parents. He glances at you from the corner of his eyes.

"We'll be there in about thirty minutes."

With that he goes back to his phone, answering work emails with a scowl on his face.

You weren't lying, you haven't worn heels in years. Between Jarrod and working in the gallery you've always just worn sensible, comfortable shoes. You can't deny that you feel sexy in these ones though.

You glance at Harry's profile, taking in his strong nose, full lips and dark, dark eyes. He’s objectively attractive.

"I'm surprised you're single."

He isn't expecting that. "What?"

"I mean, you're rich, handsome, intelligent," you say without affection for any of the descriptors, "and I know what you say about love, but surely there was someone."

Harry who always has an extremely warm countenance suddenly turns stoic, the warmth from his eyes seeping out the longer he looks at you. The warmth from his eyes seeping out the longer he looks at you

"No. No one."

The tension grows so taut you feel like it could snap any moment. You try to change his subject, fingers twisting in your lap anxiously.

"So this is all because your mom wants you to marry, right?"

He seems to be happier with this change in topic, leaning back against his seat.

"She's really just saying what her mother said to her and her mother before that." He lifts a shoulder.

"Don't you have a married brother?"

"Yes, but I'm the eldest. She feels it reflects poorly on us that the male head of the family is single. She's worried it will affect the company shares, blah blah blah."

"Does your mom have a lot of say in your life?"

"Ever since my father died, I find I value her opinion even more," he says as he nods after a moment of thought. "Family means a lot to me."

"I get that."'

Harry pauses. "You never really told me much about yours. I know you said your mother is on long Island with her new husband and family and your dad lives in Jersey, but that's about it."

"That's honestly all there is," you lie.

Harry sees that flicker of unease go across your features. You're lying but he can't figure out why.

But it doesn't matter because the car is climbing the large driveway of a massive estate and your eyes are bulging out of your head.

"Holy shit."

The hum of Harry's town car is a soft contrast to the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The gates swing open, wrought‑iron filigree shining in the late afternoon light, and suddenly you feel under dressed, under educated, under everything.

Growing up with all of this luxury Harry isn't really phased when he sees it. He forgets that the sprawling acres of land the well manicure shrubs and trees, and these state itself is rather breathtaking.

He looks at it with new eyes surmising that in fact it is rather impressive.

The estate unfolds before you in a dramatic slow reveal, a sprawling mansion capped with slate roofs, pale stone walls bleached by time. Boxwood hedges carve the lawn into geometric precision. Every blade of grass is trimmed, every pathway edged with gravel so fine it resembles sugar crystals.

You sense the expectation of protocol as soon as you swing your legs out the door, taking Harry's proffered hand, walking alongside him on unsteady legs.

Harry doesn't even knock, simply pushes the large doors open, indicating you should step forward before him.

Inside, the foyer is grand beyond expectation. The ceilings are vaulted like a cathedral’s, with crystal chandeliers dripping light like frozen waterfalls. Marble floors reflect your shoes back at you, polished so impeccably that the effect is almost disorienting.

You hear voices at the of the hall and you grip the crook of Harry's arm, nodding as you pass a man wearing a suit and a name tag. CLYDE. Harry greets him with a soft nod and smile, allowing him to take your coat.

When the two of you enter into the sitting room Harry feels you tense up against him. So many sets of eyes are turned your way, the room previously loud is now silent.

His brother and sister in law, Mason and Eleanor, sit near one of the large windows. Eleanor with her hair in a sophisticated twist and Mason with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. They give nervous smiles your way, knowing firsthand the scrutiny you must be under.

A woman with dark curls and a full mouth stands up, her dark eyes playful. She's clearly Harry's mom.

"This must be the girlfriend we've heard so much about," she says with a squeal. She runs over to you as fast as she can, throwing her arms around you tightly and hugging. "I'm so glad to meet you officially! "

You're a bit taken aback by this. You expected a frosty reception and pantsuits. Instead she dresses in a silk blouse and expensive looking skirt. The gems at her neck are undoubtedly real as are the heavy ones that rest on her earlobe. And that's not to mention the giant rock she wears on her left hand.

You surprise Harry by welcoming the embrace with a light laugh, squeezing her back.

"It's so nice to meet you Mrs. Castillo."

"No no no," she says with a dramatic shake of her head, "I am Mona."

The man that resembles a much older Mason steps forth, with a strong jaw and deep set eyes. He's dressed similarly to Harry, expensive looking trousers and a neatly pressed sweater. The gold Rolex he watches glints in the low light.

"This is Adrian," Mona says. "The boy’s Uncle."

But his eyes hold that warmth that you've seen in Harry countless times. The kind of eyes that communicate trust. It's a family trait you surmise.

"A pleasure," he says in a thick accent, taking your hand and pressing a light kiss to your knuckles. Oh, so that's where Harry gets it from.

Mason and Eleanor come over, extending their welcome and their handshake.

"Nice to finally meet you," Mason says.

"Harry says such lovely things," Eleanor adds, almost as if the two of them have rehearsed this.

Eleanor is dressed impeccably, her dress tighter than yours, a pale peach color. Her updo is sophisticated. She too wears a large diamond on her left hand.

You continue to grip onto Harry. Because despite your dual preparation you suddenly feel very exposed. Adrian passes you a martini with an onion instead of an olive and you hope it will take the edge off.

"Ada is going to be thrilled she gets to meet you," Mona adds from behind Mason as you take a ginger sip. You can sense the shift in the room immediately. Harry's grin drops, taking a sharp breath in.

"Ada is here?"

Mona's smile goes strained, Eleanor and Mason flinching. Even Adrian looks uneasy over his wine glass.

"Yes," Adrian says quietly. "Your grandmother arrived quite unexpectedly this afternoon."

"Wonderful." Harry gives a stiff smile your way. "I can't wait for you to meet her."

Harry's fingers lace with yours, tightening. He is not excited.

"If you excuse us, I'm going to show her around before dinner starts," Harry says trying to affect a casual air.

"Alright Harrison, darling," Mona says pressing a kiss to his cheek. "But please don't be too long."

"Of course, Mother."

You almost yelp, that's how hard Harry tugs you after him down the hallway. As soon as the two of you round the corner you glance over at an anxious looking Harry.

"Who the hell is Harrison?"

Harry gives you a side eye. "Me."

"What?"

"Harrison Castillo. That's my name."

You blink.

"I thought your name was Harry."

"That's what I go by."

"Why would you do that?" You ask, wrinkling your nose. "Harry is such a goofy name."

"Better than everyone calling me Indiana Jones and making Air Force One jokes." He grips your hand in his, tugging you after him. "C'mon, I'll show you around."

You allow yourself to be dragged through the hallway, your eyes trying to take in everything that you see. Art pieces that you've only read about lining their walls and you wonder if it's clever, forgery or if in fact they truly do own a priceless Mondrian.

"That's the music room," Harry tells you quickly guiding you. "The second guest room, the gallery..."

He just wants to get you alone somewhere, to regroup, he doesn't actually want to show off his wealth like this. He knows you aren't impressed by it. But he has to give the impression of a tour. You press a hand against the wall’s wood panelling which is smooth, cool, and untouched by fingerprints.

"And this," Harry says urging you gently forward into a dimly lit space, "is my father's old office."

He sweeps you into a room full of mahogany and the faint remnants of cigar smoke.

Unlike the rest of the house this space feels lived in, the walls cramped with the art pieces, mostly landscapes, all in beautiful frames. You see a replica of Orpheus and Eurydice by Vecelli, clearly the favourite, hung proudly in the centre.

A large leather chair sits before an impressive looking wooden desk and, you collapse into it, watching as the until now unflappable Harry begins to pace in front of you, dragging a thumb along his lower lip in thought.

"Harry what the hell is going on?"

Harry makes a show pressing-down motion, urging quiet.

Harry glances over his shoulder, ensuring that the door is still closed and the two of you are still alone. He turns back his voice so low only you can hear.

"I didn't expect my grandmother Ada to be here," Harry whispers. "She was supposed to be in Europe until the spring."

"So?" You ask, legs crossed, eyes wide.

"My grandmother is shrewd. She always has been and if I'd known she was coming tonight we could have been better prepared."

You stand, concerned that Harry looks so worried. What's the worst that could happen with a little old lady?

"I remember all the stuff you told me about you and your family," you insist, coming to stand opposite him. "And you know my stuff, right?"

"Right."

"So? Let's go and get this dinner over with," you say, patting his shoulder and adding a sarcastic, "Harrison, darling."

The dinner table stretches out like a runway, set with more forks than you know what to do with and enough silver to blind you under the chandelier light. The food is served in courses by quiet men and women, naturally. First, a wild mushroom consommé so clear and delicate you’re scared to breathe near it.

Harry's hand is wandering, forearm resting on the back of the chair. His fingers trail over your upper arm gently in a show of familiarity. You force yourself not to cringe at the unexpected contact.

Mona and Adrian are telling the family about their recent trip to the vineyard. You assume Martha's?

"You should come with us next summer," Mona says shooting you a warm smile from one end of the table.

"That sounds lovely," you grin, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to Martha's vineyard.

A salad so precisely plated it with paper-thin radishes arrives before you as if from thin air. By the time the salad course is almost complete you're feeling more confident. So far you've navigated the whole 'How did you two meet thing' with the background information Harry worked on.

"Isn't Adore wonderful?" Eleanor sighs from across the table at you. She squeezes Mason's hand, giving him a loving look. "Without it I never would have met the love of my life."

"It's so great," you agree, quickly taking a bite of salad to cut off any opportunity for her to ask a follow-up question.

Harry sits beside you, impressed with how things are going so far. He knew you were capable, but worried how you're acting would be. Turns out you're a natural.

"Well you must be something special to have this guy bringing you home," Mason says, cheeks flush from the wine. "He never brings women here."

"Mason," Harry warns lightly.

"I'm serious," Mason says with a laugh. "Even when he was talking about being engaged to Lucy, he never actually-"

"That's enough, Mason," Adrian says sharply. It’s clear that without their father, Adrian is the closest thing they have to a father figure. Mason closes his mouth with an almost comedic speed. Eleanor puts a hand on his back, rubbing small circles there.

"Sorry, Har," Mason mumbles, eyes averted to his plate.

You glance over at Harry, noting the flush that is creeping up the back of his neck, curling over the tips of his ears. You want to laugh at this before catching yourself.

Shit. Should you act jealous? That's what a girlfriend would do, right?

"You were engaged to Lucy? Lucy from Adore?"

You give your best performance, trying to look upset and angry while internally giggling.

"No."

"Then why-"

"We can talk about it later," Harry murmurs. It sounds like the sort of thing a couple would say, right?

"Well I had my fair share of dates before you," you say with a dramatic sniff. "So I suppose I shouldn't be upset." You lift the back of your hand to your forehead like a dramatic stage actress. "I'm not jealous at all!"

You're delightfully surprised when Mona lets out a braying laugh and the rest of the table joins in. Mason and Eleanor exchange relieved looks before smiling genuinely over at you. Even Harry is grinning.

You didn't think what you did was that funny, but maybe they're all just thankful you're not boring. Adrian is chuckling from beside Mona and he gives you a quick wink of approval.

"Oh she's funny, Harrison!" Mona says with tears in her eyes.

You don't love being talked about as if you're not in the room, but you realize when Mona shakes you a look of warmth that this is just her way.

"Harry says that you work art restoration," Adrian says with interest. "That must be a fascinating job."

"I agree, it's the most interesting job I've ever had," you say with a smirk, "but your nephew didn't feel the same. The first day I met him he told me that my job sounded tedious."

Giggles and a gasp from Mona of "he didn't!" go around the table. You laugh to yourself at the response.

"It was a misunderstanding!" Harry says when he feels the admonishing from all sides. He's chuckling as well. "I was trying to find the word for intensive because you have to work with such indicate details. But I was thrown off."

"Really?" you glance at him, curiously. "Why?"

"I found you . . . Intimidating."

You're surprised when you see the flush to his cheeks. The thought that you could make a man like harry intimidated shocks you. You don't see Mona and Adrian exchanging secret grins. Or the way Eleanor and Mason are watching you intently with small little smiles on their faces.

You go to ask Harry how you of all people could intimidate him when a faint tapping sound is heard and all eyes go to the entrance to the dining room. A tall woman with a regal countenance steps into view and like clockwork everyone stands.

She's immaculately dressed and wears thick-framed glasses in tortoiseshell. Her hair is short, pure white and stylishly cut. She exudes power and confidence despite the cane she holds in one hand.

"Hello grandmother," Harry says coming to step forward and press a kiss to her cheek. She accepts it with a quiet "Harrison."

"Mother," Mona says with what sounds like false enthusiasm. "I hope your nap was restorative."

"It would have been if not for that dreadful gardener making a ruckus," Ada says in a trembling rasp. "I couldn't sleep a wink." Her eyes cast about the table, scanning faces until she lands on you. Her mouth puckers. "And who is this?"

The way she asks sounds accusatory, like she knows you don't belong somewhere this opulent. Like she knows you and Harry are a scam.

"This is Harrison's girlfriend,' Mona says.

Ada makes no move to say anything pleasant. She simply scans you, she looks at the jewellery you wear, the dress that clings to you, the nervous sort of smile you're forcing as you extend your hand her way.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," you say and when she makes no move to take your hand, in a panic you do a low curtsy, fingertips holding the hem of your dress.

Harry watches this from the corner of his eyes, sliding his hand to the small of your back and urging you to stand.

"We don't bow,' he murmurs out the side of his mouth.

Ada stares you down for a few moments, rheumy eyes taking their time to take in the dress, the hair, the way you stand.

Finally, she drags her eyes to the wristwatch she wears, raising it to her face and frowning.

"I'm glad I could make it before the main course, which is being served twenty two minutes late by my count."

"You know we like to take our time eating, Mother," Mona says with a nervous titter. "Come. Join us."

Ada gives a heavy sigh, moving slowly to one end of the table nearest to Harry. He moves behind her, pushing her chair in as she lowers herself with a creak

Once she sits down everyone else does as well. Harry is sure to push your chair in for you as well.

Filet mignon, blood rare, sits beside a single cloud of truffle potato purée. There’s roasted asparagus laid out in a perfect line, and some kind of beet reduction making abstract art across your plate. It reminds you of a Jackson Pollock.

The cheery mood from before is gone, everything feels strained. You can only assume it's due to the woman at the end of the table watching everyone like a hawk.

Harry thinks his stomach is going to squeeze shut with the anxiety he's feeling right now. If he'd known Ada would be here he would have prepped you differently. She's... Blunt. The kind of woman born to work and motivate, but not to love.

It's strange because her daughter is so warm and kind. You wonder if her personality was part rebellion.

Harry glances your way, relieved to see you eating quietly, body poised but not stiff. And he realizes that he likes having someone here, that he feels less alone at this dinner with Ada's looming presence.

You chew carefully. Elegantly. Harry’s grandmother is watching you. She's quiet, her eyes narrowed. She doesn't ask your name, she doesn't even attempt to talk to you. She just stares.

In an effort not to throw up from anxiety you glance at Harry's plate, noticing the absence of asparagus. Instead he just has streamed carrots.

"Aren't you having any asparagus?"

The table goes quiet, eyes on you again.

"She's kidding," Harry says with a forced laugh. "She knows I'm allergic."

The table breaks into light laughter that you join in on, feeling Ada's stare on you growing more intense.

I need to fix this. I need to say something.

Your mind grasps for proverbial straws, and you fall back on the only topic you know with confidence.

"I meant to say earlier that your home is beautiful," you tell Mona. "I especially love the Vecellio I saw on the far wall in the office. It was one of the first paintings I fell in love with in grad school."

Mona looks delighted by this, but she doesn't even get a chance to answer you before Ada's voice cuts through the room like a shot, startling you.

"I never understood why Adrian would cheapen his office like that by having some cheap reproduction."

You glance Ada's way, brow raised. You don't understand her vitriol. She levels a sharp look your way.

"We could afford the original."

Oh, now you see. Despite her age Ada still lives in the mentality that money has to be loud.

"But then you'd be depriving the world a chance to see his work up close. To see his paint strokes, to feel him in the canvas."

"Nonsense," Ada says with a scoff. "You can't feel anything from old paint on paper."

"I dis-" you are about to continue when you feel Harry's large hand snake down to your kneecap, squeezing tightly. His meaning is clear: stop.

You go back to your dinner, stuffing chicken into your down turned mouth, reminding yourself that you're making money just being here.

Dessert is a deconstructed millle-feuille with spun sugar. Unlike only an hour before with everyone chatting amiably, dessert is taken in silence with Ada watching everyone like some terrifying gargoyle at the head of the table.

Her eyes have moved to Eleanor and Mason, scanning them both with what looks like a critical eye. Selfishly you're thankful that gaze isn't turned on you anymore.

"I meant to ask earlier, did I miss the big news?" Ada says with a long sip of wine.

"The big news?" Mona looks confused over at Adrian who shrugs. Ada glances up from her meal with a look of disdain.

"Well, Eleanor is clearly pregnant," Ada says motioning to the startled young woman.

Harry feels his entire body tighten as he realizes what's about to happen.

No. Fuck. Not tonight.

"What?" Mona's brows scrunch, wine glass halfway to her lips. She looks at Mason and Eleanor's expressions. "Is this true?"

"Uh, well," Mason says, looking from face to face, his chest expanding as his breathing elevates. He takes Eleanor's hand in his giving her a gentle smile before glancing back around at the family.

"Yeah. We're having a baby."

Mona jumps up from her seat, racing to give her son and Daughter-In-Law tight hugs. Harry stands up crossing to shake Mason's hand pulling him into a hug with a "congratulations little brother."

"Your father would be so proud," Mona says with tears in her eyes. "I can't believe I'm going to be a grandmother."

You grin across the table, telling them that you're so happy for them. And you are, but it feels weird to join in on this frivolity. You barely even know any of them. But you stand, shaking their hands and smiling.

"It's a beautiful thing when a child steps up into maturity," Ada says, her face still stoic. She hasn’t even bothered to stand.

The comment could be innocuous, but Harry knows better. He can see the pointed way she mentions it. The meaning under the light observation.

"And just think, you'll be an uncle," you say from beside him, trying to lighten the mood. You give Eleanor and Mason a tight laugh. "Just don't let him babysit, something tells me-"

"Look Harrison," Ada says, interrupting you with a mouthful of wine, motioning to Mason. "This is what it looks like to grow up."

You tense at the venom in her words. The bright, beautiful moment of earlier is popped, like a pink bubble hitting a thorn.

Harry has come to stand next to you. You can feel the warmth of his body at your side and instinctively you go to take his hand. He allows it, feeling your gentle squeeze around his fingers. He's quiet, his breathing slow and steady.

"Your younger brother is married and expecting," Ada continues. "He's stepped up."

Adrian is trying to cut in and say something but Ada is on a roll.

"Honestly, Harrison, when will you stop this casual dating business and accept your responsibility as head of this household?"

Harry feels his chest growing tighter, the anger and humiliation potent cocktail. Something in him snaps.

"For your information it's not casual," Harry says, forcing a pleasant smile her way. You feel his arm go around your waist, tugging you to his side and you look up just in time to shoot the room a wide smile.

"We're engaged."

authors note: i really appreciate all of the comments that have been left. i'm really enoying writing this story as it takes me back to the old rom-com days. xx

💋💋💋💋

i got the line dividers from @saradika-graphics

#harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo x you #harry castillo smut #harry castillo #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal fandom #pedrohubs #the art of the deal #the materialists #harry castillo the materialists

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gothicpaperback · 6 days ago

Text

THE WAY HE CARES | PART TWO

<<< PART ONE | PART THREE: COMING SOON >>>

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

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

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

THE WAY HE CARES | PART TWO

Joel stared at me like I’d grown a second head. The silence stretched so long I thought maybe I had. He blinked once. Then again. Slowly.

“What the hell did you just say?”

I shifted the plate of brownies in my hands. “You heard me.”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah, I heard you. I just… figured it was some kinda joke. A weird one.”

“It’s not.”

He ran a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath I couldn’t catch. Then, without a word, he stepped aside and jerked his head toward the inside of the house. I walked in, heart thudding, and set the brownies down on the kitchen island like they were a peace offering. Which, in a way, they were.

Joel leaned against the counter across from me, arms crossed, looking like a man trying not to lose his patience.

“Well?” he asked. “You gonna explain that little bomb you just dropped or what?”

I nodded. “I went to the doctor a few weeks ago. Fertility tests. Results weren’t great blah blah blah. I don’t have a lot of time. My options are basically: try now or never try at all.”

His brow furrowed. “You don’t got family or-”

“No. No partner. No close guy friends. I’m not on great terms with my exes. One turned out to be a drug dealer, the other realized he was gay. So yeah. That’s my romantic résumé.”

Joel didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. He just kept staring, eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to see the endgame.

“I thought about donors,” I went on, “but I don’t want to go that route. I wanted to know who it is. I wanted to choose. And I started thinking about who I knew that was… I don’t know. Stable. Decent. Someone who takes care of his kid and doesn’t flake out on responsibilities.”

"Okay."

I looked up at him. “I thought about you.”

His mouth pulled into a hard line. “You and I don’t even know each other.”

“I know.” I shrugged. “We don’t have to. We don’t have to change anything. Sarah never has to know. No custody, no co-parenting, no holidays together. Once I’m pregnant, that’s it. We can go back to pretending we don’t exist to each other.”

He let out a short breath through his nose. “That’s the most fucked-up compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“It’s not a compliment. It’s a business arrangement.”

He went quiet again, staring down at the counter, then back up at me. “You serious? You’d really wanna have a kid with someone you don't even know?”

I held his gaze. “Joel, I’m not asking you to raise it. I’m asking you to help me have it.”

Another beat of silence. Then he pushed off the counter, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his boot.

“This is fuckin' insane,” he muttered, "and you're crazy for suggestin' it."

I opened my mouth to argue but then he sighed.

"I need some time to think it over."

I felt relief. I felt terror and underneath it all I felt something else. Something warm.

He turned toward the hallway like it physically pained him to agree.

"But next time you go asking for a favour you mind leaving the walnuts out of the baking? Sarah hates em."

The next few days were hell.

I went back home that night clutching the brownie plate like a fool, convinced I’d imagined the whole thing, convinced the second Joel shut the door, he’d immediately blocked the memory of my deranged little proposal and burned the dish out back for good measure.

He didn’t stop by. No follow-up. Just business as usual: his truck rumbling in the morning, the occasional grunt as we crossed paths checking mail. If anything, he seemed *more* chill, like I hadn’t asked him for his DNA and a lifetime of potential child support avoidance.

Meanwhile, I was an anxious, hormonal mess. I took my prenatal vitamins like it was a religious ritual. I tracked my cycle obsessively. I read way too many message boards filled with acronyms I didn’t understand. OPK, DPO, TTC. It was like trying to decode CIA files while crying over a fertility smoothie.

I avoided looking directly at Joel. It felt like the neighbours could sense something had shifted. Mrs. Phelps next door could see the tension radiating off me while I watered my plants in a forced display of normalcy.

It had been four days. I’d nearly made peace with the fact that he was ghosting me the neighbourly way, silently, but with judgment, when there was a knock at my door.

Joel stood there holding a six-pack.

I blinked. “You’re either here to accept or reject me with alcohol, and I genuinely don’t know which one I’m rooting for.”

His mouth twitched. “I thought about it.”

I stepped aside, silently inviting him in. “And?”

“I’ll do it. But we’re settin’ some damn ground rules.”

We sat across from each other on my couch, both nursing a beer, a notepad between us. My ovulation tracker app had just sent a cheerful push notification: TODAY’S THE DAY! GO MAKE A BABY! It felt obscene.

There was a notebook on my lap and my pen poised to take notes.

Joel cleared his throat. “Rule one: this doesn’t make us friends.”

I nodded. “Of course not. That’d be ridiculous.”

“Rule two: this stays private. No one finds out. Not Sarah, not my brother, not that nosy bat across the street with binoculars.”

“Agreed. We don’t even wave at each other in public.”

He took a long sip of beer. “Rule three: this is just about the baby. No weird emotional crap. No cuddlin’. No talkin’ about our childhoods or whatever.”

“God, no,” I said. “Gross.”

We both reached for another beer. "So how do you wanna do this? I go to some fertility clinic?"

"No. Too expensive," I told him shaking my head. “We do it the old-fashioned way. Turkey baster."

"Turkey ba- you mean those things you use at Thanksgiving?"

"Yep."

"Well that's that holiday ruined."

I rolled my eyes and took another long sip of my beer. Joel did the same. "It’ll be efficient. Clinical. Emotionless and hopefully, effective. And above all, free.”

He gave me a long look, and I didn’t dare ask what he was thinking.

"I'm ovulating tonight so it's actually perfect," I explained showing him my app. "I got a new turkey baster yesterday in case you said yes."

Joel took a long pull from his beer, and then looked over at me like he was trying to x-ray my skull.

“You could’ve just asked me to hang out, you know," he said. "We didn’t have to jump straight to parenthood.”

“Please. You would’ve said no just to be difficult.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I would’ve thought about it.”

That sat between us for a beat too long.

“You know,” he said, tone casual in a way that definitely wasn’t, “I keep wonderin' why it had to be me.”

I rolled my eyes and sank deeper into the couch. “We already went over this.”

“No, you gave me some vague reasoning,” he said, pointing his bottle at me. "You said you wanted someone stable n’ decent. Someone who takes care of his kid and doesn’t flake out on responsibilities.”

"Yeah. So?"

"That could apply to half the single guys on this block. Hell, Jesse a few houses down runs marathons and makes his own hummus. Why not him?"

“Because I've never spoken to him. Plus if I have a child that willingly runs marathons I'll kill myself."

Joel smirked. “Fair.” He didn’t drop it, though. Didn’t look away. He needed more of the truth.

I busied myself peeling the label off my bottle. “I didn’t want a stranger. I wanted someone... consistent. Someone who wouldn’t ghost or suddenly try to get joint custody.”

“So naturally you picked your least favourite neighbour.”

“Exactly.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But that’s the thing. We weren’t friends. We barely spoke unless it was to argue over parking or your mystery garbage smell.”

“That was your garbage, and we both know it.”

He shrugged like it was ancient history. Then his voice dropped a notch, still teasing, but a little more curious.

“So what made you look at me and think, ‘Yes, that’s the man whose DNA I want in my uterus’?”

I choked a little on my beer. “Oh my God, Joel.”

“I’m just saying. Seems like a leap.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was smug, sure, but under that was something else. A question he maybe wasn’t ready to admit he wanted the answer to.

"I see you with Sarah. You're kind and gentle. You make her laugh. And she adores you. She's funny and quick and beautiful and I guess I figured you're the kind of man that makes children like that."

I thought I saw sheen to his eyes but that might just be the blur from the alcohol. How many have we had? Regardless I couldn’t read his face and I needed to break the tension.

“And,” I added, taking another sip, “if the kid inherits your eyes, that’s just a bonus.”

"The truth comes out." Joel’s mouth twitched. “So you think I'm hot.”

“No, I think your eyes are pretty. The rest of you is a human disaster.”

He chuckled, leaning back again. “Fair enough.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt full. Like we were both hearing everything we hadn’t said yet.

"Well what if I have some bad family history? What if you do? What if our kid has some terrible allergy and..."

I tuned the rest of what he was saying out because a little thrill went up my spine when he said our kid. Not the our part of course, the fact that we could be making a real, live child tonight.

"Does anything bad run in your family? Illness? A taste for human flesh?"

Joel chuckled, a warm rich sound. "Allergic to bees. Dad died of cancer at ninety or ninety one. Can't remember exactly. How about you?"

"No allergies. Parents died in a car crash so we'll never know."

Joel looked like he was going to say something to me. One of those annoying platitudes that are given when an awkward topic is brought up. Instead he just nodded and drained the rest of his beer while I reached for the notepad on the coffee table and waved it like a shield.

“Okay, back to the ground rules,” I said, voice a little too bright. “Number four, no weird emotional entanglements.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘weird.’”

“Like this conversation.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

Somewhere after the fourth beer, we decided to move onto something stronger. Maybe it was the nerves from the topic, but Joel was keen on the idea. But turns out I've got a heavy hand when it comes to pouring whiskey.

"Number sssixteen," I said slurring, my own wobbly. "The baby shower will not have embarrassing gamessss!"

"Yeah!" Joel insisted loudly, equally tipsy. "No diaper games! We had thossse at Sarah's baby shower and I hated em."

"Deal," I said, my pen scratching the paper. Then we clinked glasses, shouting cheers and throwing back the amber liquid.

"Amber," I murmured as I thought as I looked at the glass.

"No gem names," Joel said with a sour face. "And no stupid names like Willow-Branch," Joel said with squinty eyes.

"But what about my great aunt Willow-Branch?" I hiccupped. "She'll be devastated to know her name won't live on."

At this we both started giggling. Well, I giggled and Joel chuckled. Loudly.

"Okay we'll make an exception for your aunt."

By rule twenty five, I was lying sideways on the couch, my legs slung over Joel’s lap, both of us slack-jawed with drunken exhaustion.

"I think that's all of the rules," I mumbled, feeling tired.

"Did you write down what I said about ear piercing?"

I looked at the notepad. "Yep. Not until she or he is at least twelve."

Joel glanced down at me, blinking slowly. "Are you falling asleep?"

I didn't reply, just grunted a little as my eyes shut.

“Wait. We were supposed to do it tonight, weren’t we? The turkey cup?”

I nodded, barely upright. “Perfectly timed ovulation.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

I yawned. “We're really bad at this.”

Joel didn’t reply. He just reached for the throw blanket on the armrest, tugged it over both of us like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t remember who fell asleep first

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gothicpaperback · 7 days ago

Text

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART 2 | harry castillo x you

<<< PART ONE: TERMS AND CONDITIONS | PART THREE: LIABILITIES >>>

wc: 3,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART TWO | VALUATION ERRORS

The first week Harry isn't expecting to hear back from you. You're a woman who ruminates, who takes her time before making a decision like this. By not walking out on him by the end of your conversation he knew you were at least thinking about it.

But by the end of the second week with radio silence on your end he's starting to have his reservations. Maybe you were a bad choice. Maybe you really aren't interested in money.

This stress is compounded by a phone call from his mother, a warm woman who doesn't suffer fools. She can be your best friend or your worst enemy.

"Hello darling."

"Hello mother."

He's in his private office at work, glancing outside his glass windows to the group of bustling figures outside his doors.

"Are we still on for dinner next Friday? Your brother and Eleanor will be there."

Next Friday is the monthly dinner with the family at the estate. A tradition dating back to before Harry and Mason were even born.

Harry scowls. Why did Mason have to marry Eleanor in the first place? For Harry as the elder brother being single makes him look bad. They were supposed to be eternal bachelors. And you haven't gotten back to him which means he'll have to show up single to this, which means he'll never hear the end of it. Fuck.

"Yes, I'll be there," he says smoothly. "And I'm bringing my girlfriend."

You keep looking at the piece of paper held by a succulent magnet on your fridge. The One with the exorbitant fee on it. The one that Harry told you to double.

That kind of money means helping dad. It means dinners out. It means a nicer apartment. Although, as you glance around, you're not sure you want that. You like where you live for the most part.

But for Dad? That would be life changing.

But you can't do this to Gemma. She was so excited about Harry, so delighted about a future. How can you tell her that you're dating him? You can't exactly tell her the truth can you?

"Harry is paying me an obscene amount just so I pretend to be his girlfriend."

She'd be either absolutely disgusted or thoroughly disappointed in you.

You think of Harry in the deli, that watchful gaze of his. Is it possible he's some kind of pervert? A creep? Well, if they have him on as a client of Adore he can't be that creepy. You know from Gemma that they do extensive background checks. That gives you a bit of relief.

You should have contacted him by now, you decide. He's probably found another candidate. Your phone buzzes, the hour very late. You're surprised when you see its Gemma. How poetic. You open the text with a bit of trepidation, blown away by the all caps.

HE'S PERFECT

You smile to yourself at her familiar exuberance.

you said that about Harry Harry who? Haha

This guy is actually perfect. Great job, listens to me and is so cute!!!! He told me all about his family, his goals. I loved it. Harry barely told me anything. Bradford is the sweetest most genuine man.

Okay that sounds good so far. You'll overlook the douche bag pretentious name.

He sounds great. He said he's looking to get married, he doesn't want to play games. And he's a Leo. You know how rare that is?? Perfectly aligned with me being an Aquarius.

You hesitate.

So you aren't upset Harry broke things off? I'm texting you from B's bed right now, I think it's safe to say I could give a shit about that loser.

You have your answer.

"Would I have to live at your place?"

It takes Harry a moment to realize who's speaking at the other end of his cell. He's still in his large bed, buried under silk sheets, body warm from sleep.

Your voice is loud for this early in the morning or late at night, depending on who you ask. You sound like you're pacing back and forth. He clears his throat of sleep.

"Pardon?"

"If I agree to this, do I have to live with you?"

Harry licks his dry lips, pushing himself to a seated position, spine against the headboard.

"Not if you're not comfortable with it."

"You are?"

"I figured we'd approach things organically. Maybe we do maybe we don't. Maybe you'll want to live here and sublet your apartment. There's plenty of space and privacy. You'd have the guest room of course. The penthouse is large."

He hears you scoff.

"Of course you live in a penthouse. I bet you have a butler and everything."

Harry grins. "No. No butler. But I do have a live-in chef."

He hears the quiet pause on the other end. "Wait, were you asleep when I called?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. Bye."

The call ends abruptly and Harry just stares at the phone, shocked.

You switch to texting after that, clearly feeling guilty for waking him. He's in the first meeting of the day when the one comes sailing in. He’s expecting it to be a client, so he’s pleasantly surprised to see its you.

Is this a pretty woman kink?

He feels his brows furrow and under the table he replies quickly, thumb swiping.

A what? You find a poor lost soul, dress her up, take her to the racetrack and show up at her fire escape with roses and a limo? Wait have you not seen the movie Pretty Woman? Should I have? Definitely!!!!!!!!!!!!

He becomes used to texts that pepper through his week, amused when he sees your name pop up on his mobile.

Do I have to post photos of us on socials? Are you? I don't want to have to explain that to ppl No. We don't do social media in our family unless it's for work. Okay. We aren't going to visit my family okay? I don't want them caught up in this. Perfectly fine.

You don't reply for a day and a half. Harry takes this time to rent Pretty Woman, watching it on his bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his abdomen.

As the credits roll he can't help but reach for his phone.

Alright I've seen Pretty Woman and no, that is not my kink. This is not that. For one thing she was a prostitute. True. Secondly I don't ride in a limo. That's incredibly tacky. Yea, so are roses. Good to know. What flowers do you like? Why? Boyfriends buy their girlfriends flowers.

He gets distracted by some work that needs his attention, his focus elsewhere. But at somewhere around 10 pm as he leaves the office, Harry receives the text he's been waiting for.

Okay. I'm in.

This is quickly followed up by:

Oh and ghost orchids.

Relief blooms in his chest and he hurriedly types back.

Excellent. In that case we need to meet to discuss some things. Tomorrow at Noba-Inu tomorrow? My car can pick you up.

Harry is surprised to see you call almost immediately. You sound out of breath, walking outside when he answers.

"Why do we need to meet in person?"

"We need to go over some things. If this is going to work we need to know a bit about each other."

Harry glances outside his large penthouse windows to see fat raindrops drifting down from the night sky.

"Just text me details about yourself and I'll do the same."

Harry frowns. That's not how he does things. "In person is preferred."

He hears you about to speak, likely to disagree when you pause. There's the honk of a car horn and then your voice comes out tired. "Okay. What time?"

More evening traffic noises on your end distracts him. "Where are you?"

"Walking."

"This late? Alone?"

"So you wanted to meet where again? Is there a dress code?"

You sound weird. Harry doesn't know you all that well but he can hear the hesitancy in your tone, your end of the conversation shrouded in mystery.

"Give me the address and I'll have my driver get you home when you're done at... Where are you again?"

Silence. It's so quiet that he's sure you dropped the call. Then your voice reaches out steely and cold.

"I'm fine. I'll get home fine. And I'll make it to dinner tomorrow just fine without your town car. What time tomorrow?"

You haven't had sushi in forever and at the sight of the restaurant’s name in neon above the door you feel your stomach growling.

You pay the cab driver with a smile before walking up to the restaurant, smoothing down your dress. You decided to put a little effort into your outfit tonight. After all what Harry is paying you is a very large amount, and you want to hold up your end of the bargain respectfully.

You walk through the doors only to be greeted by a wide-eyed, smiling man.

"Hello. Let me take your coat."

The restaurant is small, intimate when you walk in, like most upscale specialty restaurants. It's why it takes months to get in. But as you cast your eyes around the space, you notice that it's completely empty.

"Please, let me show you to your seat."

You follow the man with a nod, eyes bouncing around the space, perplexed that it's empty. You didn't Google this place beforehand. You just assumed it would be good. The man leads you to the back of the restaurant, stopping in front of a large jade door, looking at you as he pushes it open.

"Here we are," the smiling man says, motioning for you to enter. "Have a wonderful meal."

The second you walk through the doors Harry stands at his table, smiling politely and, watching as you come to take the seat next to him in the large space.

You're still gazing around everywhere as if in a daze, stopping in front of him. You see the large bouquet of flowers he has for you waiting at the table with so many white petals that it looks like a small garden. Ghost orchids.

"Good evening," he says smoothly, leaning forward. "You look lovely."

He looks about to kiss you and you pull back, panicking. "What the hell are you doing?"

Harry blinks at you. "Saying hello."

You hold your breath as he comes close again, pressing a dry kiss to your cheekbone as your face heats. Oh.

You take a seat next to him at the large bar table. You gaze in front of you at the head chef who stands before a large workspace with meats, rice, seaweed and much more organized on top of it.

"I'm glad you made it," Harry says as he nods to one of the female servers flanking the chef. "I wasn't sure you'd show up."

"Same here."

You pause when a pretty server with very curly hair comes to Harry and shows him the bottle.

"Akitabare, Suirakuten, 20 Year Reserve, Daiginjō, Akita."

You have no fucking idea what that means but Harry seems to because he nods with a thank you. She presents beautiful porcelain mug of jade green, delicately painted with gold accents. You watch the clear liquid coat each glass, thanking her when she pulls back.

Harry raises his glass, clinking the lip against yours when you do the same.

"To an evening of due diligence."

You smile at that, cheers-ing and taking a ginger sip only to wrinkle your nose at it. Again the barren landscape of the space draws your attention and you tilt Harry's way, voice soft so as not to be overheard.

"Is this place bad or something?"

His brows pull tight. "Bad?"

"Yeah. Like, is the food good?"

He stares at you with a weird little smile. "Of course."

"Then why is it so empty?," you whisper.

Harry suppresses a smirk. "Because I rented it out for the evening.

You eyes turn owlish. "The whole place?"

"Mhm."

"Why the hell would you do that?"

Harry shrugs. "I think better when it's quiet.”

You're twisted in your seat to face him and it feels weird to interact like this. It feels oddly intimate and you would have preferred across from him at some booth in a diner. You turn your attention back to the chef making beautiful bite-sized items that have you drooling

"Do you like the flowers?"

"Huh?" It takes you a moment to come back to the conversation. You look at the massive bouquet and pat it absently.

"Oh. Oh, yes, very much. Thanks a lot. But you really didn't have to do that."

Harry looks at you for a long time, assessing, much like he did that first day with you. It makes you dart your eyes back to your glass, taking a small sip and trying not to flinch.

"Those aren't your favorite flowers."

"What?" You feel your face pricking with heat as you stare back at him. "No. I'm just not a flower person."

Before he can say anything else the dishes are served to you by the chef who looks delighted when he sees your eyes widen at the assortment of food.

"This is the Salmon Karashi su Miso and baked crab handroll to start" he tells you in a quiet raspy voice as he pushes forth the second plate. "Followed by the Omakase."

"Holy shit," you breathe quietly.

Harry chuckles into his sake glass. The chef and the servers look to Harry expectantly when he says their names.

"Thank you so much, Hinata, everything looks wonderful. Would you mind giving us a bit of privacy?"

The three of them give a short bow before heading out the side door leaving you and Harry completely alone.

"Dig in," he says when he sees you eyeing the food.

You don't need to be asked twice. He hasn't even finished the sentence before your chopsticks are digging in. He watches you in curiosity as you smile around a roll.

"Just so you know, nice stuff like this is wasted on me," you say popping another roll into your mouth and chewing.

"Why do you say that?"

"I mean, I'm sure you have a refined palette. You grew up on nice stuff. I didn’t. I really like pizza from that place on seventh. My favourite drink is whatever's cheapest on the menu."

Harry watches your profile as you speak, amused at the nonchalant way you explain, without a hint of embarrassment. He likes that about you, he decides.

"All I'm saying is that when it's just us you don't have to splash out." You pop another roll into your mouth. "I get when we're on fake dates or whatever. But stuff like this? We can just meet for coffee."

"Noted."

Harry begins to eat slowly, savouring each bite. Meals are his favourite indulgence; good food and good wine lift any bad mood.

"So, we're supposed to be learning about each other right?" You ask, food tucked into one cheek.

"As well as answering any lingering questions you may have about this."

You look off into the distance and he watches your jaw rise and fall as you think. "I guess I'm worried I agree to this and you change your mind or I don't get paid."

"I assure you that you will be paid regardless if I change my mind or not."

"How often?"

Harry leans back, his lower lip stuck out in thought. "Every two weeks?"

"Seems fair."

You tap your chopsticks against the plate, still looking hesitant. Harry regards you, the room feeling empty and overbearing. You seem to shrink into yourself, anxious.

"Would you feel more comfortable with a contract?"

You glance Harry's way, surprised by the question. It makes sense; he's a financier and probably writes contracts like this for breakfast. Maybe you should say yes, but what would be the point? You don’t have a lawyer that could look it over.

"No," you answer eventually. "Not right now."

Harry nods, taking a long sip of sake. "So if this is going to work we need to sell the idea of being a couple. Background, goals, that sort of thing."

"Right." You twist to face him head on, legs crossed. "So, how long are we supposed to have been dating for?"

"Not long. A month or two?"

"Okay. Where did we meet?"

"Adore. It's believable."

"Is that the matchmaking service you met Gemma on?"

Harry nods. "Yes."

"You have siblings?"

"Yes," Harry says between sips. "A younger brother, Mason. And you?"

"Only child." You l give an absent hum. "Pets?"

"None. You?"

"None. But I would like a fish one day I think. Maybe. I don't really like the commitment."

"Speaking of which, Gemma mentioned you're divorced."

The air is sucked from the room, your reply pushed out between gritted teeth. “Yes.”

"Do you have contact with your ex?"

"No."

He can tell by the change in your disposition that he's almost pushed too far. This is a topic that will be aborted and maybe touched on at a later date. Maybe. He picks a safer topic as he works his way through the omakase.

"Do you like to travel?"

Your shoulders lower. "Yes. I backpacked through Europe before college."

"Favourite place?"

"Prague." You take another bite of nigiri. "You?”

“Vienna.”

The two of you talk for the next hour, exchanging the kind of information that you would with any first date. Favourite music, movies, hobbies.

"I know you love to sketch," Harry observes. "What else?"

You lean back, stomach full and mood lightened. Harry is a decent conversationalist, even though this half feels like a job interview.

"Museums, plays. I like anything cultural, really. I can't get enough of learning about the world."

You're nothing like Harry expected after that first meeting. You're funny and open and he feels more at ease than he anticipated being this evening.

"What about affection?" You ask suddenly, warmed from the food and the drink. "Are we hand-holding people?"

"I don't see why not."

You frown. "But like, not overly PDA, right? I know you're paying me but making out in public doesn't exactly sit well with me."

Harry gives a dimpled grin. "No. No excessive PDA. The odd kiss may be required."

He notices the way that your eyes dip to his lips and then back. You open your mouth t mo say something when the door opens to the side and the chef reappears with a large plate. He points to the selection as he places it down between you and Harry on the table.

"We have Namagashi on the left, Hojicha Pudding in the bowls and Anmitsu in these glass jars. I hope you enjoy."

He shuffles back out as you and Harry thank him. Harry watches you survey the offerings, your eyes darting from piece to piece overwhelmed with the spread.

You eventually pick one of the colorful namagashi in the shape of a flower and pop it into your mouth, reminding Harry of your previous conversation.

"What's your favourite flower? Really."

You look a bit embarrassed, your face scrunching. "I don't have one," you answer truthfully. "I just said ghost orchids because I didn't think you'd actually be able to find them." You shoot a toothy grin his way. "Guess I should've known better."

He laughs lowly, melodic and warm.

"Can I call you something other than Harry?" You ask, taking another candied flower from the tray. "Like, H or Castillo or something? Harry is just such a goofy sounding name."

"I'll try not to be offended by that," he says. "When we're alone, feel free to call me whatever feels right. When we're with family its Harry."

"Okay."

"What made you agree to this?" Harry asks you. "For a while there I thought you might change your mind and leave me hanging."

"I almost did, but, like most people I need the money, so..." You trail off, eyes averted. It embarrasses you to admit this.

"May I ask what for?"

And as if a curtain has been drawn over the moment, he sees the way your spine stiffens and the way your jaw tightens. That brief interlude of openness and earnestness is now wiped away, replaced by that thin veneer of disdain that you have hold for him.

"You may not."

Harry's jaw clicks to the side in thought, eyes digging into the side of your face, but you don't look look his way.

"If that's everything I think I better get home," you say tightly. "I have a long day tomorrow."

Harry stands as you do, extending an envelope your way. You take it hesitantly, noting your name on the front.

"What's this?"

"Goodwill payment. Next one arrives in two weeks. Let me know if you prefer a check or Venmo."

You flinch as you shove the envelope into your dress pocket, feeling strange about this whole encounter. He's much less annoying than you remember, but he's also a lot nosier. Why should he care what you need the money for?

He pulls something else from his interior jacket pocket, holding it out to you. It's a credit card with your name on it.

"This is for any extra expenses that pop up," he says handing you the credit card. "There's an automatic $10,000 limit so let me know if you need more."

You stare at the card for what feels like forever looking at the sleek black gloss, the way your name looks in delicate gold. Ten thousands dollars?

"How do you know I won't go crazy and buy a bunch of shit?" You ask, eyes finally rising to his.

"Go nuts," he shrugs. "Just nothing I have to wear. An ex of mine loved to tell me how to dress." He grimaces. "I'm a grown man. I can dress myself."

You take the card in hand, feeling the heft of it, certain that it’s heavier than your basic credit card. You slant your eyes his way.

"I'll be honest, Castillo, I wasn't even thinking of buying you anything."

Harry grins, full teeth, full dimple. His chuckle is low but resonant in the small space.

"So," you offer, "what next?"

"Are you free tomorrow?"

"For what?"

Harry smiles at the suspicion in your voice.

"For our first date. You get to meet my parents."

authors note: all of your comments and reblogs made it easy to write the next chapter. 💋💋💋💋

i got the line dividers from @saradika-graphics

#The Art of the Deal #Harry Castillo #harry castillo the materialists #the materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo smut #harry castillo x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedrohub

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gothicpaperback · 7 days ago

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the way he cares | joel miller x you

{ part two >>>

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

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

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

THE WAY HE CARES | PART ONE

I looked down at the paper in my hand, the one from the doctor with my fertility results. She’d already explained everything in her office, but somehow seeing it in writing hit harder. I don’t have much time left. Not many eggs. It's basically now or never if I want to get pregnant.

And I have no options. My last boyfriend turned out to be a drug dealer, and the one before that? Gay. Neither of them particularly brilliant or charismatic, if I’m being honest. I don’t have any close male friends, and my best friend lives across the country ever since I moved to Texas.

I’ve wanted a child for as long as I can remember, since I was little enough to play dress-up with my dolls. I always imagined having at least three smiling babies. Now there’s a real chance I might never even have one.

“Sarah, c’mon now, you're going to be late!”

I lifted my head and looked through the kitchen window. There he was—those familiar long legs in worn denim, the broad shoulders, the obnoxiously muscular arms.

That’s Joel Miller. The man across the street. And he is a real boring asshole.

His truck is loud enough to wake the dead every morning. That’s how I learned his name, actually, plastered all over the side in bold letters: *Miller Brothers Construction – Hard Hats, Honest Work.* What does that even mean?

I looked him up once, I couldn’t help it. Found his cheesy smiling face on the company website, right next to his brother Tommy. I’ve seen Tommy around a few times, over for cookouts or picking Joel up.

Both of them have bios on the site. Tommy Miller “loves being with his wife and son” blah blah. Joel Miller “enjoys spending time with his daughter, fishing” and even more blah blah. They sound like the human equivalent of unsalted crackers.

But being boring isn’t a crime. It’s not why I dislike him.

That started the day I moved in.

I was lugging my last suitcase from the moving van I'd rented when I heard his voice. Low and growly.

"You need help, ma'am?"

"No I'm okay-" I started but he was already taking the handle from me, lifting the bag as if it weighed nothing. His arms were so solid under his black t-shirt.

He moved quickly down my driveway, heading for the open door of my new house. I had a great view of his ass in those jeans as he moved.

I can admit I was attracted to him for a moment. Just the tiniest, shortest moment. Before he really opened his mouth. I followed him inside like a useless puppy, nothing to do just follow. He walked right in and didn't even bother wiping his shoes. So much for Southern manners.

"Just there by the table is fine."

He let the bag down by the side of my kitchen table before he took a moment to see the boxes and bags I'd unloaded.

"Thank you for your help," I said trying not to be upset by the dirt he'd tracked in.

"My pleasure, ma'am," he said softly. "But if I'm honest, it's shameful your husband didn't help you with this."

My eye twitched. "No husband."

"You mean you're going to live here all on your own?"

I'm a pretty nice person most of the time. But this comment really pissed me off.

"Yeah, they're letting us women-folk work too. Can you believe I have a job?"

He didn't stick along after that. He just muttered that he needed to pick up his daughter from school and I was glad to see the back of him.

After that we didn't talk much.

The only thing that ever saved him from a flaming bag of dog crap on his porch was his daughter. Sarah. She’s a teenager, but somehow still polite, smart, beautiful, and actually friendly, which is suspicious in and of itself. She waves when she sees me. Says “yes, ma’am” without sounding sarcastic. Honestly, she seems like the kind of kid people brag about on Facebook with a million heart emojis.

On the weekends she’s at her mom’s I catch Joel puttering around the yard alone. He never smiles. Just scowls at weeds like they personally offended him. I’ve never seen someone take landscaping so seriously and look so miserable doing it.

We never actually fought. Not really.

Just exchanged glares over hedges and passive-aggressively outdone each other.

I made a point of keeping my yard pristine. Edged, trimmed, and greener than his by a mile. I even bought one of those fancy solar-powered sprinklers.

Joel retaliated by reseeding his whole front lawn and installing a flower bed that, unfortunately, looked incredible.

When I put out tasteful fall decorations, one pumpkin, a witches hat, he rolled out a literal hay bale display with a scarecrow wearing a Miller Brothers hard hat.

The neighbourhood association newsletter featured a picture of it under the caption “Festive and Fun!” I considered reporting him for emotional terrorism.

It didn’t stop there. He started waving to all the other neighbours like he was running for office. And they loved him. Old Mrs. Delaney even brought him cookies once. She’s never looked me directly in the eye.

So now we’re locked in a Cold War of suburban perfection. He trims his hedges? I repaint my porch swing. I host a book club? He starts handing out homemade jerky from some weekend hunting trip.

The man is everywhere. Helping people carry groceries. Fixing someone’s porch railing. Once I caught him rescuing a cat from under a car and nearly sprained an eye rolling it.

But I’ll be damned if I lose. I started composting. I learned how to patch drywall. I helped Mrs. Delaney carry her Costco haul and smiled so hard I think I pulled something in my face.

We don’t speak, but we know. We know. It's petty. It's exhausting. And it's the most thrilling part of my week.

I’d just gotten back from the store, struggling with a massive bag of potting soil because my dumb ass decided my flower beds needed a full spring refresh *that day.* I was halfway up the driveway, arms straining, when the bag slipped out of my grip and split open across the concrete.

Soil everywhere. Like a garden crime scene.

I froze, already sweating and swearing internally, when I heard that familiar voice across the street:

“You know, they make those in smaller bags. For normal people.”

I looked up. Joel was leaning against his mailbox like some denim-clad statue of smug masculinity, arms crossed, that annoying little smirk playing at his mouth. I didn’t answer. Just knelt down and started scooping dirt back into what remained of the bag, muttering curses under my breath.

A few minutes later, I heard the clatter of something plastic hitting the ground beside me. Sitting there was a brand-new bag of potting soil. Same brand. Still sealed.

I couldn't even look at him I was so embarrassed.

"I don't need your pity."

"It ain't pity," he told me as he left. "Your garden looks like shit and it's bringin' down the value of the rest of the houses on the block."

I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. I wanted to slap the twang out of his mouth. But I still used the damn soil.

Then there was the mailbox. Mine had started to tilt slightly forward, just a little lean, like it was tired of standing up straight. I noticed it, of course. I just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. Between work and the crushing weight of existential dread, a crooked mailbox hadn’t exactly topped my priority list.

Then one morning, I stepped outside and it was fixed. Perfectly straight. Re-set in the ground with new concrete, edges cleaned up, even the numbers re-stuck in neat alignment. There was no note. No door knock. No mention.

I looked across the street, and there he was. Joel. Watering his stupidly green lawn like he hadn’t just crossed a major boundary. He came onto my property when I wasn't aware of it. He touched my personal item. Everyone in the neighbourhood would have assumed he did it to be kind but I knew better. He was showing me that no matter what I did, he would always be better.

It was when Joel started getting up at the ass crack of dawn on Sundays (my one day off) to mow his damn lawn that I finally lost it on him.

I’d been trying to sleep in, just once, and there he was, revving up that mower like it was a NASCAR engine, right outside my window. Who mows at 6:45 a.m.? A psychopath, that’s who. I flew out of my house in my pyjamas, not caring that my hair was a mess or that my clothes were wildly ill-fitting.

"SHUT THAT FUCKING THING OFF!"

He either couldn’t hear me or pretended not to. I wasn’t sure which, his back was to me, hunched over that god-awful mower like it was a beloved pet.

What I do know is that he practically jumped out of his skin when I smacked the back of his shoulder blade.

He spun around fast, eyes blazing, and then for just a second his gaze dropped, dragging down the length of me. I saw it. That quick flicker of surprise, maybe even interest. If it had come from any other man, I might’ve welcomed it.

Instead, my scowl deepened. I planted my hands on my hips, one bare foot tapping against the driveway. I must’ve looked like a lunatic.

"Why the fuck are you mowing your lawn this early?"

"It's Sunday."

"I'm aware."

"I’m busy during the week, and I like to relax on Saturdays. This is my only free day to mow."

"Joel, I don’t give a shit what day of the week it is. I care that it’s not even seven in the goddamn morning. On my one day off."

"Well, I-"

"I mean, for fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s common sense. You see anyone else out here mowing right now?"

He blinked at me. Slowly. Like he was either confused or buying time to come up with a really bad comeback. For a second, I even thought maybe he felt bad. Nope.

"I also don’t see anyone else screamin’ at the top of their lungs in some skimpy outfit either."

I looked down. Thin tank top, old sleep shorts. No bra. Awesome.I blinked. My mouth opened, something sharp, something devastating on the tip of my tongue but my brain short-circuited.

All I could think about was the breeze hitting my bare thighs and the smug look crawling across Joel Miller’s stupidly handsome, smug-as-hell face.

Skimpy outfit. Skimpy.I could feel my ears turning red.

“You’re a dick,” I muttered, but it came out weak. Even I wasn’t convinced.

Joel just raised his eyebrows, like he was waiting for something better. Something clever. Something worthy of the standoff we’d apparently just entered. I had nothing.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I flipped him the bird. A full, dramatic middle finger right between the eyes. Then I spun on my heel and marched back toward my house, bare foot slapping hard against the pavement.

I didn’t slam the door behind me, but only because I tripped over a rogue slipper on the way in. At least after that he stopped mowing Sunday mornings.

Now I watch him through the glass, smiling and laughing at something with Sarah. The two of them are close, peas in a pod.

He’s soft with her. Gentle. Patient. I see it when I go to check the mail or when we happen to pull into our driveways at the same time. They’re usually mid-laugh, Joel teasing her in that light, affectionate way dads do. She always has a snappy comeback ready, sharp, funny. She’s clever like that.

I’ve never once heard him yell at her. Never seen her storm out of the house screaming about how much she hates him. No slammed doors. No dramatic teenage meltdowns. Just peace. The neighbours confirm what I already know: Joel Miller is a great dad.

Maybe that’s why, on that Saturday night, when I knew Sarah was at her mom’s and he was alone, I went over with a plate of brownies. I’d never been this close to his house before. I couldn’t help but admire it. Everything about it was just as annoyingly perfect as the man himself.

The freshly lacquered front door, the manicured garden bed with not a single weed in sight. Even the damn porch light had a charming glow, like it had been curated for an Instagram ad. I knocked and shifted from foot to foot, nerves jangling.

When he opened the door, he was wearing a gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. Also, he wasn’t wearing anything under them. I could tell. The light shifted. So did he. And there it was. He blinked at me, trying to place my face in the semi-darkness. Then his eyes widened slightly.

“What do you need?” he asked, eyeing the plate like it might explode.

We weren’t friends. Social calls weren’t part of our dynamic. This wasn’t normal. But then again, neither was what I said next.

“Miller,” I began, my voice much steadier than I expected, “Will you have sex with me?"

#pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #JOEL MILLER #joel miller x reader #joel miller au #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #tlou hbo #joel miller no outbreak

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gothicpaperback · 8 days ago

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THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

{ part two: VALUATION ERRORS>>

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age.

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls.

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him."

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket.

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged.

"That's how it is for guys like us."

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How?

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting.

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards.

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love.

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said.

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him.

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong.

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?"

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first."

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile.

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft.

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account.

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her.

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age."

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections.

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day.

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world.

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night.

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill.

She beams at him, eyes sparkling.

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man."

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind."

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha."

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery.

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it.

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives.

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google.

"Isn't he handsome?"

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while.

"Sure."

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand.

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity."

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself.

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?"

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison.

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore."

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on.

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché.

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam.

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!"

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach.

"Oh fuck."

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious.

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo.

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses.

"Hello."

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo.

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great."

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring.

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate."

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood."

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near.

"Rosalba Carriera."

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several."

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades.

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours.

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest."

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again.

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums.

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces.

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed.

You don't even lower your camera when you reply.

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money."

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person.

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection.

And for that, he immediately dislikes you.

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at.

You want him gone. He wants to be gone.

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief.

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space.

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted.

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you.

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on.

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal.

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name.

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture.

I hope you're doing okay.

Huh?

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back.

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design.

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end.

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it.

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor.

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry.

Today fucking sucks.

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated.

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him.

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff.

"I'm glad we could do this again."

"Me too."

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best.

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking.

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine.

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job."

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull."

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass.

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months."

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings.

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him.

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs.

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride."

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home.

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up."

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense.

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy.

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward.

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!"

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax.

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel."

"Cute."

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing."

"Fun."

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure."

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it.

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm."

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating.

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation.

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?"

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not."

I nod. My point exactly.

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming."

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet."

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability."

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait. You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag.

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone.

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes.

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye.

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks."

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter.

"I've got it."

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation.

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it.

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before.

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood.

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh.

Probably hoping for another big tip.

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky.

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all.

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose.

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him.

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy."

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition.

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence.

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table.

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company."

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors.

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy.

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say.

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter."

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily.

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly.

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly. "You don't have to say yes."

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?"

He smirks. "Maybe a little."

"Gross."

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do."

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest.

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments.

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you."

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive.

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction.

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost.

"I find it saves time to be direct."

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride."

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies.

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No."

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route.

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine."

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution.

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her."

"But not you."

"No. Not me."

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?"

"You'd be paid very well."

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer.

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open.

"You're not serious."

"I am."

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months."

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings.

"I'll double it."

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it."

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask."

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work."

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing.

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either."

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast.

But a year of secrecy, of false affection.

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?"

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex."

"Just for a fake girlfriend."

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche.

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible."

"That seems fair."

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it."

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card.

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be."

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

“I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

#harry castillo #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedrohubs #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #harry castillo the materialists #the materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x female reader #harry castillo x reader

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gothicpaperback · 13 days ago

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i want that house xx

Robert Abbett - Gothic Romance Paperback Novel Cover Painting Original Art (Bantam, c. 1960-70s) Source

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gothicpaperback · 14 days ago

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love this book xx

Cover art for the paperback edition of Shirley Jackson's "We Have Always Lived in the Castle" - by William Teason

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gothicpaperback · 16 days ago

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gorgeous xx

Gothic paperbacks by “Marilyn Ross,” pseudonym of W.E.D. Ross

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gothicpaperback · 17 days ago

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Vintage Paperback - Beelfontaine by Saliee O’Brien

Art by John Duillo

Berkley Medallion (1974)

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gothicpaperback · 17 days ago

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{< PART ONE: OPENING ACT | MASTERLIST | PART THREE: COMING SOON > }

wc: 5.6k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Dieter Bravo x You | O/B/E Universe

summary: working for alpha Dieter Bravo is like surviving a never-ending ego parade, he's loud, arrogant, and always wearing sunglasses for some reason. I’m his assistant, not his fan club. But everything implodes the day I get tested and find out I’m an omega… and worse, that Dieter is my soulmate. Now I’m stuck between wanting to strangle him and wanting to climb him, neither of which I’m proud of

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

tags/warnings: o/b/e universe, alpha/omega, boss/employee dynamic, mentions of mental illness, smut, sexual tension, knotting, enemies to lovers, mentions of blood/needles, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

smut warning: this chapter contains smut: fingering, wet humping, mutual masturbation.

posting because @pearl-aqua-tears left me a nice comment.

MARKED FOR THE ROLE | PART TWO | LIGHTS, CAMERA, DRAMA

The phone rings shrilly at three in the morning a week later and somehow without even answering it right away I know something awful has happened.

I answer the phone with shaking hands, eyes blurry with sleep. "Hello?"

"I'm sorry to be calling so early."

I'm groggy as I wake up, rubbing my eyes and yawning. "Dad? Is everything okay?"

"Yes, it is I promise."

All of a sudden I can hear the echoing voice of a loudspeaker.

"Flight 344 to Vienna is now boarding."

"Dad are you at the airport?"

"Yes, but--"

I leap out of bed, stumbling over my own feet attempting to get dressed.

"What happened? It's Mom okay?"

"We're both fine, I promise," he tells me with a soothing tone. "Take a breath."

"Why the fuck are you at the airport?"

"We had to get the red eye to Munich."

MUNICH?!

"It's your mother's best friend from college. She's been in a car accident and she doesn't have anyone to help her over there. Your mom needs to be with her."

"Oh no," I say feeling bad. "Aunt Luna?"

"Yeah."

Shit. I feel bad being relieved that it's nothing to do with my parents. Aunt Luna is sweet, I've only met her a handful of times when she came to visit but she's always been kind.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing, petal," my father says, using the nickname I've had since birth. "But your mother is a wreck so I'm going with her. Figure I can be more useful over there."

"Of course."

My dad mumbles something, I think to my mom, and then he's back.

"We wanted to know if you'd water the plants while we were gone?"

"Yes, totally. Anything you need."

"Key is under the mat as usual."

"Okay."

He gives me a few more details before the loud voice is back saying their name, urging them to board. My mother's breathless voice comes on the line wishing me a good week and that she loves me.

"Oh and your medication is--"

The speaker booms overhead

"Flight 345 to Munich is now boarding at gate H55."

"That's us! Love you honey!"

The call cuts out before I can ask her for clarification, but I'm sure she was just going to tell me that the meds are in their usual place by the microwave.

Despite my adrenaline when I finish the call my eyes fall shut and I fall back to sleep immediately.

I go to water my parent’s plants two days later before work, thankful there are no flowers to deal with.

I attempt to grab my medication and when they aren't in their usual spot I feel the first flutter of panic in my belly. They are always in a circular pink plastic case. One yellow and one pastel green for each day.

I check the cupboards, the dresser, and every surface they could be. I try texting my parents but of course they don't have their cell phone on in Germany. I don't have Aunt Luna's number so I have to wait until they contact me because my Luddite parents don't have social media. They barely use email.

My phone buzzes.

MEL: Dieter wants a quad shot this morning.

Oh shit. In my search for the medication I'm going to be late for work if I don't hustle now.

The day at work is busy; Dieter is in an especially needy mood, following us from room to room asking Mel to run lines with him. It's especially distracting because when he's not on set Dieter loves to walk around in grey sweatpants and no underwear.

He doesn't realize what he's doing, I know that. I've seen Dieter when he's trying to hit on someone. He's very obvious and direct.

No, he just likes to lounge around wearing comfortable clothes having no idea the affect he has on me when he's standing reading lines and his bulge is visible.

His large bulge.

But I manage to work through my day, ignoring the aching between my legs. I've been single for too long and I haven't had a decent fuck in years. My feet are sore by the time I ride home and all I want to do is sleep, crawling into bed and passing out without another thought to my medication.

I don't mean to forget it, I really don't. I'm worried that I can't reach my parents the first few days but eventually work distracts me from these thoughts.Its awards season and Mel has me working overtime this month. Great for my bank account, shit for my free time. So thoughts of my medicine just kind of drift away amongst emails and meetings. It's an innocent mistake.

Only after a day and a half I feel amazing. Like I'm finally clear headed after years of fog. My smile feels brighter and my mood is more upbeat than usual. When I smile, people actually smile back.

While grabbing coffee for Dieter I am surprised by two handsome men giving me their phone numbers. They look like alphas so I don't bother calling either. Besides, I'm holding out for my Bondline match.

At work I'm busy with Dieter's upcoming Cannes trip. He's still deciding on what airline to use for he and his hairstylists.

"I need something cool and fancy but, like, not cheesy, you know?"

Only Dieter would be concerned about how an airline would reflect on him.

I don't see him much for the next two weeks since he's in Canada filming reshoots for his role in a romantic comedy and I admit it's a little disappointing. After that moment with the rings my crush has just gotten stronger.

I scour his social media, hoping for little bites of him. He's not great at posting but he does get tagged a lot. Brand launches, autograph signing, dinners with Co-stars. It's never enough.

And when he's finally back I find myself much more curious about how he spends his time, my feet carrying me to his office or art studio more often for him to sign contracts and answer questions I could have easily received from Mel.

It starts off fine with Dieter barely noticing me as I drop off paperwork. But the next day I find him at the kitchen table wearing a vintage band shirt and eating some organic looking fruit bowl. His hair is in its customary out of control waves.

"Tell me you brought my coffee," he all but moans when he sees me. "I've had the worst fucking night tossing and turning."

I laugh and bring the cup out with a flourish. "You know it."

Dieter takes it with a pleasant smile about to thank me when he pauses. His head lifts slightly, nostrils flaring. "Are you wearing perfume?"

"No. Maybe it's my shampoo?"

"That must be it." He gives me a weird smile and then goes back to his meal. Mel arrives and then she and I are busy with some of his correspondence.

"You seem different," Mel tells me that afternoon, peering at me. "Like... Happier?"

"Really?" I pause. "Honestly, I am. I haven't felt this good in... I can't actually remember the last time I felt so good."

"Yeah you've always been happy but you seem, like, kind of glowy?"

I laugh at that, "Well I'm not pregnant. Been like, six months since I've even had sex."

Mel is horrified. "How do you even survive?"

When I wake up on the third week without medication I do so to a massive migraine. The type that makes me call in sick to Mel, full of apologies.

"Don't worry about it. You're the best worker we've had in years. Just take care of yourself."

Thankfully it's Friday so I have the weekend to recover. I spend a lot of it in front of the TV, an ice pack on my head and a throbbing between my thighs.

I can't stop thinking about Dieter lately. I’ve had a crush yes, but this feels debilitating. Like my skin is feverish without his touch. His voice, his hands, his hair. How he smells when he comes in from yoga. How his eyes seem to get a little darker each time I see him. And when I think about these details my pussy aches to be filled. But not just by anyone, specifically by Dieter. Images of him taking me roughly from behind, of his dark curls between my legs, of the slam of his body into mine, my back arched.

So as I recover from my migraine, I do so with my hands thrust down my pants making myself cum over and over to the image of his body over mine.

The migraine fades by Sunday morning but its presence reminds me that I need to get the medication things sorted. With no other way to contact my parents I have the bright idea to try the pharmacy my parents use.

I give the pleasantly smiling women behind the high desk my parents name when I arrive, shifting my weight from foot to foot as I wait. She types quickly but the wrinkle between her brows deepens when she looks back at me.

"I'm sorry we don't have anything under that name."

I'm confused. "You must. This is where my parents come to get their prescriptions filled."

"There just must be a miscommunication. Have you talked to them?"

"They're overseas and they're too old to know how to use zoom."

"I'm really sorry. I wish I could do something. Perhaps there's a walk in clinic that could help?"

No, that won't work. I don't even know what medication I take. My parents have been ordering it for me since I was a teen. And I don't want to start taking something new without doing research.

"Thanks anyway," I mutter taking my wallet and shoving it hastily into my purse. My phone rings just as I do it, Mel's name flashes up. I answer as I leave the store, frustrated.

"Have you booked those tickets yet?"

"Tickets?"

"For Cannes?"

Shit. I was so distracted about my parents and the medication that I totally forgot to order plane tickets for Dieter and his crew.

"I'll be there in twenty!"

I hear Mel's sigh and then she disconnects.

I'm sweating like a pig by the time I arrive at Dieter's place, my clothes sticking to me as I throw myself through the door.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" I call out to Mel as I slide into the office with the task Windows. "I'll do it right now."

"I already did it," Mel says with a twist of amusement in her mouth as she takes in my dishevelled appearance. "Did you swim here?"

"Ha ha."

All of a sudden her smile drops and she glances over my shoulder. She lowers her voice beckoning me closer. "Dieter is pissed. We booked so late I couldn't get him first class on any flight out of LA and now he's in a shitty mood because of it."

Great, now my boss is mad at me. Today couldn't get worse. And Mel is mad having to come in on a weekend. I feel my stomach go sour. "Is he here?"

"Yep. Painting."

I hold in a groan because if Dieter's painting, no good can come from today. It's what he always does when he's in a furious mood, coming out covered in paint spots and chain smoking.

"I'm going to enjoy the rest of my weekend," Mel tells me. "You're on Dieter duty."

I watch her leave and then shuffle down the hall with my heart in my stomach. I can hear Dieter's music from behind the closed door. The music is a mournful melody, one I've heard a thousand times before, but off if the meds its like I can feel the tune in my bones. Everything is heightened. I listen to it for a moment longer and then I knock tentatively, holding my breath.

"Dieter?"

He flings the door open in frustration. His curls are wild and frizzed around his head, his t-shirt tight around the arms and his tattooed forearms flexing as he holds the door open.

He looks amazing. Tall and sexy and he smells amazing, something I can't quite place but reminds me of nature. I on the other hand look like shit. My hair sticking to my temples, my body slick with sweat, my entire body prickling with heat.

His face scares me. Gone is the passive, good tempered boss I thought I knew. He's been replaced with a demon who spits when he talks.

"Why the fuck wasn't my flight booked earlier?"

He's never yelled at me before and I flinch at the sound. I try to speak but my mouth just moves wordlessly, clearly infuriating him.

"Hello? Are you listening?"

I flinch at his cold tone and with a slow humiliation I realize that I'm on the verge of crying. I refuse to cry in front of him, even though every part of me feels like it.

"I was very specific in what I wanted!"

I feel small and tentative in front of him, like a scared bunny. I take a step back and lower my eyes to the floor.

"Now I have to sit with those mouth breathers and fend off autograph hunters all day."

Finally I find my voice.

"I'm really really sorry. I swear, I was distracted, my parents-."

But he doesn't care about my excuses. I can feel him glowering at me and instead of bolting, something is happening to me. My body feels electric, like I'm standing under power lines and it keeps getting stronger the closer he gets.

"I pay you well," he keeps telling me. "I expect you to do your job properly."

"Yes, it's just-"

"I don't need your excuses. If you can't do your job I'll find someone who--"

His voice cuts off so sharply my head jerks up to see him staring at me. Only he has a weird look on his face, like confusion. The same look he wore the other day but more obvious.

And when his eyes rove over my body I feel the strangest sensation. It's like tiny fingernails are dragging all over, from my feet to the top of my head giving me shivers, making my nipples pop under my shirt.

Dieter notices, I can tell when he swallows and his neck bobs. His dark eyes look black and shiny like boba pearls. I notice his hand is clutching the door handle so hard it looks like it might crumple. His head moves forward and I hold in a gasp when I hear him inhale, long and slow and deep.

"Your shampoo..." He murmurs.

I'm completely thrown at his subject change but I also don't want to upset him further.

"Smells so good," Dieter says quietly and I can't help but notice as he steps towards me. "Stronger than last time."

I go to tell him that its vanilla coconut and my old one was lemon raspberry so there's no way that's true, but he's moving towards me.

I'm panicking, stepping back as I stare up at him. His pupils have seeped into the dark brown of his eyes and I swear for a moment they look obsidian. I feel the wall against my spine and shudder when Dieter's hands go to lay flat on either side of my shoulders. He's trapped me up against the cream wallpaper.

"You smell so fucking good," he repeats and now he lowers his nose to my neck and inhales.

I erupt into full body shivers as I feel his mouth press there, resting it against my pulse point. He takes another long inhale before groaning lightly. With horror and arousal I notice his hard cock is pressed against my stomach, the head leaking precum through his sweatpants.

Dieter has never acted inappropriately with me, even when he's high or drunk and right now he seems sober so what gives? And why am I just letting it happen? Why does it feel so good to have him pressing his big body to mine, practically grinding me into the wall?

I've been with other men before, I've been fucked well, I've been touched until I trembled. But I've never felt this strongly, and never with all my clothes on. He's running his nose along my shirt, grazing to my armpits, between my breasts, along my collarbone, breathing heavily as he gets to the hollow of my neck. And I let, no, I encourage him. I tilt my head back and I move my hips against his, our sexes rubbing together through our clothing.

"Dieter..."

It's like he comes back to himself for just a moment, breathing heavily. Like he remembers that I'm his employee. He doesn't move away from me, he keeps me pinned against the wall, but he clenches his teeth tightly.

"Stop me," he says raggedly, even though it looks it hurts to say the words. "Tell me to stop."

This is my boss. I should be screaming! I should tell him to stop and go running from the house. But I don't want that. From the moment he first touched me at my interview to this moment now, all I have wanted is for Dieter Bravo to fuck me.

"Don't stop."

And then I let my head fall back so he can lick my jugular, hands fisting through his hair, hips starting to rut against his again. I let out a soft whining noise, desperate and needy because I want more, I want to touch his bare skin. The sound makes Dieter's cock pulse against me and he groans.

"Touch me," he whispers with urgency, bringing my hand underneath his boxers and urging it towards his waiting member.

His cock twitches when my fingertips graze the bulbous head, his precum sticky. But I don't hesitate; my hand wraps around his shaft and begins to stroke as if it is second nature. I stare up at Dieter, watching his eyes close as I stroke him in his pants, amazed at how hot the view is.

"Fuck, fuck," he grunts, hips canting towards me the faster I go. "Good girl."

I can't tear my eyes away from him because he's so beautiful. I make a soft gasping sound when I feel his cock throb in my palm. He's close. His eyes snap open and he quickly pulls my hand from his sweatpants. He's making small growling noises, his hands moving to my waist as he begins to kiss my jaw.

"I need to make you cum first," he tells me, his hand sliding up between my legs over my jeans. He begins to rub as I whimper his name.

"Dieter-"

His finger pressing the seam of my jeans against my core has me moaning lowly. I am so thankful none of the staff work on a Sunday because being caught like this would be hard to explain.

"I want to feel your skin," I babble, chasing his fingers. He grins against my neck.

"Yeah, I bet you do."

He begins working my fly with his other hand, pulling it down as his teeth scrape behind my ear. He licks there before his fingers move under my panties, curling into my sex.

"So wet for me."

I can't make any other noise than a moan. I've never been this wet in my life.

He begins to pump his middle and forefinger into my cunt, withdrawing slowly before driving deeply up to the knuckle. His thumb plays with my clit while he does this, keeping a steady rhythm as I ride him.

And even though I've never been one to cum quickly, especially not pressed up against a wall, I gush over his digits groaning his name over and over within seconds.

"Keep going. C'mon, keep going," he urges me roughly, pressing whiskery kisses to my cheeks, my jaw, behind my ear, before I'm completely wrung out.

He grins down at me, watching as my eyes fight to remain open when I finish cumming on his fingers, arousal dripping over his wrist. He brings his fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact as he licks them clean.

"That was hot."

His grin is feral, possessive and I know at once that this isn't enough for him. He runs his tongue against the bottom of his front teeth, his eyes on my mouth and then roaming about my body. I shiver.

"I need to fuck you," he growls as he picks me up, urging my legs around his waist.

"Yes," I whimper.

Yes, this is all I want. I want him to fuck me all night, to fill me, to have him touch me forever.

I crook my arms around his neck, giggling as he carries me up to his bedroom. I've never been inside it but I have seen it when walking by. He grins up at me, his pupils so wide his eyes are black.

The bedroom is large and over the top and has the softest looking bed in the center of the room. A package of cigarettes is on one table, a script on the other. It feels like a hotel room, something no one truly lives in.

"Can't wait to feel this soft pussy with my cock," he tells me as we near the bed. Just his husky voice saying those words are make my toes curl.

And I should be saying no when Dieter tosses me onto the bed like I weigh nothing. I should be telling him this is insane when he pulls me to hang over the side of the mattress and pushes me onto my belly. I should scream in terror when he tugs my jeans down to my ankles and positions himself behind me.

But all I want is to be as physically close to him as possible. I want to feel him inside me. I want to kiss each sliver of skin he presents to me. I need him to fuck me so hard I forget my name.

His hips grind into my rear, my panties soaked. I can feel the cool metal of his rings sliding over my ass cheeks, giving them a light spank. I embarrass myself by moaning. "You like that," he tells me.

He moves my hair over my shoulder, hand gripping my chin so I can glance up to him. I've never seen him like this, so authoritative, so... Alpha.

“You like everything I give you, don't you?"

Yes," I breathe without hesitation.

“Need my big cock in this sweet pussy.”

“Yes.”

He gives me a carnivorous smile that makes my clit throb. I feel him lowering the band of his sweatpants, his bare cock slipping between my thighs, stopped only by the barrier of my panties. He feels huge.

"So soft," he groans. He ruts there a few moments, his breathing hitching as he pulls back and thrusts forward.

I feel him leaking between my legs and I feel like I'm going to die if he doesn't fuck me. He kisses my shoulder blade.

"Please, Dieter. I want you inside of me."

He gives me a thick, groaning noise before his fingers go to the waist of my panties, about to pull them off as I arch for him, completely submissive in a way I've never been for anyone. I feel like I'm trembling everywhere, but not in fear, in total arousal and excitement. I can't wait to feel him everywhere. I don't even want him to use a condom.

"Dieter, I forgot to mention that--"

The connection is broken at the sound of a woman's voice at the bedroom door he didn't bother closing.

Mel walks in and when she sees us both she physically recoils, looking horrified. I guess anyone would be. I'm perched over the side of Dieter's bed, pants at my ankles looking as guilty as one can be. And he's not stopping that slow grind of his cock between my legs, his voice angry.

"Mel, get out."

"What the fuck are you thinking?" She screams at him. She charges forward, pushing him off of me. He goes tumbling to the ground, swearing.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my eyes filling with shameful tears as she tugs me out of the room.

Mel slams the bedroom door, waiting for me to pull up my jeans before forcing me to the kitchen. Dieter doesn't come after us and I'm both relieved and hurt by it.

"Did he force himself on you?"

It takes me a moment to get my bearings and to digest what she's saying to me. Did he force himself on me? It sure didn't feel like it. Everything he did I wanted. I wanted it more than anything in the entire world.

I shake my head. "No. He told me we could stop but I told him to keep going."

"Because you felt pressured?"

"No. Because I wanted him to keep touching me."

"So you willingly entered into sexual congress with your employer?"

When she says it like that my entire body flushes with embarrassment. I can't even say the words so I just nod, slowly closing my eyes.

"You don't know what you're saying. There's a power imbalance," Mel observes. "You may not realize it, but there is. He took advantage of you."

"No he didn't."

Mel sighs. "I'm sorry but you can't work here anymore."

My head spins as my eyes pop open. "What?"

"I'm really sorry," she repeats, looking defeated. "It just wouldn't be appropriate."

"You can't fire me."

But she can. Mel is the senior PA, she's my boss, and she decides who she's going to work with.

"You can't possibly work with him after this," Mel explains and I think it hurts her to do so because her eyes are shiny. "I'm sorry."

The ground beneath my feet feels uneven, like I'm going to fall over if I don't move.

"You're still within your first year's probation," she says when I don't respond. "But I'm going to give you three months of severance anyway."

I feel small and terrified. But what else can I do? It's true; she caught me about to fuck my boss. Even if I wanted to stay how am I ever going to work with Dieter again? How can I look him in the face after what happened?

"I'm sorry for everything," I whisper, grabbing my backpack and heading for the door.

I take my bike, jumping on and pealing quickly. I don't even bother looking to see if Dieter is standing there at his bedroom window watching me go.

A week later I'm in my apartment still reeling after everything that happened eating cookies on my favourite purple tufted chair.

Mel transferred my severance and I was surprised to find it a full year's salary plus bonus which was generous. It'll keep me going for at least a year while as I search for a new job. But I want a new one now. I feel useless sitting at home.

When my parents returned from Munich they were horrified to hear that I'd been without my medication for almost a month. I was given the new package of meds and their apologies for not being in contact. Apparently Aunty Luna lives pretty far out of the city with spotty phone reception.

"We heard about break-ins in the neighbourhood so we left your medication with the neighbour," my mom explains. "I'm so sorry my darling, I thought you heard me tell you that over the phone."

They wanted to know if anything happened or if I felt strangely. I just lied to them and told them I didn't notice a difference and I started taking the pills again every morning like clockwork.

The days feel a little greyer, a little less intense. But that's okay because I don't want intense. I want stability as I try to get a handle on my life. With the way that things ended, I'm too ashamed to ask for a recommendation letter from Mel or Dieter, so job hunting feels impossible at times.

But I manage to snag one at a little independent bookstore by my apartment. The pay is half what I made working for Dieter, but it's nice in there, my coworkers are sweet.

I'm there for several weeks and soon I get into the swing of things. The job is easy and I love being surrounded by books. I go to karaoke with some of the girls after my shift and slowly feel like my life is becoming manageable again.

When a number I don't recognize pops up on my phone screen one morning I assume it's someone calling from work to see about a shift change.

"Hello?"

"Hello this is Natalie Crest from Bondline."

Oh fuck how could I forget? The matching service Dieter signed me up for.

I'm not proud to admit it, but a part of me just assumed that he would try to get in contact with me. I won't admit how many nights I spent staring at my phone, waiting for his husky voice on the other end of the line calling me GG.

But nothing came. And now I have to face this whole Bondline thing by myself. I hope his fated mate is a ninety year old man with a face tattoo.

"Hi Natalie."

"I'm calling with the results of your mate match."

I guess there might be a bright spot coming out of all this. There's the potential to find my perfect match. "Thank you for calling," I say politely. "I'm eager to hear my results. I'm surprised you're the one calling. I assumed you would have someone for that."

"We do." For a bit there is a long silence and then Natalie's voice, a little less chipper, coming through the speaker. "I don't usually make the phone calls myself. But yours was a unique case"

Maybe this is because I used to work with Dieter? Maybe he pulled the funding and she's expecting me to pay for it myself? If that's the case she better keep dreaming.

"You told me you were a beta, correct? No previous long-term partners?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought," Natalie hums, "may I ask why you believed yourself to be a beta?"

Believed myself to be a beta? I pause, confused by her phrasing. "I was born this way."

Natalie's long nails click against a keyboard, taking notes as she hums to herself.

"Did something go wrong with my sample?" I ask, not sure what she's getting at.

I hear her inhale and then exhale slowly, her voice quiet.

"We found large amounts of melatonin and triptaxine in your blood sample."

"What's that?"

"A suppressant and blocker."

"A what?" I stand up, cookie crumbs falling off my lap as I begin to pace in my small apartment. "I don't know what those are."

There's another big pause before Natalie speaks again.

"This is a first for us at Bondline, so I'm not sure how to say this. As we were running your sample for matching, it detected two things. The first of which is that you are not a beta. You are an Omega."

"What?!"

Omega? The world feels like it's much too fast and I can't keep up. My head is swimming as I attempt to steady myself.

"T-theres been a mistake. I'm just a beta. I'm not an Omega."

"I'm sorry, but you are. We tested your samples several times to be sure." When I don't answer she keeps going. "The blockers are for scent. Making it so your scent is concealed from alphas. And the suppressants are used to stop you from going into heat."

I cringe at that term. Heat?! I'm not a dog on all fours--- my mind snaps to a stop as I recall myself against Dieter's mattress, ass in the air as he ground into me from behind. Animalistic is the only way to describe it.

Of course. Dieter is an alpha and without these blockers he must have inhaled my...pheromones or whatever. And if I'm an Omega it's no wonder I succumbed, going pliant and submissive for him. It's the only way to explain how we acted.

"But, how is it possible I didn't notice?"

"With the levels you were taking I don't imagine you felt much of anything."

"You must've mixed up my vials with someone else," I say trying to reason with her. "I'm a beta."

Natalie hums an acknowledgement but it's a nervous sound, like she doesn't want to say the next part. "The same was detected from your mouth swab. I'm sorry, but it's true. You are in fact an Omega that's been living like a beta."

I think of the medication that my parents are insistent that I take. How missing them for three weeks had me feeling more alive and charged.

"I don't understand," I mutter to myself. "Why would they do this?"

"Who is they?"

"My parents. They've had me on this medication my whole life. Why would they do that?"

"Are they beta?"

"Yes."

"Classism is still a very large part of our society," Natalie explains. "Alpha on top and Omega, sadly on the bottom. They were likely trying to save you from a lifetime of persecution. This isn't the first time I've heard of such a thing."

I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. My hands are trembling with all of this. The way I approached the world has now completely changed.

"I'll let you sit with that information for a little while," Natalie tells me gently. "But there is another even more pressing detail you need to be aware of."

Oh great. What could be worse than this?

"You are Dieter Bravo's fated mate."

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#Marked for the Role #Dieter Bravo #Dieter Bravo x Reader #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #pedro pascal characters #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #PPCU #Pedro Pascal characters

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gothicpaperback · 18 days ago

Text

wc: 6k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Dieter Bravo x You | O/B/E Universe

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

MARKED FOR THE ROLE | PART ONE | OPENING ACT

"Are you taking your medication?"

I roll my eyes; the phone nestled between my shoulder and ear as my mom nags me. She's been nagging me about the same thing every day since I moved out six weeks ago.

"Yes Mom," I say with a sigh. "I'm taking my medication."

"Every day?"

"Yes. Every day."

I don't know what the big deal is. Most of my friends moved out on their own right after college. I'm almost thirty and my parents still treat me like I'm a kid.

I can hear my dad in the background with his grumpy voice.

"Tell her to come for dinner."

"Your father wants you to come to dinner tonight."

"I can't," you say trying not to sound relieved. "Work."

Silence. My parents hate my job. They think it's embarrassing and frivolous and they don't understand why I love it so much.

But why would they? Their boring accountants. I have the coolest job and they just don't get it.

I've been working for Dieter Bravo for almost six months.

Yep, the Dieter Bravo! The Oscar winning actor! I'm one of his personal assistants.

It's the first real, long term job I've ever had. I get paid well, I get to attend fancy events sometimes and the biggest plus is that I saved enough to live on my own.

Dieter is actually the one that encouraged me to move out.

Well, not directly.

Dieter doesn't really talk to me much outside of requests.

But I did overhear him talking to a friend on the phone who was struggling in their career. Dieter was sympathetic, citing that he'd only landed his first big role after being kicked out by his parents.

"Forced independence made me work harder. The birdie kicked from the nest. Sometimes you need that extra push, man."

Dieter isn't the sort of man I would normally seek advice from, between his stints in rehab and copious partners. But on this point I could see where he was coming from.

I end the call with my mom and pull on my backpack, grabbing my keys and heading to work.

The bike ride to Dieter's takes about forty minutes, but in the gorgeous California weather I don't ever care. I listen to music and smile at everyone I pass.

I always have to stop at the coffee shop on my way to get a coffee for Dieter and a muffin for myself.

Some people tell me not to be friendly and that LA is just filled with assholes. I say you get what you give and most people are the kindest I've ever met.

Oh and I've got the most gorgeous cherry red bike you've ever seen, a gift from my parents when they found out I was taking the bus at all hours of the night.

It's electric so when I'm tired of pedalling I just zip down the streets feeling like a badass.

Dieter's house is at the end of a celebrity-filled neighbourhood that I can't disclose. Let's just say he has a few famous neighbours.

I walk inside, waving hello to his PR guy, Thomas who is speaking animatedly into his phone. He doesn't wave back.

"Mister Bravo wasn't even at that Ghalta Club event, he was in New Mexico with his parents. If you publish that article I'll sue you for libel."

I move into the kitchen to see Dieter's senior PA, Mel sitting at the table. She waves at me while I put Dieter's coffee in the fridge.

"Hey gorgeous," she says with a wink shot my way. Mel is a terrible flirt but she'd never do anything because her girlfriend is an absolute darling.

"Hey," I say with a smile, dropping into the seat next to her and pulling up the designated iPad.

It's my work one covered in stickers of flowers which is ironic since I'm allergic to, like, all of them.

"Did you hear about the club debacle?"

"Yeah, Thomas was ranting at some guy about libel." I turn to Mel in curiosity. "Was Dieter actually at the club?"

"Of course he was," Mel scoffs, laughing. "He did so much coke he punched a hole in one of the windows trying to prove a point about set glass."

I giggle to myself. That sounds like Dieter.

He's just like what you've read about in the papers. He's as wild as his hair, as outrageous as he seems on the red carpet and he's just as eccentric as his objects l interviews would suggest.

I think that's why I love working for him. I never know what to expect with him.

I start scanning through his schedule. He's got a tux fitting, brand deal meeting, a massage,

dinner with a director.

"His day is pretty busy," I observe with a whistle.

"Tell me about it."

I look up and see Dieter shuffling into the room in his threadbare robe and fuzzy slippers. He looks like he barely got any sleep.

I try to interact with Dieter as little as possible because I find him intimidating, unlike Mel who loves to joke with him.

"How was the club?" Mel asks with a smirk from behind her thick black frames. "Heard it was a real rager."

Dieter shoots him a look but it's undercut by his smirk. "Thomas taking care of it?"

"Of course."

He shuffles to the fridge and grabs his coffee. I watch him casually, trying not to notice the width of his shoulders or the way his dark hair curls under his ears.

I never really enjoyed his movies all that much before I met him. I thought he was handsome in a way all Hollywood people are.

But when I met him in real life and shook his hand for the interview? Zing. I felt that schoolgirl flutter of my heart. And when he smiled at me and murmured my name I felt every part of my body go up in flames.

I admit it. I have a little bit of a crush on him. But who wouldn't? He's Dieter Bravo!

It's normal. Mel told me that every PA he's ever had (aside from her) has had a crush on him. He's charismatic when he wants to be, but distant a lot of the time. I never really know where I stand with him.

He comes to the table and smells like his patchouli cologne and cigarette smoke, clearly he's already had a stressful start to his day. His large fingers are wrapped around the coffee cup, making it look small.

"Thanks for the coffee," he says in that rumbled morning voice he has. I lift one shoulder, smiling politely.

"It's my job."

He stares at me for a moment before taking a sip of his coffee and closing his eyes, savouring it.

"Got your contract for the watch brand here," Mel says officiously passing the papers to Dieter. "Just need you to sign and I'll mail it off."

"There's no Bluetooth in the watches right?"

"No."

"Good."

Dieter takes a long sip of his coffee, nodding as he sits, scrawling his signature at the bottom without reading it.

Dieter hates a lot of technology I think because he grew up with so little of it.

Mel files through the rest of his mail before stopping at one that arrived in a deep crimson envelope with Dieter's name in gold script on the front.

"And this came today," Mel says in curiosity. "I didn't open it like the other stuff. Seemed private."

Dieter plucks it swiftly from Mel's manicured fingers, before tearing it open and pulling out a cream coloured page.

He takes a seat next to me at the table, his wide shoulder bumping into mine. I go stiff, trying to stop the badum badum of my heartbeat.

He smells so good. I normally hate the scent of cigarettes but on him it mixes with something else that has my entire body tingling.

Dieter sips his coffee as he reads the page for a long while, making amused little noises before scoffing loudly.

"Junk mail."

I watch as he tosses the letter onto the table before he announces he's going to have a shower before the brand meeting.

I wait until he's around the corner before I reach out and grab the letter It's just sitting there begging to be read! Mel offers no argument because she's just as curious as I am, grabbing the seat Dieter just vacated.

We sit there reading, our eyes growing rounder the longer we read.

Dear Dieter, In a world where scent, presence, and lineage carry weight, we know that for someone like you, connection is not a casual pursuit. It's elemental. At Bondline, we specialize in forging the kinds of bonds that go beyond chemistry and camera flashes. We’ve built an elite, invitation-only service for Alphas, Betas, and Omegas whose lives exist in the public eye, but whose hearts long for something deeply private and profoundly real. You’ve captured audiences through your performances, your charisma, and your unmistakable energy. But what we see behind that is even rarer: someone who would understand the value of a true, instinct-led bond. We’d like to extend a personal invitation for you to join The Inner Circle, the most exclusive tier within Bondline. This division is reserved for a select few: those whose dynamics, visibility, finances and personal legacies require absolute discretion and unmatched compatibility. Your inclusion would be handled with the utmost privacy. Every match is personally curated by our senior bond advisors and scent-aligned through advanced instinctive matching, emotional resonance, biological affinity, and long-term potential. We would be honored to connect with you to discuss how Bondline could support your journey toward a bond worthy of your instinct and depth. We don’t just promise a match, we promise the one your instincts have been waiting for. Because even in a world that always sees you, Dieter, you deserve to be truly known. Warmly and confidentially, Natalie Crest Founder & Lead Bond Strategist Bondline: The Fated Circle

Mel and the rest of the staff are betas like me. But Dieter? He's an alpha. After working for Dieter so long it's strange to think of him as an alpha. I'd learned in school about our differences but it never really interested me. I was "normal". My family was normal. They raised me to be proud of who I was.

Alpha's are known to be short tempered, dominant, natural leaders.

Dieter isn't any of those things, at least not to my knowledge. Except I will concede that he does have a bad temper when he's pushed. My second week here I watched him fire one of his PR guys, yelling at him until the vein in the side of his neck popped out.

"Holy shit. This is major," Mel whispers. "I've heard of these guys. They're the real deal in high social circles."

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah. They pretty much guarantee to find your true match. Like soulmate match. That's like, insane."

I sit back and digest this information for a moment. What an opportunity and Dieter is just throwing it away? How bizarre.

"He's so lucky to be able to do this and he's not even going to try?" I can't help but feel bitter as I think about my long dry spell.

"Guess not."

"Well that's just stupid," I mutter to myself but Mel heard.

"Tell me how you really feel," she jests.

"I just think that celebrities don't appreciate anything. He's being offered the chance of a lifetime and he's just going to squander it?" I shake my head. "What a waste."

"Ooooo claws come out," Mel says giggling. "I don't think I've ever heard you say something negative about anyone ever."

I duck my head, embarrassed. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Mel slants her smirk my way but she lets it go, leaving me with my shame and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

"Why are you still here?"

I look up from the iPad several hours later, making another note in Dieter's schedule. Mel is standing by the door pulling on her purse.

"It's four o clock. Quitting time."

I check my watch and then shrug. "There's a few things I still want to get done today. I'll head out soon."

"You sure? I can give you a ride?"

"I'm sure, I brought my bike. I'll see you tomorrow."

Mel leaves with a wave and I get back to marking things off the to do list. Normally I would just leave these until tomorrow mornings shift, but I don't want to go home.

After all, I told my parents I couldn't come to dinner because I was working.

By seven o'clock I've finished the emails and clothing orders. I've restocked his fridge thanks to a delivery service and I've set out his clothes for tomorrow's interview.

The company sent over several rings for Dieter to choose from. He's always been something of a fashion anomaly, his clothes mismatched his long fingers decked out in a variety of rings, colours, shapes, metals.

I open the case with the jewellery logo on the front, marvelling at the beautiful rings, several encrusted with stones. I take out the gold and ruby one, mesmerized. It's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen, thick platinum with rubies adorning it.

The box came with a polishing cloth and I sit there humming to myself as I rub them until they gleam. The emerald sparkles, the onyx glistens but I linger on the ruby one, holding it to the light.

"You're here late."

I whip around to see Dieter frowning at me from the hall. He's got the tux on from his earlier fitting and just the sight makes my mouth go dry.

In his right hand he holds a cigarette, in his left a tumbler of whiskey. He surveys me curiously.

For a second I just stare at him, terrified I'll say something dumb. But finally I find my voice.

"I just thought I'd get a head start on these," I croak, pointing to the ring collection he'll be trying on tomorrow. "Trying to decide which one would look best."

He walks towards me and I feel the crackle of my attraction for him. I take a step back, lowering my eyes. It's intimidating to stare into his for too long.

"It's late."

"Only seven."

"You were off three hours ago."

"My parents wanted to have me over for dinner tonight. I told them I was working late so I wouldn't have to go."

I hear a snicker and look up to see Dieter looking amused at me.

"Why not just tell them you're working but stay home and relax?"

"Because then I'd be lying."

I don't lie. I've never seen the benefit in keeping confidences. Aside from the NDA I signed when I was hired to work with Dieter of course.

"Such a good girl," he says taking a drag from his cigarette and shaking his head. "Tell me, Good Girl, would you really do this Bondline thing?"

"Um..." I fumble with the ring I still hold.

"I know things like that are wasted on us celebrities," he says with a dimpled smirk. "But humor me."

Shit, he heard me and Mel earlier.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replies, popping the cigarette between his plump lips and loosening the bow tie with his empty hand. "You've seen what they write about me in the papers. I've heard worse."

Yeah, Dieter is usually splashed inside some magazine caught drinking or partying. The photos are always unflattering and the comments are worse.

"Dieter Bravo’s idea of a balanced diet? Vodka in one hand, a mystery pill in the other. Hollywood's golden boy is looking more tarnished by the day! Maybe fame isn’t the only thing he’s addicted to."

"Dieter Bravo was spotted in a backroom VIP lounge getting *very hands-on* with heartthrob Jaxon Ryder. Witnesses say shirts were off, tongues were out, and Bravo didn’t seem too concerned about who was watching. One partygoer spilled, ‘It was like watching a deleted scene from a very adult movie.’ Looks like Dieter’s keeping it fluid and filthy."

"Looks like Dieter Bravo’s latest role is ‘Hot Mess in Public.’ Sources say he’s less ‘leading man’ and more ‘leaving his dignity in a nightclub bathroom"

"From red carpets to rehab? Dieter Bravo parties like he’s auditioning for a mugshot. The only thing more out of control than his fan base is his bloodstream."

"Dieter Bravo was literally caught with his pants down in the guest bathroom of a Malibu mansion and guess who walked out after him, lipstick smeared and heels in hand? None other than social media queen Lacey Luxe. One party guest said, ‘It sounded like a TikTok thirst trap come to life.’ Bravo’s team says they’re ‘just friends,’ but friends usually don’t fog up mirrors."

"Someone get this man a script that doesn’t end in an intervention.”

"Dieter Bravo, 44, caught getting way too close with co-star Jaxon Ryder. It looks like Hollywood’s favorite bad boy isn’t just experimenting with substances. Insiders say the pair were ‘all over each other’ at a private after party."

One of his ex boyfriends did an entire spread in People magazine where he told the interviewer that Dieter was a chronic alcoholic who could never have a truly functional relationship.

When that one hit the stands Dieter went to Malta for a month. He still doesn't talk about it.

"Yeah but that's trash," I say. I hope he knows I'm being sincere.

"Yeah but there's some truth to it," he chuckles. He takes a sip of his drink. "So tell me, did you mean what you said?

He doesn't look angry so maybe he'll be okay with my opinion.

"I mean, what Alpha wouldn't want to know their Omega? What's the harm?"

Dieter pins me in place with his eyes. I can see that he's sober and when he's sober he's much more intense.

"Because finding my mate means an end to a lot of stuff."

"Like what?"

"Parties, jet setting."

"Why?"

He blinks at me. "Because my mate won't want that."

"Why not?"

"He or she is going to want a family man. Someone dependable and around all the time. They'd probably want me to quit smoking too."

I think about this, pressing my lips together. "I don't think that's true. I think if they are your match they'll see you through that. Maybe they'll even like those parts of you. Parties are fun and lots of people love travelling." I grin shyly. "But I do agree with your future soulmate about the smoking."

Dieter smiles weakly, his eyes troubled. He throws back the remainder of his drink before resting the glass on the coffee table.

"What if they want kids?"

"Do you want kids?"

"I don't know." Dieter looks stressed, taking a long drag off his cigarette. "Fuck. This is why I didn't want to do it."

"Sorry."

"Why? I'm the one that brought it up."

Oh. Right.

"I just think it's an opportunity a lot of people would kill for," I explain with a shrug. "I know I would love it if I weren't a beta."

Dieter steps a little closer to me. "Really?"

"Knowing my perfect match? My fated mate? My soulmate? How wonderful would that be? No more shitty dates, no more wondering if I'm going to die alone," I catch myself from continuing because I know my face is flooding with blood. "Anyway, I just think it's really cool."

He stands there across from me for a long moment in total silence.

"Really cool," he finally echoes in amusement, eyes drifting downward. "I'll go with the emerald."

"Huh?"

"The emerald ring," he says motioning to the box behind me. I grip the ruby one a little tighter.

"I thought you would have gone ruby."

"Why's that?"

"Red is usually associated with power and vitality," I say swallowing when he doesn't look away from me. "Figured as an Alpha..."

Nothing else needs to be said. He scans my eyes a moment longer before nodding, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. I watch his mouth curve to the side, smoke billowing away from me. He nods towards the front door.

"You ride that bike out front?"

I blink confused by this. "Yes."

He nods again and then he's gone from the room, cigarette smoke wafting over him. Struck by such an abrupt end to our conversation I place the ring back into the box and grab my backpack, heading for the front of the house.

Mohan, Dieter's driver, is at the front door when I arrive, looking at me with a severe look. I try to step around him to exit but he holds up his hand.

"You are to be taken home using the town car."

"What?"

He tilts his head and I follow like a confused puppy out towards the garage. "Mohan I have a bike--"

"Dieter insisted you be driven home," Mohan snaps. "He says it's too dark for you to be riding your bike home."

"My bike--"

"Already attached to the vehicle," Mohan says and now I understand his irritation. He had to attach my bike to his beautifully shiny car. His pride and joy as Dieter's personal chauffeur.

"Thank you, Mohan."

The old man doesn't doesn't spare me a reaction but he does hold the car door open for me, slamming it shut behind me.

Dieter doesn't really talk with me much after that evening and I'm not surprised. I'm shocked he talked to me as long as he did. And I'm not fired which means that he didn't take much offence to what I said about him and Bondline.

It's not until about six weeks later that I open the magazine his interview was in, reading it with interest. It's the usual fluff, stuff about Dieter's estranged family, his role as a bisexual icon, his upcoming films and of course it's accompanied by a photo-shoot.

I can't help but feel a little zip when I see his fingers heavy with rings, the ruby one front and centre, the emerald nowhere to be seen.

I go to dinner with my parents that evening, taking the medication from them with thanks. They've always handled that stuff for me and I appreciate it. I know medication can be expensive.

I have a lot of anxiety and depressive moods. I've had them since I was a kid and the medication helps with that. They have a real good medical plan so they get them for me and drop them off like clockwork.

I know why they worry and I don't blame them. The last time I went off my medication I was seventeen and in a rebellious phase. I pretended to take those tiny pink pills every morning but would spit them into my hand the second my mom's back was turned.

I remember loving how I felt the first few days. The world brighter, more fragrant, more beautiful. I felt serene and calm and I wanted to feel like this all the time.

But then came this weird sensation that I was being watched. Then it was anxiety attacks. I started to tuck into myself, avoided leaving my bedroom unless I had to.

The kids at school treated my different too, especially the boys. I couldn't understand it. Maybe they'd always looked at me with carnivorous eyes and I'd just been so medicated I never knew.

The final straw came in the form of my mom coming home to find me in the bathroom covered in sweat having what looked like a seizure. I barely remember it happening. Only that I was so hot and my body felt like it was being electrocuted.

I told her everything and she explained this is why I needed to take my medication regularly. Ever since that horrible experience I have been, never missing a dose.

Until one weekend in June.

It isn't easy being Dieter's PA sometimes. He often has ridiculous requests when hes on a bender.

My first week here I had to organize plane tickets for he and six of his new friends to go to Vegas for the weekend.

I had to source weed, acid and mushrooms from a dealer Mel told me about and then I had to drive it and his suitcase all down to the set he was working on.

I was a mess when I arrived at his trailer, my mascara smudged under my eyes, my shirt soaked with sweat.

All of this only for Dieter to give me a once over and announce that the trip was cancelled because "the vibes are off".

He took the bag of drugs though. For that I was thanked. And I almost quit that day until Mel told me about Christmas Bonuses.

But today things are going smoothly. Mel is off sick so it's just me today. I'm thankful for the slower pace.

Dieter finished his online meeting with his financial officer and has been reading scripts all afternoon. The house is quiet and peaceful.

Of course the doorbell chimes and a woman arrives at the front door with long legs, a briefcase and a Botox-ed smile. Henry from security stands behind her looking serious.

"Hello, my name is Natalie Crest and I'm here for Dieter Bravo."

Nothing is on the calendar so I glance behind her at Henry who nods.

"She has clearance."

I step back greeting her warmly.

"Please come in."

I feel her eyes lingering on me a moment too long and then she's clicking her expensive heels after me as I lead her to the office.

To my surprise Dieter is already there, waiting with a tumbler of scotch. He stands, greeting the woman with a handshake.

"You must be Natalie."

"Yes, thank you for taking this meeting, Mr Bravo," the woman says baring her teeth once more.

"Dieter, please. And thanks for coming here. The paps have been extra intense lately thanks to that-"

"Role you landed, yes, I read all about it," Natalie nods. "Discretion is the cornerstone of Bondline."

Oh shit. He's actually meeting with her? Does that mean he's actually interested? Did he do this because of what I said?

My eyes flit to his profile, seeing the way he slants his gaze my way. My throat tightens.

Natalie's voice breaks the spell when she looks at me, smiling.

"Any chance you want to be a customer as well?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "I could never afford it."

"It's a good investment," she says wisely. "Your partner will decide much of your future happiness. You want to make sure he's the right one."

"I'm sure that's true," I nod. "But it's out of my price range and besides, I'm a beta."

"I see," Natalie nods. "Well we offer beta matches as well. Much cheaper due to matching system."

"I'll think about it," I say smiling, knowing full well I'll never do it. I cannot afford the fee, not on my salary.

I go to take Dieter's now empty tumbler and leave the room, wanting to give he and Natalie some privacy. Dieter's arm brushes mine and I fight the urge to sigh.

"We got your background paperwork already," Natalie says as she takes a seat on the couch. "Which is great. All I need from you today is a few samples."

"Samples?"

"Blood draw, spit, that sort of thing," Natalie mutters as she opens her briefcase and begins to take out syringes, alcohol swabs, and sealed test tubes.

Dieter's eyes widen slightly and I go to walk past him but he catches my elbow, tugging me slightly towards him. I stumble into him, overwhelmed with his cologne and minty gum.

"Stay," he whispers roughly, hand curved around my arm. "Please."

I'm about to question this when I recall my intake with Mel months ago. Back when she was training me.

"Dee hates needles. I think the only reason he's not a full blown junkie is because he's scared of them."

Dieter has eyes like dark moons wide and emotional and maybe it's acting, but the desperation in them sure seems authentic.

I could leave because this is not in my job description but I can't do that to him. Instead I nod and be urges me to take a seat next to him on the couch. His leg presses heavily against mine.

"My PA changed her mind," he explains to Natalie as she rolls up one of his sweater cuffs. "She's going to sign up as well If that's okay."

"Of course," Natalie says smiling warmly at me. "I'll collect your family background information after."

I jerk my head Dieter's way, brow furrowed. Is he insane? I can't spend that kind of money. As if reading my mind he gives me a charming grin and lowers his mouth to my ear.

"My treat."

The feeling of his warm breath huffing on my lobe makes it so that I have to dig my front teeth into my lower lip.

I relax a bit back into the couch, allowing Natalie to wrap the elastic around my bicep, wincing as it pinches.

"As you know our success rate is ninety nine percent matches," Natalie says, always professional. "We have had the pleasure of matching some very illustrious figures."

"Anyone I'd know?" Dieter asks as she wraps the elastic band around his bicep as well. She flashes him a toothy grin.

"As I said Dieter, discretion is the cornerstone of our business."

Natalie continues to chat casually, tapping the syringe as she perches in front of Dieter. I can see the panic there, the way his eyes go big and owl like.

"I'll go first," I say loudly, drawing both gazes. Natalie nods and I stick my arm out her way. I want him to see that it'll be okay.

I feel Dieter's eyes on me as she pokes the needle into my skin, eyes wincing as he imagines I must be in pain. I smile his way, trying to calm his nerves. See, it doesn't even hurt.

"Perfect," Natalie says shaking the bottle back and forth before writing my name on the tube. "Okay Dieter, your turn."

I can feel the anxiety coming off Dieter in waves. When I glance at his profile I can see the way his pulse tics in his neck. He's so close I could kiss that constellation of freckles that disappear under his shirt neckline.

Instead I reach out slowly and I touch his wrist, hoping to ground him. I'm here. I hold my breath, letting my fingers just rest there on his warm skin. He flinches, startled before flashing a look my way.

Thank you the look says thank you for understanding.

His big palm twists upwards and I'm surprised when he captures my hand in his, lacing his fingers with mine and holding it on his knee.

Blood is roaring in my ears at his touch. I feel dizzy and not from the blood loss. I glance down and stare at how his big hand swallows mine.

I sit completely still as his blood is drawn, trying not to squeak when he squeezes my hand tightly in his.

As she finishes up and removes the elastic from around his bicep his fingers loosen and I take my hand back into my lap, a bit dejected at the moment being over.

After she labels our samples she gives us information on an app we need to get.

"Your results will take about four to six weeks to load," she explains as we download the app to our phones. "After that, you can expect your perfect match and their information to be delivered."

I stare at my phone, still reeling as I realize what's just happened. I'm going to find my soulmate, or as close to a soulmate as betas get. Why am I so nervous?

Natalie leaves with the approaching Henry and I prepare to finish my tasks for the day when Dieter turns to face me.

"Thanks for your help," he says with a husky murmur that hits me directly between the legs.

"Of course," I reply instinctively before pausing. "You don't have to go through with the whole thing though. You can call her and tell her I changed my mind. I don't want you to be out all that money for no reason."

"Wasn't that much," he shrugs as if the $25k payment I saw on my own contract wasn't a large sum.

"Still..."

"Think of it as an early Christmas bonus," he says with a chuckle. "Besides without your push I never would've done it."

"I hope you don't regret it," I say feeling a little nervous.

What if things fall apart? What if he hates his omega? What if he hates giving up his freedom?

He looks about to say something else but his phone beeps and he pulls it out, scanning the name. His smile brightens as he lifts it to his ear.

"Hey baby, you got the table?... Excellent. Yeah."

I try not to be jealous, I really do. But it's hard when you have a crush on someone like Dieter who makes you feel like the centre of the universe every time they talk to you.

"Make sure you wear that red thing." His voice dips as he turns from me. "And nothing underneath."

He ends his call and turns back to me looking sheepish.

"Figure if I'm going to meet my soulmate soon I better sow these wild oats while I can." He clears his throat and I see the blush up the back of his neck. "Thanks again, GG. Head out early, I'm grabbing an early dinner."

"GG?"

His smile deepens, head tilting until his mouth is at my temple.

"Good Girl."

Holy shit.

With that he gives me a wink and heads to the garage with me staring after him like a statue.

This crush is going to be the end of me.

i would appreciate comments and reblogs.

graphic by @saradika-graphics

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