junojoel

[junojoel]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[junojoel]

all alone

serial killer!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~ 4k summary: You catch the attention of a serial killer. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, HBO Joel, TLOU AU, dubious consent (i'm so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), some proofreading, no outbreak AU, 70's/80's AU (not really committed to a specific time but let's say before the 90's), murder/violence, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, slight degradation, outdoor sex, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: hello y'all! sorry for being so MIA. it has been a rough 7 months. but I watched the pitt and now I have inspiration to start writing again (random, I know) 🤍 also this is only slightly proofread

Two days. 

It took two full days for you to bury the body. Six feet, loads of soft dirt, and all his belongings.

You couldn’t exactly go into a store and buy a ladder or a shovel. So you improvised. 

There were enough rural, abandoned farms in Texas that you could sneak onto the properties without being seen and take the things you needed. You have more than enough experience stealing, so you only had a mild worry about the gun-happy folk in this state. 

You found a dirty blue tarp to wrap his body, and once the hole was deep enough, you rolled him right in. You dropped all his belongings in there, too. It probably would have been a better idea to scatter his things throughout your road trip, but you were just too damn tired to care. 

You kept only a few things: his truck, his gun, and the money. 

The money was all your plan. It was a simple heist that involved robbing a small bank, with Anthony as the gunman and you as the getaway driver. You had the floor plans you found using your intelligence and charm. Therefore, the only issues were the security guard and the 8-minute response time from the police. 

Anthony and you were on the highway in 7 minutes. 

But he became too greedy with the money. At first, you were okay with him spending a few at the casinos, but the drugs and strippers became an annoyance. When he walked back into your hotel room with the stench of vodka and perfume, the idea to kill him, to rid yourself of this parasite, had crossed your mind. 

When he called you, drunk and delirious, to pick him up from the 7th strip club of the week, you listened. And when he told you to pull over on an empty road because he wanted to fuck, you grabbed your knife and stabbed it into his eye, straight into his head. 

Blood splattered all over the inner cabin of his truck, and he flailed in pain until red dripped down his entire front. 

It wasn’t a smart decision. You had to park the truck in the back of the hotel, away from the street lamps, while you walked discreetly back into your room to grab all of your belongings. 

You managed to wipe away most of the blood once he was six feet underground, and you thanked your now-dead boyfriend for his decision to choose a truck with an all-black interior. 

There were no tears or regret, only a sense of much-needed relief. He wasn’t necessary for your plans, just a pretty face to look at and a good shot. Until he began wasting your fucking money. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 100 miles away from his grave. 

The smoke billows out from underneath the hood of the truck. You’ve tried everything you can to get it to start, but the engine is completely fried. 

“Ain’t nothing we can do,” the mechanic says, wiping away sweat droplets from his hairline, “gonna need a new engine for it to work.” 

“Okay,” you say, “how long will it take to put in a new engine?” 

He wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag and reaches for a stack of papers. 

“ ‘bout a week. Just need you to fill out this paperwork and we’ll get started on payment.” 

Your heart drops. Fuck. A week is too long. 

“Any chance you can find a new engine sooner? I’m somewhat in a rush, my sister is getting married in three days,” you lie easily. “No matter the cost.” 

He shakes his head, giving you an apologetic smile. “Those engines gotta be special ordered. If you’re in a rush, I suggest takin’ a Greyhound or plane to wherever you’re goin’.” 

Fuck, Anthony. He just needed a brand new truck with difficult-to-find parts. 

“Whatever you do, don’t hitchhike,” he leans in, whispering, “too many people have gone missin’ on this side of Texas.”

One of the other mechanics calls his name and he walks away, putting up his finger to let you know he’ll be right back. You take the opportunity to slip out of the garage, leaving behind the truck. You don’t care what happens to it, it’s under one of Anthony’s aliases, and even if it was under his real name, they have no way of connecting him to you. 

There’s a gas station just a block down the street, so you figure you can try your luck there for some directions to the nearest greyhound station. You drag the suitcase behind you, a firm grip on it as people pass by on the sidewalk or in cars on the street. Everyone seems friendly, most of them smile and say “good afternoon,” which has you feeling more at ease. 

If you weren’t so hell bent on making it out west, you could imagine a life in this small town. There’s cute shops in the downtown area, trees lining the sidewalks, and parks with people enjoying their afternoon.  

The cashier at the gas stations hands you a pamphlet with the bus information and two quarters to use the pay phone once you give her the same story. You thank her, but deny the change, once again surprised by the town’s kindness and make your way towards the pay phone. 

The pay phone is right next to a board full of job posting, community event reminders, and… missing persons flyers. You open your wallet and take out change, sliding two quarters in the slot, and dial the phone number to the bus station. 

As you listen to the hold music, you begin to read some of the flyers. 

Jesse Smith. Male. 32. Last seen 01/08/70 on Tulson Road at 8:59 P.M. speaking to an unknown male in a dark colored pickup truck. 

Sasha Conner. Female. 27. Last seen 03/15/71 on Lake Avenue at 2:46 A.M. speaking to an unknown male, tall with brown, wavy hair. 

James Gonzalez. Male. 26. Last seen 05/22/72 on Wilson Street at 1:47 A.M. in an verbal altercation with an unknown male. 

“Jesus,” you whisper in fear, “I wonder if it’s the same guy?” 

The line cracks and you hear the voice of another person. 

“Thank–for–57th station–how–help–” 

“Hi, I’m sorry,” you say into the receiver, “the line is cutting–hello? Can you hear me?” 

“Are–for–times–hello?”

You hear the voice for a few more moments over static before the line completely cuts out. 

“Damnit,” you murmur. 

Before you can slide another quarter into the slot, a deep voice startles you. 

“These payphones don’t work, sweetheart.” 

You spin around, coming face to face with a brown-haired man. 

“Whoa,” he laughs, “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.” 

How did he sneak up behind me?

“No,” you say, “it’s fine. So the payphones don’t work?” 

He shakes his head, strands of wavy hair brushing his forehead. He’s attractive in a rough sort of way, like a man who uses his body for manual labor everyday. He has a few scars on his arms and face with gray strands scattered throughout his hair. 

“Ain’t worked for awhile,” he points to the entrance of the gas station, “that’s why they give out those quarters. Just being nice cuz the owner ain’t fixin’ it.” 

You place the phone back on the stand with a resounding thunk and take a deep breath. You could try the diner across the street, maybe they have another payphone or a phone they could let you use. 

You need to call the bus station first, find out which buses are heading as far west as possible, then a taxi company to get you there. 

“Joel Miller,” he says, sticking his hand out for a handshake. “If it’s a ride you need to the Greyhound Station, I’d be happy to help.” 

He motions behind him to a pickup truck. It’s shiny in the sunlight, and looks well taken care of. You accept his handshake and suppress the flutter in your lower belly from the strength in his hold. 

“How did you know where I was calling–” 

“I don’t like seeing young girls alone,” Joel interrupts, motioning towards the pamphlet in your hand, “it’ll be dark in a few hours and Lord knows it ain’t safe out here.” He points to the bulletin filled with the missing persons flyers. “The town is nice during the day, but at night…” 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You can handle yourself on your own, it’s been that way since you were a teen. You’re quick on your feet and you know you’re way around a revolver or a pocket knife, but the thought of a serial killer on the loose while you have no way of leaving does frighten you. 

But, you’re not naive. Most men don’t offer anything in this world without wanting something else in return. Especially handsome men like Joel. 

“I can pay you–” 

“No,” Joel interrupts again, “that ain’t necessary.” 

So, he wants something else. 

Joel picks up your suitcase and puts it in the backseat before he helps you into the passenger side. His car smells like leather, pine tree air freshener, and cigarettes. 

It’s only a faint smell, and if the box of mostly full Marlboro reds in the cupholder says anything, he probably only smokes every once in a while. Joel hops into the driver’s side, flashing you a quick smile, and starts the engine. You pull out the map you carry in your purse and quickly find the city you're in. 

“So according to the Greyhound pamphlet,” you say, showing Joel the pamphlet the cashier gave you, “it’s on Thompson Street and 20 minutes away–” 

“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart,” he interrupts, waving his hand, “I know a shortcut. We’ll cut that 40 minute drive down to 30.” 

“It says on the pamphlet that it’s 20 minutes from any part of town—” 

“There’s some construction goin’ on. The drive around town is a lot longer. Don’t worry, about it.”

Joel rolls down the windows of the truck and switches on the radio to a country station. You don’t miss the glances to your exposed thighs, even if he tries to be subtle about it. You don’t mind. You like the way he looks at you, and most importantly, you like how he looks. 

There’s always a seed of doubt present in your mind when you meet new people. It’s difficult to trust others when you’ve been wronged so many times, even recently with Anthony. Joel is a large man, broad and tall, with enough muscle in his arms that he swung your suitcase into the backseat so easily despite it being heavy. 

If he wanted to, he could grab and toss you around with minimal effort. And as you watch him sit in the driver’s seat, thighs spread wide, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of your seat, you suddenly crave violence. 

You squeeze your thighs together at the thought of him gripping you tight while he fucks you hard on the hood of hid truck. You feel the heat of his hand, resting behind you on the leather, not quite touching you but close enough for you to know it’s there. 

“Thanks again, Joel. You saved me from having to find another phone. Or wait for a taxi.” 

He turns to look at you again, giving you another smile, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent when he does. His eyes do a quick once over, but you still manage to notice how they linger. The sundress you wear has ridden up even more now that you’re sitting down. 

“No worries,” he says, “gotta make sure you get to your sister’s wedding, right?” 

You look at him in surprise. 

“I overheard your conversation with the attendant,” Joel says, answering your question before you can ask it, “I wasn’t followin’ you outside but I just needed to know you’d be okay.” 

You turn to look out the car windows, noticing that he’s driven out of the town and into the countryside.

“Oh,” you say, feeling relief. “So are you a local?” 

“Something like that–woah, I think I turned myself around. Would you mind takin’ out your map? The construction that’s going on has me all turned around,” Joel laughs. 

He grabs the map from your hand, touching his fingers to yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the warmth radiating from him. 

“Think we’re on Road 51,” he says, pointing to a spot on the map. “We’ll need to drive straight for a bit until we get to Daley Avenue and make a left.” 

You lean over to take a look at what he’s pointing at, but he folds it up and hands it back to you. “How’s a pretty thing like you end up out here?” Joel asks. 

“Hitched a ride to this town,” you say, already having an answer prepared. 

Joel looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “And where were you before?” 

“Living with my boyfriend–well, ex-boyfriend, a few towns over.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Ex-boyfriend? Can’t imagine any man letting go of a woman like you.” 

If only you knew, you think to yourself. 

“Sorry,” Joel says quickly, “ain’t tryna make you uncomfortable. But you oughta know how pretty you are.” 

There’s a warm glow in your lower belly. You can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. It’s been a while since you were fucked, properly fucked. Not the quick, boring moments with Anthony that made you more annoyed than relaxed. 

“No, it’s okay. I enjoy the compliments,” you say, giving him a smile. “You’re not too bad yourself.” 

Joel laughs loudly, shaking his head. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” 

“There’s no one calling you handsome at home?” you ask, running a finger through his thick hair. 

It’s a bold move, one that under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t do. But the sun is setting, the breeze coming in from outside the truck is fresh, and the sound of his voice is clouding your senses. 

Joel makes a left turn onto a road you don’t catch the name of. There’s more trees and an endless road ahead. 

“Can’t say there is,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “Now I suggest staying put in your seat, honey. Don’t play with this old man’s feelings.” 

“Should I play with something else, then?” 

Your hand reaches down to his jeans to palm his bulge. He groans, quickly veering right and straight into the patch of trees. You yelp in surprise, bouncing in your seat, but he parks the truck and drags you to his lap. 

You hear the thunk of your purse hit the truck floor and slide underneath the seat. The thoughts you had earlier, of Joel being dangerous, still linger in your mind. He's quick, strong enough to pull you into his lap and hold you tight against the bulge in his jeans. 

And it scares you. 

But in a fucked up way, it also excites you. His hand slides to the back of your neck and he brings your head down, connecting his lips to yours. Your dress has ridden up, exposing the pink cotton of your panties. You grind down on the rough material of his jeans, shivering in his hold as the goosebumps rise on your skin. 

He kisses with an intensity you’ve never felt before, but one that you’ve craved while you're alone in bed, dreaming of a blurry silhouette who can make you breathless. Joel tugs at straps of your dress, pulling them down and exposing your bare breasts to the warm air. 

You test his strength, wriggling in his lap and pushing gently against his chest, but he immediately grips your hands and brings them behind your back, thrusting his hips into the softness between your legs. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey,” Joel growls. 

He attacks your neck, dragging sharp teeth over sensitive skin and down your chest, finally reaching the peak of your breast with his tongue. You grind down on his lap, gliding your hands through his thick hair to bring his head closer to your tits. 

Joel groans against you, the sound vibrating on your skin while he laps at your nipples. Your legs have turned to jelly at this point, and you’re positive you’ve made a mess on his jeans from the wetness seeping through your panties. 

There is a swirl of heat in your lower belly, the tightening of your inner thighs, and the slow trickle of exhilaration that courses through your veins. You’re close, your orgasm teetering on the edge as you bounce and rub your clit in his lap.

“Sweet little thing,” Joel murmurs, dragging his lips over your chin, “so sensitive.”

His hands roam from your tits down to your thighs and ass, where he grips hard, keeping your hips flush with his. 

“Anthony ain’t ever make you feel this good?” 

For a second, you think you imagined it, that you’re conjuring up words that weren’t even spoken. But it only takes another second for you to realize what he said. Your body freezes in fear, blood turning ice cold in your veins, as your mind rushes to understand why Joel would say Anthony’s name. 

“Nothin’ to say?” Joel whispers, “or maybe you just kill ‘em when you get bored?” 

“Fuck you.” 

With those words, you manage to punch him in the throat, catching him completely off guard. You slide off his lap and fall to the truck floor on weak knees, blindly looking for your purse that slid underneath the seat. Joel tries to grab you by the hair just as you open the passenger door. By the grace of God, your hand connects with metal, your pocket knife, and you climb out of the truck. 

You don’t have time to waste, so you make no intention of taking your luggage or trying to find your purse. Joel is already climbing out after you, screaming your name into the darkness as you run into the trees. 

“Don’t run,” Joel yells, “we were just gettin’ to know each other.” 

“Fuck off, creep!” 

You zig zag through the trees, stumbling through the branches and moss. The sun has gone down completely, so you have nothing but silver streaks of moonlight to illuminate your path. Despite his age, he runs fast behind you, thundering steps that echo all around you. You don’t dare turn around and see how close he is for fear of tripping or losing speed. 

There’s a break in the trees, a patch of grass and in the distance, a wire fence. If you can get through that clearing and climb over that fence, maybe, maybe, you can find a house with people that can help you. 

But luck has to run out at some point. 

You trip, in some stupid, twisted fate, right as you make it out of the trees. You land face first into the soft grass with a loud oomph, momentarily stunning you. You try to regain your senses, managing to get up on your knees, but a large body immediately falls on top of you. 

Joel pushes you back down, easily dodging the swipe of your knife. He brings both of your hands behind your back and takes your pocket knife, throwing it far away. 

“Get off of me, asshole!” 

He laughs at that, undeterred while he flips up the back of your sundress and lands a sharp slap to your left cheek. Embarrassingly, you whimper. There’s so much adrenaline running through your body, fear melting into heat through your veins, that you become aware of every single touch on your skin. 

The night air, the soft grass pressing on your knees and face, the feel of his rough jeans on the back of your thighs, Joel’s hand holding your wrists together, his erection that presses against the wet cotton of your panties–it’s all too much. You’ve never felt this sensitive or vulnerable before. 

“I know it was you, the person who killed all those people,” you spit out, “all those descriptions match you, Joel.” 

“Oh yeah? Guess we got one thing in common,” he says, pulling down the zipper of his jeans, “we like to hunt.” 

“No,” you scream, feeling the rip of your panties and the push of his tip to your entrance, “I’m not–I’m not like you–fuck!” 

You’ve always been proud of how wet you become. How easy it is for you to become aroused and slide your fingers, or toys, or whoever you wanted, right between your tight walls. But in this instance, it almost feels like a curse. Joel slides in, punching his hips in one fluid motion, stopping only halfway as you tighten around his length. 

You figured he was big, everything about this man is big. However, this is new. The sensation of being stretched to your limit or ripped open, you're not even sure. Another thrust of his hips and loud groan from him and he’s fully in, his hands, gripping your hips while he takes a break. 

You don’t even try to fight, don’t try to use your now free hands to push away or fight. You can only breathe in short exhales, too tired from the running and too full of his cock to bring oxygen into your brain. Joel, on the other hand, is breathing heavily above you. He curves himself into your back, pressing hot kisses on your shoulder. 

“I knew you’d be fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans. 

“Stop,” you whimper, fully aware of your leaking pussy and the tight grip you have on him, “let me go.” 

You don’t even believe the words coming out of your mouth. 

“You were in my backyard, honey,” he says through gritted teeth, “shit, you almost found the bodies.” 

“What the hell–oh, God–” 

Joel slowly pulls out, his thick length dragging along your walls, leaving just the wide head of his tip inside of you. His hand slips between your thighs to rub tiny circles over your pulsing clit. He plunges in again, this time harder, pushing right against your cervix. 

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ perfect,” Joel murmurs.  

“Joel–” 

“Saw you drag the body into the hole,” he says, “too bad you dropped his ID.” 

Your body shakes and jolts forward with each of his thrusts. It doesn’t quite matter how you ended up here, your body has betrayed you. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, covering his length and jeans in sticky juices. 

“You–you followed me,” you stammer, “fuck, Joel! You fuck–fucking followed–oh shit–me.” 

He spanks you in three harsh slaps, each followed by the slam of his hips. “Course. I. Did.” 

You wish you had the mental capacity to ask more questions, to try and understand how he found you and what he wants from you. But, he keeps splitting you in half, rubbing his cock through your folds and back into your pussy. 

His lips find your neck and he licks a path from your shoulder to your spine. Joel bites, sucks at your skin, leaving indents of his teeth on your back. His fingers speed up on your clit, bringing you right to that peak. 

“Just like that, sweetheart,” Joel groans, “take that cock.” 

Your fingers rip at the grass as you thrust back onto his cock, squeezing your walls, doing your best to keep him locked inside of you. 

“Little slut’s gonna cum, ain’t she? Killed her boyfriend,” he groans, frantically thrusting into you, “only four days ago and–and already comin’ on my cock.” 

“No I’m not,” you lie, “I’m not–” 

You push back, breathless and vision blurring, as the force of your orgasm sweeps through your body. A scream erupts from your throat, echoing through the empty field, while Joel pistons his hips, never stopping his movements. 

“Cum f’m, honey. Show me what this pretty pussy can do,” Joel groans. 

He lets your upper half fall forward completely into the grass, and then you feel it. The pulse of his cock inside of you and the flood of warmth. He groans your name repeatedly followed by his crude pet name for you, little fuckin’ slut, draining my cock, aren’t ya’, slut?

Joel's cum fills you, drips out of you from how fat his cock is in your tiny pussy. With another, final harsh thrust, he drops on top of you. You don’t know how long time passes with the both of you lying on the ground. 

His nose is pressed into your neck and you hear his rough breathing. Your thighs begin to ache and you feel warmth from where he spanked you. You wiggle beneath him with barely any energy, but he’s quick to wrap a hand around your throat. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

“You had your fun, Joel,” you whisper, “let me go.” 

Joel squeezes your neck gently and rolls off of you. You’re surprised, wondering if that actually worked. Before you can hoist yourself up on weak legs, he grabs you and spins you around, throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.” 

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

[junojoel]

happy fathers day joel🩵

#1 Daddy

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 3.7k

Summary: You give your Daddy the Father's Day he deserves.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, daddy kink is a way of life, fingering, oral (m+f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, unspecified age gap, mentions of choking, mentions of child loss, reader makes joel a fathers day card, if shit like that makes you uncomfy then dont read

posting this today for if anyone needs to distract themselves from their real shitty fathers tomorrow (i know i do)

Joel never made much of Father’s Day. Not before the outbreak­­, and certainly not after.

He didn’t want gifts or attention. He barely wanted to be looked at, if he was honest. Ellie never made a thing of it, and he never asked her to.

When Sarah was little, she’d scribble him handmade cards in crayon. Shaky hearts, smiley faces, #1 DAD in purple marker. He’d keep them tucked in his toolbox and treated them like expensive works of art, careful not to wrinkle the edges.

He didn’t want anyone’s pity. Didn’t need it. So, when the day came around each June, Joel kept his head down, did his patrols and kept busy. Came home late and walked right past the bar, even if Tommy was waving him in. Ellie knew better than to bring it up. He figured you would, too.

He figured wrong.

Joel takes care of you. You see it in a hundred little moments: how he always walks on the outer pavement with a hand on your lower back despite the lack of cars in Jackson, how he memorises what foods you like and brings them back after patrol, how he pulls the blanket up when you fall asleep, makes you drink water after sex, rubs your calves when they’re sore, and never asks for anything in return.

That Sunday morning, you wake early, lips brushing his jaw before slipping out of bed. Joel dozed a little longer, content with your warmth still lingering on the sheets, your scent on his pillow. The sun had barely risen anyway, the light pouring in soft and golden through the gaps in the curtains. You pulled on one of Joel’s shirts and snuck downstairs.

You fry the eggs just how he likes them, toast golden and buttered, bacon crisp. You had even found him some actual, nice coffee.

When he finally wanders in, you’re humming under your breath, moving around barefoot to set the table. He stops short in the doorway.

He blinks, still a little foggy. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast.” You smile from next to the stove.

He squints. “For…?”

“You.”

A pause. His eyes flick to the table: the two steaming mugs, the neatly folded napkins. “Why?”

Your face stayed soft, patient. “Because you deserve it.”

He grumbled something under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face, but he sat. Ate. Watched you bustle around the kitchen, refill his mug, serve him and fuss over him. Take care of him.

It messed with his head a little.

You watch him eat, chin propped in your hand, heart fluttering a little at how predictable he is, or maybe you just know him that well. He chews slowly, eyes flicking up every few bites to make sure you’re still watching, to silently question why you’ve picked today to wake up early. You’re never up on Sundays.

By the time you slid into the seat beside him and handed him a small red envelope, he was already beyond suspicious.

“Ain’t my birthday,” he said, one eyebrow raised.

“I know,” you said, voice like honey. “It’s Father’s Day.”

Joel froze, fork hallway to his mouth.

You just smiled “Go on. Open it.”

He hesitated. Felt the ache crack wide across his chest, just like it always did. He opened the card anyway. It was handmade, a guitar sketched on the front. If he looked closely, he could see where you’d made mistakes while drawing and had to rub them out. Inside, your handwriting was loopy, a little messy.

To my Daddy

For always taking care of me

Happy Father’s Day

Joel stared at the words, jaw clenching. For a second, his hand tightened around the card, but he quickly relaxed. He would never damage it.

“Baby…” he said, his voice thick. “You don’t—”

“I want to,” you murmur gently, interrupting as you press a kiss to his temple. “You always look after me, let me look after you.”

Joel tilts his head, brow furrowing. “I do that because I love you, not ‘cause I expect—”

“I know.” Your fingers thread into his hair. “That’s what makes you a good Daddy.”

He swallows hard.

You press another kiss to his jaw, slow and warm. Then you pull back— reluctantly, because god you could stay there all day— and glance over your shoulder at the old clock on the wall. Your eyes go wide.

“Oh!” You spin back around to look at him, half laughing. “You’re late for patrol.”

Joel sighs, “Shit.”

He leans back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face again like it might erase the arousal clinging to him. His hair’s a mess, his chest is flushed. You glance down and bite your lip.

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters.

“I’ve got a present for you when you get back,” you lean in close again, voice sweet and breathy. “It’s got your name on it.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Tommy’s already got the horses saddled by the time Joel gets there. His eyes flick up, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise when Joel appears.

“Damn,” Tommy mutters. “Thought I’d have to send a search party.”

Joel scowls, tugging his gloves on. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“You’re never late.”

Joel says nothing, but Tommy doesn’t push. He never does, not for over 20 years. Even now, with his own eager barely five-year-old and a handmade card of his own, Tommy still signs up for the Father’s Day shift. Joel’s never asked him why, but he knows. They ride out the gates in silence.

Joel tries to focus, check for tracks, count rabbits. His mind won’t stay where it’s supposed to.

Instead, he’s thinking of that smug little smile you wore in the kitchen this morning. The heat of your thighs last night. The feel of your breath when—

He shifts in the saddle.

It was supposed to be a quiet day. Keep his head down, work through it, survive. Same way he always did.

But you—you—always manage to fuck that plan to pieces. Yes, you were sunshine and syrup, but you were trouble. Always pushing under his walls. Always getting too close.

And now, he couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, your bare legs, the way you’d said you had a present for him.

Christ, he was pathetic.

Worse than that— he was a fucking pervert.

What if it wasn’t that kind of present? What if you’d gone and scavenged for something? Traded something valuable? Risked your safety for some gesture he didn’t deserve?

You didn’t need to give him anything. You were the gift. Your body. Your mouth. Your laugh in the morning and your softness at night. You were warm and gentle and trusting— too trusting, of him at least. You curled into his chest like he’d never done a damn thing wrong.

He didn’t understand it. Why you looked at him the way you did, why you let him take and take and take, why you liked it when he growled in your ear, gripped your throat, made you beg.

Why you let him coddle you like that.

But he knew one thing for sure, he liked taking care of you. Liked it in a way that made his skin crawl if he thought too hard about it.

Maybe it was fucked up. Twisted. Maybe it made him a bad man. But being your Daddy—

There were many things in his life he had failed to do. Others he had done but not correctly.

But he could make sure you ate every meal. Could teach you to shoot straight and fight smart. Could wrap you in his arms after a nightmare and whisper filthy loving things in your ear until your lashes fluttered and you fell asleep safe against his chest.

You let him do that. You let him be needed. And fuck, he needed that.

Tommy clears his throat beside him. “You good?”

Joel blinks, realises he’s been staring off into the distance.

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Just tired.”

Tommy nods, doesn’t push again. Thank god. Joel would rather talk about grief than try to explain whatever the fuck he was just thinking about. They keep riding. Joel’s thoughts stay tangled around you.

The door creaks open just past sundown.

Joel steps inside like he always does, slow with his head lowered from a long day. He shuts the door behind him, drops his bag and rolls his shoulders until they crack.

“’M home,” he calls out.

No answer.

The house is warm, dim, a few candles flickering low. There’s no smell of dinner cooking, no clatter in the kitchen.

“Sweetheart?”

Still nothing.

Then, “Bedroom.”

Your voice.

He moves down the hall without thinking, boots echoing against the floor. He’s never climbed the stairs at such a pace. The door to the bedroom is cracked open just a little, warm golden light spills through it, catching the edge of his boot as he pushes inside—

He stops dead in his tracks.

You’re waiting for him in the middle of the bed, lit by candlelight. Kneeling pretty on the soft linen, thighs pressed together, hair framing your face like a goddamn halo.

You’re wearing nothing except a sheer slip and a satin ribbon, baby blue and wrapped around your throat in a delicate bow. You look like a doll.

Joel’s brain stutters. His heart lurches painfully in his chest.

Your smile is slow and shy and dangerous. “Hi, Daddy.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t. Doesn’t breathe. Can’t.

He takes you in— how your nipples press against the thin fabric, the delicate flush of your cheeks, the soft curve of your thighs.

The bow.

And he loses the thread of whatever the fuck he was thinking.

“I said I had a present for you, wanna open it?”

His hand comes up, slow and reverent, as he approaches the bed.

“You—” His voice cracks, he clears it. “You wore this for me?”

You nod.

“Waited all day,” you whisper.

He stands over you now, fingers brushing down the slope of your jaw, to the ribbon. His thumb drags across it gently, like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched.

His voice goes hoarse. “Goddamn, darlin’. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You tilt your head up. Offer your throat, offer everything.

“Please,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

That’s all it takes.

One hand is buried in your hair, the other grips your jaw as he kisses you deep and hungry, all tongue and teeth and filth. He drags you beneath him without breaking the kiss, growling low in his throat.

“You think this is takin’ care of me?” He hisses against your mouth. “Torturin’ me all day, walkin’ around in my shirt callin’ me Daddy? You think that’s takin’ care of me?”

You moan, already squirming beneath him.

“Yes.”

Joel chuckles darkly, hips already grinding down. “You’re a fuckin’ menace.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher now. His hands roam possessively, gripping your thighs, dragging the slip up inch by inch. You gasp as he pulls back, willing him to kiss you again, but his eyes are locked somewhere lower.

He sees them, the panties.

Sheer, the same baby blue as the ribbon, high on your hips and held together with barely-there lace— and across the front, stitched in delicate black thread, one perfect word:

Daddy.

Time stops.

“Where the hell did you get these?” his jaw tightens.

You look up at him through your lashes, shameless. “Traded for them.”

Joel’s eyes go dark. “With who?”

“Does it matter?”

He leans in close, nose brushing yours, breath hot.

“It fuckin’ does if anyone else so much as imagined you in these.”

You bite your lip, heart pounding.

“I said your present had your name on.”

His hands jump to the waistband, fingers curling in the lace like he’s about to rip it clean in half.

He pauses.

His eyes flicker across the little letters again. His grip loosens.

“You don’t wanna ruin ‘em,” you tease, breathless.

“You don’t get it,” he huffs a broken laugh. “Part of me wants to tear ‘em off and stuff ‘em in your fuckin’ mouth.”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing over the fabric like he can’t believe it’s real.

“The other part wants to keep ‘em. Hang ‘em up somewhere like a trophy.”

You whimper.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband and eases them down slowly, then lays them carefully on the nightstand like they’re precious. You certainly are.

Then he’s back on you, fingers spreading you open, groaning at the slick heat between your thighs.

“Fuck, look at this. You’re already soaked, sugar. All for me?”

You nod, voice trembling. “Always for you, Daddy.”

His breath shudders out of him, rough and wrecked.

“You been thinkin’ about me all day?”

He brushes his knuckles over your clit, featherlight. You arch.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Thinkin’ about what I’d do when I got home? How I’d bend you over this bed and make you scream into the mattress?”

“Please—”

“Thought about Daddy’s cock?”

You nod again, more desperate now. “Wanted it so bad.”

“Made me fuckin’ hard the whole patrol. Could barely see straight.”

You whine, grinding into his hand.

“Did you touch yourself?” he asks, rubbing small circles now, just enough to make you gasp.

“N-no.”

He grins, slow and wicked.

“Good girl.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear again.

“Wanna know what a good girl gets, baby?”

You nod frantically.

“She gets Daddy’s tongue.”

Joel’s shoulders settle between your thighs. His breath is hot against your skin, sending shivers up your spine as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. You squirm, fingers tangling in his hair, but he pins you down with a firm grip on your hip.

“Stay still,” he growls, the vibration of his voice making your stomach tighten. 

You whimper, hips lifting instinctively, but he holds you in place. “Joel—”

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up your slit in one long, torturous stroke. “You asked for this, didn’t you? Wore these pretty little panties just for me. Wanted me to lose my goddamn mind over you.”

You gasp as his tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, maddening. “Daddy—”

“Yeah, baby,” he rasps against you. “Say it again.”

You moan, arching as he sucks gently, then licks a slow circle, savouring you. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you right where he wants you. Every flick of his tongue, every rough scrape of his beard against your thighs, sends sparks through your veins.

You’re already close, trembling under his mouth, when he pulls back just enough to watch you fall apart.

“Joel, please—” you beg, voice breaking.

“Please what, sugar?”he nips at your thigh, just hard enough to make you jerk. “Use your words.”

“I need—” Your breath hitches as his thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing slow circles. “I need you. Want to take care of you too. Please, Daddy, it’s—it’s your day."

His movements still. He lifts his head, eyes dark and searching yours. He exhales sharply, then presses his forehead against your thigh for a moment, like he’s fighting himself. When he looks up again, there’s something softer in his gaze.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he mutters. “You wanna take care of me that bad?”

You nod again, reaching for him. “Please. Let me.”

His jaw clenches, but after a beat, he relents with a groan, rolling onto his back beside you. How could he ever say no to you?

“Alright, princess. Since you asked so nice.”

You waste no time, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss him, chasing the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Fuck,” he hisses when your fingers undo his belt.

Your fingers trace the hard lines of his hips, teasing, before curling around the base of him, stroking slowly. You can feel the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way his stomach flexes when you lean in, lips parting in a soft, deliberate exhale against his skin.

You glance up at him through your lashes watching the way his jaw clenches when your tongue flicks out, tasting him, savouring the salt and heat before your lips finally brush the tip.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.”

Your voice is sugar and sin, and his groan vibrates through you as his fingers knot in your hair, he’s already barely holding on. You smile against him, then take him deeper, your mouth sinking down in a slow, torturous glide. Your tongue presses along the underside, swirling just the way he likes, and his hips jerk instinctively—but you press a hand to his stomach, pinning him down, making him take it at your pace. You know how to take care of him.

You pull back just enough to let your lips drag along his length, then sink down again, deeper this time, your throat relaxing to take him in. His grip tightens, a silent plea, but you don’t rush. Instead, you let your free hand drift between your own thighs, a soft sigh escaping you as you tease yourself, your own arousal mixing with the thrill of his ragged breathing above you.

“Fuck—” His voice is wrecked, his thighs trembling under your touch. “Look at you… so fucking perfect.”

You hum in response, the vibration pulling another groan from him, and you pick up the rhythm—slow, then sinful, then hungry, your lips sealed tight as you work him with steady, slick strokes. Every time you take him to the back of your throat, his fingers flex in your hair.

His control snaps.

One moment, you’re in charge, and the next, his hands are under your arms, hauling you up his body with a growl. Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you, rough and claiming, his tongue sliding against yours.

“Enough,” he rasps, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion. But you’re quicker, twisting under him, pressing a hand to his chest with a wicked little smile.

“Uh-uh, Daddy.” Your voice is dangerously sweet, but your eyes are dark with challenge. “I’m riding you tonight.”

You push until he relents, falling back against the pillows, and swing a leg over his hips. His cock brushes against your soaked folds, and you both groan at the contact.

“Wouldn’t want you to throw out your back,” you purr, grinding down just to watch his jaw clench. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Thought you were meant to be taking care of your Daddy, not being mean to him.” He mutters, but his eyes are blazing as you rise up, lining him up with your entrance.

Then you sink down, taking him in one slow, devastating slide.

His head drops back, a ragged “Christ—” tearing from his throat. Completely, hot and tight and perfect. You roll your hips, adoring the stretch, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s holding on for dear life.

His thoughts are a mess.How the hell did he get this lucky? The sight of you above him, flushed and breathless, riding him like you were made for it, is enough to make him dizzy. Every bounce of your hips, every breathy moan, is a fucking revelation.

“Look at you,” he grits out, thrusting up to meet you, his hands sliding to your waist. “Riding me like a goddamn bunny—fuck—bouncing on my cock like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper, your nails scraping down his chest as you pick up the pace, your thighs trembling.

“I can’t,” you pant, your voice breaking as he hits that spot inside you just right. “Daddy, I—oh god—”

He sits up suddenly, catching you off balance, his mouth latching onto your neck as his arm bands around your back, holding you flush against him. Now he’s setting the rhythm, driving up into you with deep, punishing strokes, his breath hot against your skin.

“You wanna take care of me?” he growls, biting your earlobe. “Then take this—take every fucking inch—”

You’re unravelling, your moans high and desperate, your body clenching around him as pleasure coils tight in your belly.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And you do—shattering with a cry, your nails biting into his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his own release crashing over him like a wave. He buries his face in your hair, his groan rough and reverent, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breaths, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

Then he nips your shoulder, his voice lazy and satisfied. “Still think I’m too old, princess?”

You laugh, boneless against him.

His fingers are gentle as they brush the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear before his thumb swipes at the corner of your lips, cleaning you up with a tenderness that contrasts the way he’d just been gripping you.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, pulling you up against his chest, your body melting into his as he reaches for a bottle of water he keeps on the nightstand. He holds it to your lips, one hand steadying the back of your head as you take slow sips. “Good girl. That’s it.”

You sigh, nestling deeper into him, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. His warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—it’s enough to make your eyelids flutter.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Poor princess can’t stay awake late, huh?”

“M’not the old one here,” you mumble, half into his skin, but there’s no bite, just the drowsy affection he’s so used to.

He snorts, shifting just enough to pull the sheets over both of you, his arm locking around your waist to keep you close. “Sure, baby. This’ll be you one day.”

He hopes. Hopes this world won’t take anything else from you— from him.

You’re asleep before you can retort, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll let you rest tonight.

Tomorrow, though?

He’ll earn his keep—get a head start on earning his present for next year.

[junojoel]

jurassic ellie

[junojoel]

#1 Daddy

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader, 3.7k

Summary: You give your Daddy the Father's Day he deserves.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, daddy kink is a way of life, fingering, oral (m+f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, unspecified age gap, mentions of choking, mentions of child loss, reader makes joel a fathers day card, if shit like that makes you uncomfy then dont read

posting this today for if anyone needs to distract themselves from their real shitty fathers tomorrow (i know i do)

Joel never made much of Father’s Day. Not before the outbreak­­, and certainly not after.

He didn’t want gifts or attention. He barely wanted to be looked at, if he was honest. Ellie never made a thing of it, and he never asked her to.

When Sarah was little, she’d scribble him handmade cards in crayon. Shaky hearts, smiley faces, #1 DAD in purple marker. He’d keep them tucked in his toolbox and treated them like expensive works of art, careful not to wrinkle the edges.

He didn’t want anyone’s pity. Didn’t need it. So, when the day came around each June, Joel kept his head down, did his patrols and kept busy. Came home late and walked right past the bar, even if Tommy was waving him in. Ellie knew better than to bring it up. He figured you would, too.

He figured wrong.

Joel takes care of you. You see it in a hundred little moments: how he always walks on the outer pavement with a hand on your lower back despite the lack of cars in Jackson, how he memorises what foods you like and brings them back after patrol, how he pulls the blanket up when you fall asleep, makes you drink water after sex, rubs your calves when they’re sore, and never asks for anything in return.

That Sunday morning, you wake early, lips brushing his jaw before slipping out of bed. Joel dozed a little longer, content with your warmth still lingering on the sheets, your scent on his pillow. The sun had barely risen anyway, the light pouring in soft and golden through the gaps in the curtains. You pulled on one of Joel’s shirts and snuck downstairs.

You fry the eggs just how he likes them, toast golden and buttered, bacon crisp. You had even found him some actual, nice coffee.

When he finally wanders in, you’re humming under your breath, moving around barefoot to set the table. He stops short in the doorway.

He blinks, still a little foggy. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast.” You smile from next to the stove.

He squints. “For…?”

“You.”

A pause. His eyes flick to the table: the two steaming mugs, the neatly folded napkins. “Why?”

Your face stayed soft, patient. “Because you deserve it.”

He grumbled something under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face, but he sat. Ate. Watched you bustle around the kitchen, refill his mug, serve him and fuss over him. Take care of him.

It messed with his head a little.

You watch him eat, chin propped in your hand, heart fluttering a little at how predictable he is, or maybe you just know him that well. He chews slowly, eyes flicking up every few bites to make sure you’re still watching, to silently question why you’ve picked today to wake up early. You’re never up on Sundays.

By the time you slid into the seat beside him and handed him a small red envelope, he was already beyond suspicious.

“Ain’t my birthday,” he said, one eyebrow raised.

“I know,” you said, voice like honey. “It’s Father’s Day.”

Joel froze, fork hallway to his mouth.

You just smiled “Go on. Open it.”

He hesitated. Felt the ache crack wide across his chest, just like it always did. He opened the card anyway. It was handmade, a guitar sketched on the front. If he looked closely, he could see where you’d made mistakes while drawing and had to rub them out. Inside, your handwriting was loopy, a little messy.

To my Daddy

For always taking care of me

Happy Father’s Day

Joel stared at the words, jaw clenching. For a second, his hand tightened around the card, but he quickly relaxed. He would never damage it.

“Baby…” he said, his voice thick. “You don’t—”

“I want to,” you murmur gently, interrupting as you press a kiss to his temple. “You always look after me, let me look after you.”

Joel tilts his head, brow furrowing. “I do that because I love you, not ‘cause I expect—”

“I know.” Your fingers thread into his hair. “That’s what makes you a good Daddy.”

He swallows hard.

You press another kiss to his jaw, slow and warm. Then you pull back— reluctantly, because god you could stay there all day— and glance over your shoulder at the old clock on the wall. Your eyes go wide.

“Oh!” You spin back around to look at him, half laughing. “You’re late for patrol.”

Joel sighs, “Shit.”

He leans back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face again like it might erase the arousal clinging to him. His hair’s a mess, his chest is flushed. You glance down and bite your lip.

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters.

“I’ve got a present for you when you get back,” you lean in close again, voice sweet and breathy. “It’s got your name on it.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Tommy’s already got the horses saddled by the time Joel gets there. His eyes flick up, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise when Joel appears.

“Damn,” Tommy mutters. “Thought I’d have to send a search party.”

Joel scowls, tugging his gloves on. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“You’re never late.”

Joel says nothing, but Tommy doesn’t push. He never does, not for over 20 years. Even now, with his own eager barely five-year-old and a handmade card of his own, Tommy still signs up for the Father’s Day shift. Joel’s never asked him why, but he knows. They ride out the gates in silence.

Joel tries to focus, check for tracks, count rabbits. His mind won’t stay where it’s supposed to.

Instead, he’s thinking of that smug little smile you wore in the kitchen this morning. The heat of your thighs last night. The feel of your breath when—

He shifts in the saddle.

It was supposed to be a quiet day. Keep his head down, work through it, survive. Same way he always did.

But you—you—always manage to fuck that plan to pieces. Yes, you were sunshine and syrup, but you were trouble. Always pushing under his walls. Always getting too close.

And now, he couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, your bare legs, the way you’d said you had a present for him.

Christ, he was pathetic.

Worse than that— he was a fucking pervert.

What if it wasn’t that kind of present? What if you’d gone and scavenged for something? Traded something valuable? Risked your safety for some gesture he didn’t deserve?

You didn’t need to give him anything. You were the gift. Your body. Your mouth. Your laugh in the morning and your softness at night. You were warm and gentle and trusting— too trusting, of him at least. You curled into his chest like he’d never done a damn thing wrong.

He didn’t understand it. Why you looked at him the way you did, why you let him take and take and take, why you liked it when he growled in your ear, gripped your throat, made you beg.

Why you let him coddle you like that.

But he knew one thing for sure, he liked taking care of you. Liked it in a way that made his skin crawl if he thought too hard about it.

Maybe it was fucked up. Twisted. Maybe it made him a bad man. But being your Daddy—

There were many things in his life he had failed to do. Others he had done but not correctly.

But he could make sure you ate every meal. Could teach you to shoot straight and fight smart. Could wrap you in his arms after a nightmare and whisper filthy loving things in your ear until your lashes fluttered and you fell asleep safe against his chest.

You let him do that. You let him be needed. And fuck, he needed that.

Tommy clears his throat beside him. “You good?”

Joel blinks, realises he’s been staring off into the distance.

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Just tired.”

Tommy nods, doesn’t push again. Thank god. Joel would rather talk about grief than try to explain whatever the fuck he was just thinking about. They keep riding. Joel’s thoughts stay tangled around you.

The door creaks open just past sundown.

Joel steps inside like he always does, slow with his head lowered from a long day. He shuts the door behind him, drops his bag and rolls his shoulders until they crack.

“’M home,” he calls out.

No answer.

The house is warm, dim, a few candles flickering low. There’s no smell of dinner cooking, no clatter in the kitchen.

“Sweetheart?”

Still nothing.

Then, “Bedroom.”

Your voice.

He moves down the hall without thinking, boots echoing against the floor. He’s never climbed the stairs at such a pace. The door to the bedroom is cracked open just a little, warm golden light spills through it, catching the edge of his boot as he pushes inside—

He stops dead in his tracks.

You’re waiting for him in the middle of the bed, lit by candlelight. Kneeling pretty on the soft linen, thighs pressed together, hair framing your face like a goddamn halo.

You’re wearing nothing except a sheer slip and a satin ribbon, baby blue and wrapped around your throat in a delicate bow. You look like a doll.

Joel’s brain stutters. His heart lurches painfully in his chest.

Your smile is slow and shy and dangerous. “Hi, Daddy.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t. Doesn’t breathe. Can’t.

He takes you in— how your nipples press against the thin fabric, the delicate flush of your cheeks, the soft curve of your thighs.

The bow.

And he loses the thread of whatever the fuck he was thinking.

“I said I had a present for you, wanna open it?”

His hand comes up, slow and reverent, as he approaches the bed.

“You—” His voice cracks, he clears it. “You wore this for me?”

You nod.

“Waited all day,” you whisper.

He stands over you now, fingers brushing down the slope of your jaw, to the ribbon. His thumb drags across it gently, like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched.

His voice goes hoarse. “Goddamn, darlin’. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You tilt your head up. Offer your throat, offer everything.

“Please,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

That’s all it takes.

One hand is buried in your hair, the other grips your jaw as he kisses you deep and hungry, all tongue and teeth and filth. He drags you beneath him without breaking the kiss, growling low in his throat.

“You think this is takin’ care of me?” He hisses against your mouth. “Torturin’ me all day, walkin’ around in my shirt callin’ me Daddy? You think that’s takin’ care of me?”

You moan, already squirming beneath him.

“Yes.”

Joel chuckles darkly, hips already grinding down. “You’re a fuckin’ menace.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher now. His hands roam possessively, gripping your thighs, dragging the slip up inch by inch. You gasp as he pulls back, willing him to kiss you again, but his eyes are locked somewhere lower.

He sees them, the panties.

Sheer, the same baby blue as the ribbon, high on your hips and held together with barely-there lace— and across the front, stitched in delicate black thread, one perfect word:

Daddy.

Time stops.

“Where the hell did you get these?” his jaw tightens.

You look up at him through your lashes, shameless. “Traded for them.”

Joel’s eyes go dark. “With who?”

“Does it matter?”

He leans in close, nose brushing yours, breath hot.

“It fuckin’ does if anyone else so much as imagined you in these.”

You bite your lip, heart pounding.

“I said your present had your name on.”

His hands jump to the waistband, fingers curling in the lace like he’s about to rip it clean in half.

He pauses.

His eyes flicker across the little letters again. His grip loosens.

“You don’t wanna ruin ‘em,” you tease, breathless.

“You don’t get it,” he huffs a broken laugh. “Part of me wants to tear ‘em off and stuff ‘em in your fuckin’ mouth.”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing over the fabric like he can’t believe it’s real.

“The other part wants to keep ‘em. Hang ‘em up somewhere like a trophy.”

You whimper.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband and eases them down slowly, then lays them carefully on the nightstand like they’re precious. You certainly are.

Then he’s back on you, fingers spreading you open, groaning at the slick heat between your thighs.

“Fuck, look at this. You’re already soaked, sugar. All for me?”

You nod, voice trembling. “Always for you, Daddy.”

His breath shudders out of him, rough and wrecked.

“You been thinkin’ about me all day?”

He brushes his knuckles over your clit, featherlight. You arch.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Thinkin’ about what I’d do when I got home? How I’d bend you over this bed and make you scream into the mattress?”

“Please—”

“Thought about Daddy’s cock?”

You nod again, more desperate now. “Wanted it so bad.”

“Made me fuckin’ hard the whole patrol. Could barely see straight.”

You whine, grinding into his hand.

“Did you touch yourself?” he asks, rubbing small circles now, just enough to make you gasp.

“N-no.”

He grins, slow and wicked.

“Good girl.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear again.

“Wanna know what a good girl gets, baby?”

You nod frantically.

“She gets Daddy’s tongue.”

Joel’s shoulders settle between your thighs. His breath is hot against your skin, sending shivers up your spine as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. You squirm, fingers tangling in his hair, but he pins you down with a firm grip on your hip.

“Stay still,” he growls, the vibration of his voice making your stomach tighten. 

You whimper, hips lifting instinctively, but he holds you in place. “Joel—”

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up your slit in one long, torturous stroke. “You asked for this, didn’t you? Wore these pretty little panties just for me. Wanted me to lose my goddamn mind over you.”

You gasp as his tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, maddening. “Daddy—”

“Yeah, baby,” he rasps against you. “Say it again.”

You moan, arching as he sucks gently, then licks a slow circle, savouring you. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you right where he wants you. Every flick of his tongue, every rough scrape of his beard against your thighs, sends sparks through your veins.

You’re already close, trembling under his mouth, when he pulls back just enough to watch you fall apart.

“Joel, please—” you beg, voice breaking.

“Please what, sugar?”he nips at your thigh, just hard enough to make you jerk. “Use your words.”

“I need—” Your breath hitches as his thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing slow circles. “I need you. Want to take care of you too. Please, Daddy, it’s—it’s your day."

His movements still. He lifts his head, eyes dark and searching yours. He exhales sharply, then presses his forehead against your thigh for a moment, like he’s fighting himself. When he looks up again, there’s something softer in his gaze.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he mutters. “You wanna take care of me that bad?”

You nod again, reaching for him. “Please. Let me.”

His jaw clenches, but after a beat, he relents with a groan, rolling onto his back beside you. How could he ever say no to you?

“Alright, princess. Since you asked so nice.”

You waste no time, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss him, chasing the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Fuck,” he hisses when your fingers undo his belt.

Your fingers trace the hard lines of his hips, teasing, before curling around the base of him, stroking slowly. You can feel the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way his stomach flexes when you lean in, lips parting in a soft, deliberate exhale against his skin.

You glance up at him through your lashes watching the way his jaw clenches when your tongue flicks out, tasting him, savouring the salt and heat before your lips finally brush the tip.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.”

Your voice is sugar and sin, and his groan vibrates through you as his fingers knot in your hair, he’s already barely holding on. You smile against him, then take him deeper, your mouth sinking down in a slow, torturous glide. Your tongue presses along the underside, swirling just the way he likes, and his hips jerk instinctively—but you press a hand to his stomach, pinning him down, making him take it at your pace. You know how to take care of him.

You pull back just enough to let your lips drag along his length, then sink down again, deeper this time, your throat relaxing to take him in. His grip tightens, a silent plea, but you don’t rush. Instead, you let your free hand drift between your own thighs, a soft sigh escaping you as you tease yourself, your own arousal mixing with the thrill of his ragged breathing above you.

“Fuck—” His voice is wrecked, his thighs trembling under your touch. “Look at you… so fucking perfect.”

You hum in response, the vibration pulling another groan from him, and you pick up the rhythm—slow, then sinful, then hungry, your lips sealed tight as you work him with steady, slick strokes. Every time you take him to the back of your throat, his fingers flex in your hair.

His control snaps.

One moment, you’re in charge, and the next, his hands are under your arms, hauling you up his body with a growl. Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you, rough and claiming, his tongue sliding against yours.

“Enough,” he rasps, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion. But you’re quicker, twisting under him, pressing a hand to his chest with a wicked little smile.

“Uh-uh, Daddy.” Your voice is dangerously sweet, but your eyes are dark with challenge. “I’m riding you tonight.”

You push until he relents, falling back against the pillows, and swing a leg over his hips. His cock brushes against your soaked folds, and you both groan at the contact.

“Wouldn’t want you to throw out your back,” you purr, grinding down just to watch his jaw clench. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Thought you were meant to be taking care of your Daddy, not being mean to him.” He mutters, but his eyes are blazing as you rise up, lining him up with your entrance.

Then you sink down, taking him in one slow, devastating slide.

His head drops back, a ragged “Christ—” tearing from his throat. Completely, hot and tight and perfect. You roll your hips, adoring the stretch, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s holding on for dear life.

His thoughts are a mess.How the hell did he get this lucky? The sight of you above him, flushed and breathless, riding him like you were made for it, is enough to make him dizzy. Every bounce of your hips, every breathy moan, is a fucking revelation.

“Look at you,” he grits out, thrusting up to meet you, his hands sliding to your waist. “Riding me like a goddamn bunny—fuck—bouncing on my cock like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper, your nails scraping down his chest as you pick up the pace, your thighs trembling.

“I can’t,” you pant, your voice breaking as he hits that spot inside you just right. “Daddy, I—oh god—”

He sits up suddenly, catching you off balance, his mouth latching onto your neck as his arm bands around your back, holding you flush against him. Now he’s setting the rhythm, driving up into you with deep, punishing strokes, his breath hot against your skin.

“You wanna take care of me?” he growls, biting your earlobe. “Then take this—take every fucking inch—”

You’re unravelling, your moans high and desperate, your body clenching around him as pleasure coils tight in your belly.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And you do—shattering with a cry, your nails biting into his shoulders as he fucks you through it, his own release crashing over him like a wave. He buries his face in your hair, his groan rough and reverent, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breaths, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex.

Then he nips your shoulder, his voice lazy and satisfied. “Still think I’m too old, princess?”

You laugh, boneless against him.

His fingers are gentle as they brush the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear before his thumb swipes at the corner of your lips, cleaning you up with a tenderness that contrasts the way he’d just been gripping you.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, pulling you up against his chest, your body melting into his as he reaches for a bottle of water he keeps on the nightstand. He holds it to your lips, one hand steadying the back of your head as you take slow sips. “Good girl. That’s it.”

You sigh, nestling deeper into him, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. His warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—it’s enough to make your eyelids flutter.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Poor princess can’t stay awake late, huh?”

“M’not the old one here,” you mumble, half into his skin, but there’s no bite, just the drowsy affection he’s so used to.

He snorts, shifting just enough to pull the sheets over both of you, his arm locking around your waist to keep you close. “Sure, baby. This’ll be you one day.”

He hopes. Hopes this world won’t take anything else from you— from him.

You’re asleep before you can retort, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll let you rest tonight.

Tomorrow, though?

He’ll earn his keep—get a head start on earning his present for next year.

[junojoel]

NEED PART 2 OF THE ELLIE JURASSIC PARK FIC SO BAD ITS PERFECT

THANK YOU!! brainstorming as we speak 🤔

[junojoel]

PART TWO OF ELLIE JURASSIC FIC OH MY GODD I LOVE IT

aaaaa THANK YOU SM!!

[junojoel]

Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.

[junojoel]

i have a freaky joel fic in my queue for father’s day who’s excited

[junojoel]

“are you okay?” no i’m not, i’m trying to read an ellie williams x reader smut in public and you’re distracting me

[junojoel]

"just write a little every day" ok but what if i write nothing for 3 weeks and then suddenly type like i’m being hunted by god

[junojoel]

ELLIE WILLIAMS JURASSIC PARK AU HAS BEEN POSTEDDDDD HAVE FUN HAVE A READ PLEASE LMK WHAT YOU THINK

[junojoel]

Woman Inherits the Earth

Ellie Williams x fem!Reader, 6.6k

Summary: You came to Jurassic World for industry connections, a killer CV, and maybe a LinkedIn flex. You didn’t expect to fall for the raptor girl.

Warnings: dinosaurs (scary (not really)) and fluff

this came to me in a fucking vision. i love jurassic park so much and i love a nerdy dinosaur girl even more. HAPPY FUCKING PRIDE MONTH.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You’d never seen trees this green.

Even from the window of the ferry, long before the first monorail glided into view, Isla Nublar looked like it had been pulled from a storybook. Unreal and mythical, lush in a way that didn’t seem modern. Like you’d time-travelled, or stepped into a planet no one had touched yet.

But of course, they had touched it. Touched, branded, monetised.

The first thing you saw when you stepped off the dock was a smile. Big, toothy, perfect. The kind that came with corporate training and a contract. The greeter handed you a cold drink and a pamphlet with a map of the island, the Jurassic World logo shimmered in glossy blue foil.

“Welcome to paradise,” they chirped.

You smiled back, polite, but your fingers clenched just a little too tight around the strap of your bag.

This wasn’t what you’d imagined when you applied for the communications internship. You thought you’d be documenting field conservation work. Real science. Camera in one hand, clipboard in the other, boots deep in the mud beside palaeobotanists and wildlife biologists.

Instead, it came with air conditioning, swipe access, and a smoothie bar. Your badge still felt surreal in your hand, no matter how many times you’d read the word COMMUNICATIONS next to your name.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed toward the staff gate, trying not to feel like an imposter. A monorail train whirred overhead, casting a brief shadow across the sun-bleached pavement. In the distance, a long-necked sauropod lifted its head above the treetops, and a group of tourists shrieked in delight.

It felt like a zoo.

“You lost?” came a voice from behind you, dry and amused. You turned. She stood with one hip cocked and a clipboard tucked under her arm, chewing the end of a pen which was leaving ink on her lip. Her uniform shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up, collar open like it’d been yanked loose. Her name badge was clipped to a carabiner on her belt, hanging with a mix of keys and decorative chains.

ELLIE WILLIAMS       RAPTORS

A velociraptor had been doodled beside her name, the first you’d ever seen with sunglasses on. You glanced up at her, blinking once. “Uh, yeah,” you admitted. “Trying to find Admin.”

“Figures.” She jerked her chin toward the path curving behind the guest welcome pavilion. “You’re going the wrong way. That’s the tourist route and you want the staff tram.”

You followed her gesture. “Thanks.”

Ellie took a few steps down the path, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

You scrambled to follow her, jogging a few steps to catch up.

It was quieter here, just beyond the sound radius of the tour groups and audio guides. Jungle air hung thick and damp, fragrant with wildflowers. You could hear insects buzzing, cicadas thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Comms intern?” she asked eventually, as you both ducked under a low branch.

“Yeah, PR.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s cute.”

You looked at her, frowning. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think cloning ancient apex predators to entertain tourists and using PR to make it seem ethical is kind of hilarious.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So why do you work here?”

She stopped walking to turn to face you.

“Because they’re not monsters,” she said simply. “And someone needs to be here who sees them that way.”

Her voice changed when she said it. You saw the passion then—not just behind her eyes, but in the way she spoke. Devout, almost. She didn’t talk about dinosaurs like exhibits, she talked about them like people talked about art, or music, or something ancient and breathtaking and alive. She started walking again, but slower this time, allowing you to catch up.

 “I’ve been obsessed with them since I was eight,” she said, almost absently. “Used to sleep with an encyclopaedia under my pillow. Drew feathers on every T Rex I saw in books and got in trouble in school for correcting my science teacher.”

You laughed. “Sounds familiar. I had an entire binder dedicated to Stegosaurus migration.”

Ellie looked at you sidelong. “You know they’re not actually that dumb, right? Their brain-to-body ratio is small, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they were stupid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

 Her smile—just for a second—was radiant.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The staff dorms were nestled behind a canopy of flowering trees, shaded and still. Just far enough from the bustle of the park to feel like their own little ecosystem. Your room was on the top floor of Dorm C, down a quiet corridor that smelled like lemon cleaner and warm pine. No roommates, just you and the view—a forest stretching endlessly beyond your window. Ellie had walked you there herself your first afternoon, pointing out the vending machine that never worked and the communal washer that always overflowed. She stood in the doorway while you unlocked the door, arms crossed, a little smirk on her face when you looked around and said, “Not bad.”

She’d only said, “You’ll get sick of the crickets,” and then wandered off.

That next morning, you reported to the marketing branch’s main office. The main conference room was glass-walled and aggressively minimalist. Every surface gleamed and succulents lined the windowsill in matching white marble pots.

Inside, women in sleek neutrals sat around a long matte-black table, each one with a tablet or stylus in hand. No one looked particularly stressed. They didn’t speak much, just tapped and swiped in perfect silence, like synchronised swimmers in Lululemon. Their hair was glossy, their nails minimalist. Someone sipped a matcha from a branded Jurassic World cup that probably cost more than your entire lunch budget for the week.

You lingered just outside the doorway, unsure if knocking was too formal or if speaking would ruin the mood. You opted for clearing your throat lightly.

“Hi,” you offered. “Marketing intern. Here for assignment placement?”

A woman near the head of the table looked up. She wore a navy linen suit that probably had a brand name you hadn’t heard of and her gold-rimmed glasses caught the overhead light. Her name badge said AUBREY in minimalist font, with the word STRATEGY underneath it. No drawings like Ellie’s.

“Oh, right,” she said, her voice creamy like the oat milk in her latte. “You’re the PR girl?”

You nodded, already regretting whatever energy you were bringing into this room. You felt too loud.

“Well,” Aubrey said, turning her tablet with a soft tap of manicured nails, “good news and bad news.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. Of course there was bad news. There was always bad news.

“The bad news is: you’re not in this building often.”

Of course not. You didn’t fit in here anyway. These women looked like they did Pilates before and after work. Like they carried moon water in their tote bags and gave each other skincare advice. You doubted any of them had ever gotten dirt under their nails, much less had a real conversation with a field biologist.

Aubrey gave a pleasant, symmetrical smile. “The good news is: you’ve been assigned to our highest-profile initiative.” A few swipes, and your personnel card floated across the screen like she manifested it. Your photo was awkward.

“We’re launching a new engagement campaign—Humans of Jurassic World. Emotional branding with candid moments with our top experts.”

You tried to picture the slide deck that had birthed that phrase. Probably beige, with animated transitions from Canva. You imagined the words relatability and authenticity in bold, overlaid on a stock photo of a tranquil-looking intern smiling at a stegosaurus.

“We want content that connects,” Aubrey continued. “Emotion-forward, but not messy.”

God forbid it ever be messy.

She tapped your card into a new category. “You’ll be shadowing Ellie Williams.”

Your mouth opened before you could catch it. “The… raptor girl?”

Aubrey blinked, her expression unchanged but visibly cooling by half a degree. “She prefers animal behaviourist,” she said. “And I’d watch your tone.”

You nodded, swallowing the embarrassment. Noted. No jokes. No personality, either, apparently. Not here.

“She’s a little...feisty and... temperamental,” Aubrey added, delicately. “But she’s one of our key experts. The higher-ups want her front and centre.”

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a warning.

So, the highest-profile assignment on the island… and they were sending you into a paddock where you might get bitten. And there’ll be raptors there, too.

You gave a polite smile, even as your stomach folded itself neatly in half.

“Great,” you said.

Because what else could you say?

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

That afternoon, Ellie knocked and let herself into your dorm room like it was nothing.

“Hey,” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “I was… in the area.”

You turned from your half-folded laundry on the bed, one eyebrow raised. “This area?”

She leaned in the doorway, grinning like a cat in a sunbeam. “Okay, fine. I came to see if you had a clean towel. Mine’s still soaked from yesterday, and I figured you’re probably the organised type. Please, I need to dry my hair.”

“You could’ve asked literally anyone else on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, shrugging. “But I didn’t want to.”

Your stomach fluttered. Weird. Probably nervous that she’d found out you were assigned to her and she’d come to bite your head off about it. Temperamental, remember.

You wordlessly walked to your wardrobe and tossed her one of the folded ones from the top shelf. She caught it with both hands, smiling with her eyes more than her mouth.

“Smells like citrus,” she said, lifting it to her face.

“Laundry sheet. Sorry if it’s too floral for your whole field-biology aesthetic.”

 Ellie chuckled and stepped further inside, this time with purpose. “Please, I’ve smelled worse.”

You laughed and turned back to your laundry, only half paying attention as you folded a clean shirt, but you were acutely aware of the sound of boots thudding to the floor, of fabric rustling behind you. When you finally looked again, Ellie had stripped off her overshirt, now dressed in just a black tank that clung to the water she was unable to dry off. You noticed a patch of silvery scar tissue near her shoulder blade, like something long and narrow had raked across her.

You caught yourself looking too long and turned quickly back to your duffel bag.

 Ellie noticed. Of course she did.

“They’re not from the raptors,” she said casually. “One’s from a thorn bush. The other one’s from a juvenile ankylosaur who didn’t like being sedated.”

You turned back, smiling faintly. “Is that better or worse?”

“Depends on your insurance.”

Her right forearm bore a black fern, curling in a slow spiral up her skin. A small moth nestled in the roots, wings outstretched like it had just landed to rest there. The lines were fresh, almost glossy in the dorm light.

Her other tattoo sat high on her left arm, above the curve of her bicep. It was older, slightly faded, but still striking: a raptor skull, drawn in precise anatomical detail, the kind you’d see in a museum display. Ferns and bones looped around it in a circular crown, delicate and wild at once.

“The moth one’s new.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah?”

 “Got it after I transferred out here. It’s a death’s-head. Some cultures say it’s bad luck.”

“Do you believe that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I like it. That’s enough, right?”

You nodded, then gestured toward her shoulder. “What about that one?”

Ellie looked down at the raptor skull, smiling like it was an inside joke. “I got it when I was sixteen. Had to lie about my age.”

You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat. She was still close—too close, maybe—and the way she stood, so casual and self-assured, made something twist in your chest.

You smiled faintly, folding another shirt. “Hey,” you said after a moment, trying to keep your voice even. “I, uh—found out where I’m placed today.”

Ellie paused, mid-pat of her face with the towel. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Marketing’s doing some new campaign—Humans of Jurassic World or whatever. They’re assigning interns to departments for storytelling and engagement.”

Ellie raised a brow, sceptical. “Sounds fake.”

“It does,” you agreed. “But apparently I’m shadowing someone from the Raptor Program.”

Ellie blinked, then narrowed her eyes a little. “Wait. Me?”

“Yeah. Aubrey said you’re temperamental,” you added, smirking.

Ellie grinned, a little wild. “Temperamental’s just code for doesn’t suffer fools.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m in trouble.”

She studied you for a moment. “Nah. You look like you might surprise me.”

Your fingers brushed a fold in the laundry you weren’t folding anymore. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hang out.”

She tilted her head, voice low. “Would that’ve worked?”

“Maybe,” you said.  “Next time, try it and see.”

Ellie stepped back toward the door but didn’t open it right away. She lingered, fingers brushing the frame.

“I like your room,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Is that your way of asking if you can come by again?”

“Not asking,” she said, grinning as she slipped out. “Just warning you.”

And with that, she was gone.

But your room still smelled faintly of sun and citrus and Ellie.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You woke to the sound of your alarm playing the Jurassic World theme in low-fi synth—a joke you’d set up on your first night, which now felt vaguely threatening at 5:45 a.m.

Through the open window, the jungle was still waking up. The air was thick with dew, soft birdsong trilled between branches, and far off in the distance, something massive made a low groaning sound— Good Morning.

Your hands moved through routine before your brain caught up: quick shower, camera bag over your shoulder, badge clipped, shoes already damp from the dew on the steps as you headed out into the humidity of early morning.

Ellie had said to meet her at the raptor supply shed by 6:30. You arrived at 6:25 and she was already there, sitting cross-legged on top of a crate, sipping coffee from a dented thermos and picking grass off of her cargo pants. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, her boots unlaced. Her face lit up when she saw you, and your stomach betrayed you with a little flip.

“You’re late,” she teased, hopping down.

You raised a brow. “I’m early.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she handed you a cup. “But I wanted to say it. I was here at 5:45.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Also, the system flagged a motion trip around four. False alarm. Bird or something.”

You took a sip—strong, a little burnt. “God bless you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ellie said, hopping off the crate. “You’re on raptor duty today.”

You blinked. “I thought I was just filming?”

“You are,” she said, already walking toward the gate. “You’re filming me and I’m working, so raptor duty.”

The raptor enclosure was larger than it looked on the map. Part jungle, part reinforced paddock, part bunker. The outer gate opened into a winding path lined with reinforced steel and topped with electric fencing.

Ellie moved through it like she was part of it—radio clipped to her belt, keys jangling from a carabiner, hands already gloved as she scanned a tablet for sensor data.

"You’re not gonna see this on the tours,” she said. “These girls don’t perform.”

Three of them, each moving with uncanny precision as they darted between the trees. One lifted her head, her gold eyes scanning the tree line. The other two circled near a feeding station. You felt a pulse of adrenaline as one of them lifted its snout and made direct eye contact.

“They’re watching us,” you whispered.

“They always are,” Ellie said.

The outer gate hissed open with a groan. Another handler pushed a steel cart in—two heavy haunches of meat, marked and logged. The scent hit immediately, the girls went still.

“That’s Jinx,” Ellie said. “Leader.”

“She doesn’t look aggressive.”

“She’s not. She’s calculating.”

You watched Jinx tilt her head, just slightly, then the others followed. Ellie nodded once, like she understood something no one else could hear.

“She knows you,” you said quietly.

Ellie’s mouth curved.

You blinked. “Imprint?”

“She was too old to imprint properly. But yeah. Something like that.”

“Is that… safe?”

Ellie shrugged. “Nothing here’s really safe.”

Then she glanced sideways. “But she’s never come for me. Not once.”

The cart was wheeled back out. The gates hissed closed behind the handler. The girls returned to the trees slowly.

“They’re amazing,” you breathed.

“They’re misunderstood,” Ellie said. “Everyone thinks they’re monsters.”

You turned to her. “Why do you think that is?”

She paused. “Because they’re smart. People don’t like being outsmarted, especially if who they’re being outsmarted by isn’t human.”

There was a long moment of silence between you, broken only by the whir of a distant drone circling above the canopy. Ellie leaned her weight on one hip, glancing down at her arm where her raptor skull tattoo peeked out from under her tank top.

Unfortunately, Ellie’s morning raptor routine was not fit for public consumption.

She barked into radios, swore when a feeding gate jammed, wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. She talked to the raptors and they responded in a way with soft huffs and curious clicks.

You’d filmed interviews before. Sat through seminars, cut and edited dozens of high-gloss campaign reels for campus groups and charity drives. But this wasn’t that. Ellie Williams didn’t have a camera version of herself. There was just Ellie.

That meant she also had no interest in being directed.

“I don’t want to do the influencer crap,” she had said. “No offense.”

“Some offense taken.” You said, crouched beside a control panel, adjusting your camera. “Let’s try something for TikTok. Just, like, say your name and job? Maybe give a fun fact about the raptors?”

Ellie squinted at the lens like it had personally offended her. “Why would I do that?”

You blinked. “Because it’s part of the job?”

She turned toward the paddock instead, shielding her eyes to scan the treeline. “Fun fact: their eye sockets are larger than yours. Next question.”

You huffed. “Ellie.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’re making this hard.”

Her mouth quirked. “I thought you PR types liked a challenge.”

You pointed the lens at her anyway, just to spite her. “Fine. I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

“If I catch you filming my ass without permission, I will feed you to them.”

Later, when she took a break in the shade of the fence wall, you passed her the water bottle from your bag.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” you said.

She took it, eyeing you with mock suspicion. “You poison it?”

“Tempting.”

She drank anyway.

You sat beside her, back against the warm concrete. The raptor sounds faded behind you.

“Hey,” you said. “You’re really good with them.”

Ellie looked away, squinting at the sun breaking through the canopy.

“They’re predictable,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“They don’t lie. They don’t fake anything. If they like you, they show you. If they don’t… well. You find out fast.”

You nodded slowly. “Sounds refreshing.”

“People,” Ellie said, almost absently, “aren’t like that.”

You studied her profile—sharp jaw, sunburnt nose.

“No,” you said softly. “They’re not.”

For a moment, she looked at you like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she stood.

“Come on,” she said. “We’re not done.”

The juveniles—the babies, as she called them—were only slightly less terrifying than the adults. Half-sized, sleek, wicked fast. Ellie led you into a smaller enclosure for behavioural training.

“You can film,” she said. “Just don’t run.”

“Why not?”

“They chase.”

You laughed nervously. “Oh.”

One of them, a smoky blue female with a slitted golden eye, approached Ellie and bumped her thigh with its snout like a puppy.

She crouched, whispering something you couldn’t catch. The raptor tilted its head, then chirped. A moment later, it lay down and rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

You caught the whole thing. Ellie laughing, hand buried in feathers, dirt smeared on her cheek, her whole face lit up.

That night, back in your dorm, you sat at your desk with the lights off, your laptop glowing.

You edited late into the night—cutting through shaky footage, filtering the sun just right, lining the audio to a soft indie track. You saved the file, but you didn’t upload it. Tomorrow, you’d show her first, just in case she wanted to see herself the way you saw her.

Before the rest of the world did.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The fluorescent light flickered above your desk like it, too, was tired of this job. Half your shift had been spent hunched over your laptop, headphones in, sorting through footage from the Raptor Paddock. You didn’t really mind.

The head of PR wanted more behind-the-scenes enrichment content for the park’s YouTube channel—playful but grounded, edgy but safe, and most of all, viral. Their emails used a lot of adjectives.

Your headset buzzed.

Minor incident, that’s how they phrased it.

“Minor,” in Jurassic World terms, meant no deaths, no lawyers yet.

You sat up straight.

A group of influencers had been taken too close to the Raptor Paddock. Someone thought it would be great content and someone else ignored the guest photography guidelines.

The raptor who lunged wasn’t Jinx. Thank god. It was Roo, the most skittish of the three. The flash went off and she reacted on instinct—leapt toward the fence, jaws wide, a blur of feathers and teeth. Now it was online.

Your screen lit up with hashtags you didn’t want to see. #DinoDanger, #SheAlmostDied. You stopped the autoplay, but the thumbnail was enough— Roo mid-snarl, one girl halfway into a dramatic faint. Her friend laughing, shakily.

You forwarded the footage to the Comms lead. A response came ten seconds later.

Get a statement from a trusted handler. Soften this. Now.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You found Ellie behind the garage near the paddock gate, sitting on an overturned crate with a can of iced coffee sweating in her hand. She was coated in dust and grease, like she’d crawled straight out of a ventilation shaft. Which, knowing her, wasn’t impossible.

She looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have press releases to copy and paste?”

You gestured toward her with your tablet. “Don’t you have raptors to whisper to?”

Ellie grinned, tired and amused. “Touché.”

You sat across from her on a cooler. She didn’t offer the coffee, you didn’t ask.

“I need a quote,” you said.

Her smile vanished. “About what?”

“The influencer thing,” you admitted.

She exhaled through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck. Grease smeared higher across her cheek.

“I told them,” she muttered. “Told them not to bring cameras near Roo. She doesn’t like flashing lights. Makes her nervous.”

You stayed quiet. Not the time to turn on a camera.

“They had a whole goddamn ring light,” Ellie said, voice low. “Pointed straight at her. The guests got scared, so did she. Then security panics and sets off the siren. Good job, everyone.”

Eventually, she stood.

“You want a soundbite?” she asked, brushing her hands off on her cargo pants.

You waited.

She looked down at you.

“Tell them this isn’t a petting zoo,” she said. “These animals aren’t props. They’re thinking, breathing creatures. If you poked a bear in the woods with a selfie stick, whose fault would that be?”

You swallowed. “That’s not exactly... soft.”

Ellie tilted her head. “You want me to lie?”

“No,” you said, softer. “I want you to keep your job.”

That got her. A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise maybe. She stepped closer and dropped her voice.

“Okay. Try this: ‘The handlers at Jurassic World prioritise the mental health of every creature in our care. Safety and respect come first—on both sides of the fence.’”

You typed as fast as you could.

Ellie leaned over, tapped your screen with a single finger.

“Then add: ‘Some animals, like Delta, are sensitive to sudden light. We ask all guests to follow our guidelines to protect both themselves and the dinosaurs they came to see.’”

You looked up at her. “That was... actually perfect.”

She smirked. “I can do optics. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Later, you sat alone on the roof of Dorm C, tablet balanced on your knees, watching the video you shot yesterday before uploading.

In the final cut, you watched a shot of Ellie walking alongside the paddock fence with the sun burning gold behind her.

You clicked publish.

The video went live at 6:49 pm, by 7:03 it was trending and the comments poured in.

Hear me out, She’s so serious I love her, and Mother.

You didn’t tell Ellie, but you saved the top comment anyway.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Every now and then, the schedule lined up just right. Two staff members off-duty. No emergency drills. No PR fires to put out. A window. A breath.

And Ellie took it.

You didn’t take one of the trams. Ellie drove you out herself—an old off-roader that smelled like engine oil, tires kicking up trails of red dust as she pulled away from the paved park roads and into the island’s interior. The farther you went, the more the sounds of the resort faded—until there was only jungle. It wasn’t on any map they gave guests, no visitor trails or attractions.

“You’re not gonna murder me out here, are you?” you joked, peering through the trees.

Ellie grinned. “Not unless you start talking about CGI inaccuracies again.”

She parked at the edge of a ridge overlooking a narrow river. The canopy opened above you into streaks of blue and gold. A breeze moved through the high branches, the air wet and fresh, bird calls echoed through the valley.

Ellie plopped down in the dirt like she’d been here a hundred times before. “This was all here before the board meetings, before the fences, before the holograms. And it’ll all still be here when the last attraction breaks down.”

You sat beside her. The earth was warm under your palms.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t come here?”

You nodded. “All the time.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “Maybe still in PR. Just… for a less cursed brand.”

Ellie smirked. “Like cereal.”

You laughed. “Exactly. Something safe. Something where the biggest crisis is oat milk backlash.”

She picked up a stick and started absentmindedly dragging it through the dirt—first a spiral, then something more detailed: the suggestion of a raptor skull, curved and sharp and familiar. She was quiet for a while, drawing.

Then she said, “You know what I wanted to be when I was a kid?”

You shook your head.

“Astronaut.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Ellie smirked. “Yeah. Had the poster on my wall. Memorised the Apollo missions. Wrote a letter to NASA when I was nine asking if they’d let me bring my best friend.”

You laughed softly. “What’d they say?”

“They didn’t write back.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual on the surface but threaded with something more tender. “I kept dreaming about it anyway. Floating above Earth. Being the first person to touch something that hadn’t been touched.” She paused. “Guess I still got that last part.”

You looked over at her. “What changed?”

Ellie pressed the stick into the soil. “I hit high school, and science was harder. Math was never fun. Biology clicked, and space didn’t.”

There was something in her voice that made your chest ache. Not regret, exactly. Just the trace of a fork in the road, a fig that hadn’t been taken from the tree. The version of her who might have gone up instead of underground.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The dorms weren’t glamorous.

Faux-wood floors, standard-issue twin bed, metal desk with drawers that stuck, a narrow kitchenette with two mugs that were never clean at the same time, one window that opened exactly three inches. Jurassic World spared no expense for the dinosaurs, but the interns? You learned quickly how to make do.

Somehow, though, the place felt luxurious when Ellie was in it.

She kept leaving things behind: a thermos, a hoodie, the Jurassic World issue of National Geographic with her notes scribbled in the margins. She always ended up back here, always found her way to your side of the compound when shifts ended and the park dimmed for the night.

Lunch wasn’t a planned thing.

It started after a meeting, both of you too tired to go back to work, the cafeteria mostly empty. Ellie dragged her tray to your table without asking, dropped into the seat across from you like she’d been doing it forever. She had her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of something dark under her cheekbone, like she’d leaned against the wall of the paddock and forgot about it.

She looked exhausted.

You slid your extra protein bar across the table without a word. She didn’t say thank you, just peeled it open and ate half in two bites.

“A trainer tried to feed Scylla a banana.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“She said she read somewhere that primates liked them and thought maybe—” Ellie cut herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t keep having these conversations.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh. “Did Scylla eat it?”

“She spat it out!”

You pushed your tray closer to hers. Shared space, shared air. When she picked at the lettuce on your plate without asking, you didn’t stop her.

That afternoon, back in your dorm, Ellie dozed on your bed with one foot still on the ground. You sat at your desk, typing half-heartedly, sneaking glances every few lines.

Her breathing slowed. Softened.

You turned down the brightness on your screen and let yourself stare. There was something vulnerable about her when she was asleep. Less fire, less focus.

Her arm shifted, and her fingers brushed your pillow like she was reaching in her sleep.

Your heart jumped.

You turned away, flustered. Pretended to read a park protocol memo. Didn’t take in a word of it.

That evening, she cooked.

Not well or efficiently, but she refused any help. You offered, but she waved you off and handed you a drink instead. “This is a one-woman show. Sit and be amazed.”

She stood barefoot, chopping onions with the dullest knife in the drawer and humming something under her breath, maybe Fleetwood Mac or something from her endless playlist of 70s deep cuts, you weren’t sure. She burned the first round of garlic toast. She swore loudly. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Dinner turned out… edible. You both sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in laps, knees bumping.

“This is terrible,” you said around a mouthful.

“Shut up,” she said, grinning. “You’re eating it.”

“Only out of fear.”

She nudged your knee. “Coward.”

You leaned back on your palms, looked at her.

“I like this,” you said.

Her smile faltered slightly, became something smaller. “What?”

“This. You. Here.”

Ellie looked at you for a long moment, unreadable.

Then she reached for your plate and took the last piece of toast.

“Me too,” she said.

Later, when the lights were off and the window cracked open to let in island air, she curled up behind you without asking, one arm slung loosely around your waist. Her breath warmed the back of your neck.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The week hit like a monsoon, you barely had time to breathe. You fielded incident reports, coordinated guest services, drafted press responses in thirty-second bursts. You worked through lunch. You took dinner at your desk. You fell asleep in a chair two nights in a row.

And through it all, there was Ellie.

Sort of.

You saw her once—midweek. Briefly.

She caught you outside the main building, a clipboard tucked under one arm, sunglasses perched on her head. She looked flushed and windblown, like she’d just come from the raptor paddock. Her shirt stuck to her back. Her hands were dusty.

“Hey,” she said, jogging to catch up. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You were already walking.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I’m heading to the office—there was a perimeter breach yesterday, and apparently that means communications has to rewrite the entire emergency script again because no one in legal can do their fucking jobs.”

She fell into step beside you, smile dipping a little. “Right. Yeah. No worries.”

You didn’t notice the shift in her tone. Or if you did, you ignored it.

Ellie gave a short nod, one hand hovering awkwardly like she’d meant to reach for your arm.

Then she said, “Don’t work yourself to death, okay?”

But the door had already closed behind you.

She didn’t come by that night, or the next.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that she was busy too. If she needed you, she’d say so.

But every time you opened your dorm door and saw that she hadn’t left anything behind—no hoodie, no coffee cup, no scrawled note—something in you pinched.

The silence wasn’t cruel. It was worse than that.

It was polite.

By Friday, you were frayed at the edges. The comms team cleared out early. Some kind of mixer for the PR interns, catered with branded cupcakes and a weirdly peppy playlist of noughties throwbacks. You told them you had emails to finish, but you lingered in the empty office, lights half-dimmed, hands idle.

And finally, when you couldn’t stand it anymore, you grabbed your badge and left.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The raptor paddock was quiet at this hour.

The jungle edge glowed gold. You leaned against the low fence, heartbeat a little louder than it needed to be.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

But then—you heard her voice.

“Good. Good, Jinx, yeah, that’s it—move slow.”

You turned just in time to see Ellie moving through the inner track. She had one hand raised towards Jinx, her movements fluid, confident. She was in her element, every line of her body relaxed but alert. The trainers nearby deferred to her, stepping back when she approached.

She was magnetic.

You suddenly felt like a ghost.

You waited until Jinx was redirected, until Ellie handed off her radio to another staff member, until she peeled off her gloves and stepped toward the break area alone.

You followed.

“Hey,” you said.

She looked up.

The smile she gave you was faint. Careful. “Hey.”

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to blow you off the other day,” you started. “It’s just been… a lot.”

Ellie nodded. “I figured.”

You hated how neutral her voice sounded. Like she’d coached it into steadiness.

“I missed you,” you said, softer.

Ellie didn’t look at you right away. She stared out toward the trees, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” she said finally.

You stepped closer. “It’s not weird.”

“It felt weird,” she replied, still not looking at you. “Like maybe I imagined more than what this is. Or was. I don’t even know if you even like— Forget it.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

She looked at you then, maybe a little hurt.

“I’m bad at balance,” you said, a little broken. “I pour into the job until I forget there’s a me underneath it.”

Ellie’s shoulders eased slightly. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“I didn’t mean to make you doubt.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She gave a small smile. “But I’m not going to chase you through it. I care about you. Enough to give you space. Just… don’t wait too long to come back.”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You stood outside her door for what felt like a full minute.

It was too quiet. The usual hum of the compound felt distant here, muffled behind thick walls and late-night haze. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

One knock, that’s all it took.

When the door opened, Ellie was standing there barefoot, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. She wore an oversized grey shirt that hung off one shoulder and loose black shorts that looked like she’d had them since high school. Her eyes were tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

You stepped inside.

Her dorm was nothing like yours. The lighting was dim—one warm bulb over the bed, the rest off. The smell was a mix of sandalwood and cedar that clung to her clothes. A raptor plush sat on the windowsill next to a sun-bleached paperback copy of The Lost World and a tin of black guitar picks. Her desk was half-covered in field notes, fossil diagrams, and a mug full of broken pencils. There were stars painted on her ceiling—tiny, glow-in-the-dark ones, peeling at the corners. A few had drifted down to the floor.

And in the far corner, propped against the wall next to a stack of old music magazines, was a handmade guitar, a moth delicately carved to match her arm. The strings were a little loose. One of them looked like it had been replaced with fishing wire.

She noticed you looking. “My dad made it.”

“Seriously?” You approached it gently, like it might crumble if you touched it wrong. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sounds like shit if it’s not tuned,” she said with a smile. “But yeah. It’s mine.”

There was a long pause.

Then, from her spot by the door, Ellie asked, “Did you come here to say something?”

You hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be near you.”

Her expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes softened. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I missed you.”

Ellie broke.

She reached for your face, and her touch was both careful and hungry. Her fingers brushed your jaw, your cheek, and then she kissed you.

And god, did she kiss you.

You melted into it, into her, into the way her lips moved slow and certain over yours, into the warmth of her hands sliding behind your neck. She tasted like mint, like she’d just brushed her teeth, ready for bed. The bed— you backed her towards it without even realising it, one hand tangled in the hem of her shirt, the other gripping her waist. She gasped when her knees hit the mattress, and then you were climbing into her lap, half-straddling her, mouths still locked together.

Ellie pulled back just long enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this,” she murmured.

You kissed her again, deeper this time, slower. Your hands roamed over her hips, the curve of her back. She made a sound in the back of her throat when your lips grazed the corner of her jaw, then her throat, then just below her ear.

“You smell like rain,” you whispered, lips brushing her skin.

“I have showered,” she said, voice shaky but smiling.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

She shifted, pressing up into you, hands now sliding under your shirt, palms splayed warm across your spine. Her touch was reverent, exploratory, like she couldn’t believe you were really here.

You pulled away just enough to look at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy like you were something she was still trying to process.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“More than,” she whispered.

[junojoel]

you are allowed to write slowly. you are allowed to take breaks. you are allowed to be a weird little plant that needs 3–6 business days to bloom

[junojoel]

guysss can you please send me recommendations for (actual) books to read🙏🧎‍♂️‍➡️finished my tbr and for the first time in my life don’t have anything else to read so i need to buy some

[junojoel]

ELLIE WILLIAMS JURASSIC PARK AU

[junojoel]

in honour of pride month i’m gonna start writing for ellie (totally just for pride month and not the fact i am ravenous for a nerdy girl in my bed)