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damneddamsy · 7 days ago

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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.

part 2, anyone? 👀

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

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yellowbrokenblue · 6 months ago

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I fucking own you | RAFE CAMERON

You’ve been working for the Cameron’s for a few months, and a while ago you made the biggest mistake of your life- you slept with Rafe Cameron. And now, it was about to happen again. You were in too deep, and you fucking loved it.

cw: smut, rough sex, bondage, rafe is feral, dirty talk, degradation

“I asked for a drink half an hour ago. Where is it.”

He came closer and closer to you, his eyes dark and filled with pure annoyance. It wasn’t that you went out of your way to disobey Rafe’s orders, but when you had as much on your plate as you did- it became easier and easier to slip up. People have this idea in their head that being a housemaid is a simple job- but when you work for the Cameron family, it’s nowhere near simple.

“Raf- Mr Cameron. You know that my job is not to run around fetching you food and drink whenever you feel about it. I’m here to look after the house, not you.”

He scoffed.

“Talk to me like that again, pogue, and I’ll get you fired.”

Rafe had been threatening to get his father to fire you ever since you made the biggest slip up of your entire life. You prided yourself on being a smart person who always made good choices- but then one night you ended up tangled in the sheets of Rafe Cameron’s bed- and that does not happen to people who make good choices.

After that night you vowed to avoid him as much as you possibly could. You couldn’t afford to get him so angry that he’d rat you out to his dad and loose this job.

But your biggest problem was that no matter how hard you tried to stand up for yourself, you’d always cave in front of him. You’d always end up getting him that drink even though it wasn’t your job, you’d fetch his dry cleaning before your shift simply because he asked you. And worst of all, you let him fuck you.

But it would never happen again.

“I’m sorry, Mr Cameron.” You apologised, nodding your head.

“Good.” He said, before lowering his voice, “Now go and be the nice, obedient girl that I remember, and get me a Scotch.”

You swallowed, nodding.

With shaky hands, you make your way to the bar cart in the corner, placing some ice in the glass and pouring the shot. You might not have had eyes on the back of your head, but you could feel his eyes on you- his gaze was burning into the back of your head.

He treated you like shit, it’s not as if you were unaware of it. Sometimes you got worried about the fact that occasionally it made you want him more.

You turn around, and try to give him the glass. He noticed your shaking hands and smirked. This man has evil written all over him.

“I change my mind, sweetheart.” He said, his tone rude and condescending, “I want my drink in my bedroom.”

“Can’t you just take it up, I-”

He scoffed, “You’re what? You’re telling me to do your job because you’re worried about being next to my bed again? Are you really that weak, pogue?”

Your heart was beating uncontrollably.

“Of course not.” You reply, “I’ll take it up to your room right away.”

“That’s a good girl.”

You leave the room and follow the, what feels like endless, stairs up to Rafe’s room. His section of the house was bigger than your entire apartment on the other side of the island. When he says ‘room’ he really means entire suite. The living area opened up into a huge bedroom with an en-suite, and he even had a small kitchenette to the far left with different cooking appliances. The microwave itself was probably worth more than your entire wardrobe.

You placed the glass on the small table next to the couch, when you heard the door open, close and then lock.

You turn around, rapidly, to be faced with Rafe’s face already only inches away from yours.

“Don’t look so worried, sweetheart.” He said, snaking his arms around your waist and pulling your body against his, “You know I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Rafe, we can’t do this again. I need this job, you know that.”

Instead of a reply, he lent down and attached his lips to your neck, making a b-line for the sweet spot that he must’ve remembered from last time.

You used all of the strength in you to stop yourself from letting out a moan, but then he pressed his crotch against your stomach, and the moan slipped out.

“I knew you wanted me.” Rafe said, pulling away and holding your face with his hands, “I could see it in your eyes, they just scream out how desperate you are for my cock.”

Rafe’s hands reach for the buttons of your blouse, looking at your face, waiting for a signal that it’s okay for him to continue. He wasn’t a good guy, but he had enough good in him to make sure you were okay with this.

You gave him a quick nod, and he made quick work of taking off your blouse, throwing it on the floor.

“The shit my dad makes the help wear is fuckin’ ugly.” Rafe said, “I much prefer when you look like this.”

His hands raked over your body, and over your bra.

“How would you cope if I worked naked every day?” You joked.

“I wouldn’t.”

Before you knew it, your bra joined your shirt on the floor, your tits spilling free.

“Pants off. Lie on the couch.” Rafe demanded, taking a step back, waiting to watch you undress. “I have plans for you before you get my dick. So, be a good girl and do as I say.”

You bite the side of your cheek, unbuttoning your pants and kicking them off.

“Panties too.” Rafe said, “I want to see all of you.”

Once again, you done as he said, peeling your underwear from your body, leaving you completely naked lying on his couch.

It was intimidating lying like this with him watching you while he stood fully clothed. But then again, every time Rafe looked at you there would be some sort of intimidation involved.

“Now,” He said, slowly unbuttoning his white shirt, “I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go, and you’re gonna listen.”

He took his shirt off and lifted the glass of Scotch.

“You’re gonna lay there nice and still and well behaved, understand? And while you do that, I’m gonna have some fun.” He says, moving his arm so that his glass of liquor was hovering above you, before tilting it and letting the liquid drip over your stomach.

It was ice cold, yet the feeling made your head fall back. The anticipation was killing you, and he knew it. Rafe was taking his sweet time simply just to torture you.

You watched Rafe sink to his knees, dropping the glass on the floor, ice spilling everywhere.

“You’re gonna forget who the fuck you are when I’m done with you.”

His mouth attached itself your breasts, his tongue licking up the alcohol that had dripped onto them, before slowly making his way down your stomach, licking and sucking at every trace of liquor he could find.

Most of the liquid had pooled around your belly button, and as he got closer to that area, he gripped your thigh to steady his body, making sure to purposely brush his fingers over the aching heat between your legs, enjoying the soft moan you let out.

You couldn’t help but groan as he sucked harder at your skin, his tongue all over your stomach. You wanted that tongue sucking at your tits, in your mouth, between your legs. You wanted him everywhere.

“You’re desperate for me. I can tell.” Rafe said, using the grip he had on your thigh to spin you around, so that you were sitting facing him on the couch.

Arousal was dripping down your legs as his hand crept further and further up your thigh.

“I was gonna take my time with you today, sweetheart. But I think you want my cock right now, am I right?”

You nod, desperately.

“Words.” He demands.

“Yes.” You plead.

He shakes his head, “I know you remember the rules. Yes, what?”

You swallow.

“Yes, Sir.”

Even in the bedroom, Rafe had to remind you that you would always be beneath him. His superiority complex would never die, yet your sheer desperation could look past that.

The power dynamic was unhealthy, it’s not as if you were unaware. Technically you were still on shift working at his house right now. But you allowed yourself to look past it simply because of how badly you wanted him.

How badly you needed him.

Next, he told you to go and lie on his bed- and he followed you into the bedroom area but instead of joining you on the sheets he opened the door to his closet, rifling through until he pulled out a long black tie.

“I think you need a reminder today of who is in charge.” He says, coming closer to the bed.

“You.” You whisper, “You are in charge.”

“You’re right,” He said, “But I need to be really sure that you underhand that. So give me your wrists.”

He takes your hands and wraps his tie tightly around them, before guiding your arms to the headboard of the bed, where he looped the tie around and secured your wrists to the bed.

“Tell me if it’s too tight.” He said, a slither of genuine humanity showing through his words.

“It’s fine.” You reply.

It was somewhat exciting, to be here tied up for Rafe. He could do whatever he wanted and there wasn’t much you could do about it. But at the same time, it was nerve wracking.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, so you have to try to be a little less tense, alright?” Rafe said. His words were genuine, but it didn’t come off as such.

He unbuckled his pants, pulling them off and pushing them aside, leaving you staring at him in his briefs.

“Where do I start.” Rafe says, placing a hand on each of your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

“Look how fucking wet you are.” He said, running a single finger over your folds, “I didn’t realise what a desperate whore you were.”

Rafe’s patience thins- his solid erection paired with your dripping wet cunt is driving him crazy and he can’t wait any longer. He quickly flips you over onto your stomach and pushes your ass into the air, keeping your legs spread so he can access.

“Are you still on the pill?” He asks while he massages his cock. He needs to be inside of you. Right now.

You nod. “Yeah.”

With the anticipation, that one single word is all you can croak out of your mouth.

With no warning, you find Rafe’s cock pushing into you with a speed you can’t quite comprehend.

“Your tight little cunt.” Rafe moans, splitting you open, “I bet no one’s fucked you since the last time you had my dick, huh? You keep this pussy just for me?”

You moan, your face pushed into the sheets as you take the full length of Rafe’s dick.

“Agh!” You cry, “You, Rafe, just you.”

He’s thrusting into you with no thoughts in his mind. You knew Rafe fucked rough, but this was a new level of feral you hadn’t seen before- and you were kind of loving. You tugged on the tie restraining your wrists while you cried his name.

“I own you.” Rafe says, “I fucking own you, you understand?”

You moan loudly, his dick still pounding into you.

“I said do you fucking understand?”

“Agh! Fuck!” You cry, “I’m yours, Rafe. You own me, you own me.”

You were so close to your orgasm, clenching on his cock while he thrusted deep inside you.

“I’m close.” You tell him, pushing your head into the mattress.

“Don’t fucking cum until I say so.” Rafe said.

He sped up, reaching for his own release.

“Cum with me.” He growls, his speed reducing as he cums inside of you.

You cry out, your long awaited orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave as you coat Rafe’s cock with your cum.

You might regret this tomorrow, but right now you didn’t have a care in the world.

#rafe cameron #smut #outer banks #outer banks smut #drew starkey #fanfic #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey x reader #outer banks fanfic #drew starkey smut #rafe cameron smut #smutty #x reader

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Mr. Pickles, your small fluffy dog, has disappeared and your lover goes on a hunt to find him

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Mr. Pickles is my proudest creation ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter knows what it means to lose something you love. The moment he sees your face, tear-streaked and trembling, he drops everything—his textbooks, his half-eaten sandwich, his entire afternoon—to pull you into his arms. "We'll find him," he whispers into your hair, his voice a promise, a prayer. His mind races with every possibility—where a tiny, fluffy dog could have wandered, what dangers lurk in the city streets. He forces himself to stay lighthearted, for you. "Mr. Pickles is a survivor," he assures you, "just like his mom." But inside, his heart clenches at the thought of you losing something you love. Again.

- He swings across the city, calling the dog's name, peering into alleyways and between dumpsters, ignoring the odd looks from pedestrians below. "C'mon, buddy," he mutters, landing softly on a rooftop. "If I were a small, dumb, fluffy dog, where would I go?" His mask hides his worry, but his pulse betrays him. You had whispered once, in the quiet dark of your shared bed, that Mr. Pickles was there before Peter—that the little dog had curled against you on nights too cold, too lonely to bear. That he had been your solace. Peter clenches his fists. He has to find him.

- Hours pass, and the city hums beneath him, indifferent. He stops only when he hears the faintest whimper from a storm drain, the soft scrape of tiny paws against metal. Relief crashes over him so fast he almost collapses. "Oh, Mr. Pickles, you little troublemaker," he breathes, scooping the trembling dog into his arms. The weight of him, warm and alive, nearly makes Peter cry. He presses his forehead against the dog's tiny head. "Your mom's gonna kill me if I bring you back dirty," he laughs, voice shaking.

- When he swings through your window, landing with a soft thud, you barely get the chance to register his presence before he's pushing Mr. Pickles into your arms. You sob into the dog's soft fur, and Peter watches, eyes warm, body aching with love. Then, when you finally look up at him, when your beautiful face splits into the most brilliant, teary smile, Peter Parker knows—he would search a thousand cities, lift a thousand storm drain covers, break apart the world itself if it meant keeping that smile.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- "It’s just a dog," Tony had said at first, exhaling through his nose, watching you pace the length of his penthouse with wild, desperate eyes. But then you turned to him, looking at him like he had just shattered the universe, and something in his chest tightened. "Okay, okay, bad choice of words," he amended quickly, setting down his glass of scotch. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. Trust me." He kissed your forehead, and when he pulled away, he was already barking orders at J.A.R.V.I.S. to scan the streets.

- The city is his playground, and when Tony Stark hunts, nothing escapes him. Drones sweep over sidewalks, infrared cameras scan the gutters, and his A.I. combs through every security feed within a ten-block radius. It should be easy, finding something small, white, and fluffy. But as the hours stretch, as your voice cracks when you call Mr. Pickles’ name into the empty night, Tony feels something unfamiliar claw at his throat. Panic. Helplessness. He can build weapons that level cities, fly into warzones, rewrite the future with his mind, but he can’t stop the way your hands shake. He can’t fix this with money or brilliance. He just has to find that damn dog.

- And then—finally—one of his drones pings. A little white fluffball, trapped behind the fence of a construction site, tail wagging pathetically, waiting. Tony exhales sharply. "Gotcha, you little idiot," he murmurs, already summoning the nearest Iron Man suit. He could call someone, sure. Could send a bot, have the dog airlifted in a grand display of Stark-level theatrics. But he doesn’t. Because he wants to be the one to bring him home to you. He wants to be the reason your eyes stop looking so haunted.

- When he steps through the front door, Mr. Pickles in his arms, you don’t hesitate. You throw yourself at him, burying your face in his chest, shaking with relief. Tony doesn’t joke. Doesn’t smirk. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair, the other keeping a firm grip on the tiny dog between you. He sighs against your temple. "Next time, we’re microchipping this little bastard," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. But the truth is, if it meant making you happy, Tony Stark would search the ends of the earth for that damn dog again. And again. And again.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- You are inconsolable. Steve sees it in the way you sit curled on the couch, your arms wrapped around yourself like you are holding something together. The sight alone shatters him. He kneels before you, his large hands settling over your trembling ones, his voice low, steady. "We’ll find him, sweetheart. I swear." His words are a shield, a promise carved from the same steel as his bones. Because he will find Mr. Pickles, if only to take that sorrow from your eyes.

- He searches the old-fashioned way. No drones, no high-tech satellites. Just a man and his will. He jogs through the streets, stopping people with a polite, firm urgency, showing a picture of your dog on his phone. He speaks to shopkeepers, to children on bicycles, to the kind-faced woman selling flowers on the corner. Every second counts. But even as his pulse quickens, as the sun dips behind the skyline, he doesn't waver. The world has taken too much from him already—he will not let it take this from you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in a tiny park, curled up beneath a bench, his fur damp with the evening dew. Steve exhales a deep, relieved breath, crouching slowly, his voice softer than a whisper. "Hey there, buddy," he murmurs, extending a careful hand. The dog whimpers, then leaps into his arms as if he knows—knows this man, knows that Steve Rogers is the safest place in the world.

- When Steve carries him home, you are waiting at the door, your beautiful face lit by the glow of the porchlight, eyes wide with hope. And then—joy. You let out a breathless sob, scooping the dog into your arms, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Steve watches, his heart twisting in his chest. Then you turn to him, eyes glistening, and throw your arms around his neck. He catches you, as he always will, burying his face into your shoulder. "Told you I’d find him," he murmurs, holding you as tightly as he can.

Thor

- The moment Thor sees your sorrow, it is as if the very sky darkens. "Your heart aches," he rumbles, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "This shall not stand." And with that, he strides from the room, determination crackling in his wake. He does not understand how something so small could mean so much—but he does not need to understand. He only needs to act.

- He searches with the force of a storm. He speaks to the wind, commanding it to carry your dog’s scent across the city. He calls down thunder, demanding the heavens show him where your little beast has gone. Mortals look on in awe as the god of thunder strides through the streets, golden hair windswept, cape billowing. "MR. PICKLES!" his voice booms, rattling windows. "SHOW THYSELF, TINY WARRIOR!"

- And then, a soft yip—so small, so insignificant against the noise of the city, yet Thor hears it as clear as a battle cry. He finds Mr. Pickles atop a fruit cart, having somehow clambered to its highest peak. The vendor stares, frozen, as Thor reaches out, plucking the tiny dog from the pile of apples. "A most daring escape," Thor muses, holding the squirming fluff in one enormous hand. "You are braver than you appear, small one."

- When he returns to you, the dog safely in his arms, you let out a breathless, laughing sob. "You found him," you whisper. Thor beams. "Of course I did, my love," he declares, sweeping you—dog and all—into his arms. "No force in this realm shall keep what is yours from you.”

Loki

- Loki does not understand the gravity of it at first. A small creature, insignificant in size and strength, lost in the chaos of Midgard—what of it? But then he sees your face, the way grief pools in your beautiful eyes, the tremor in your hands as you call the dog’s name into the empty night. He watches, silent, as sorrow sinks its fangs into you. And suddenly, the matter is no longer trivial. The world may not care for Mr. Pickles, but you do. And Loki… Loki cares for you.

- He does not search as mortals do. No, he does not waste time scouring streets like a fool. He summons illusions, a hundred spectral versions of himself that spill into the city like shadows, slipping through alleyways, gliding across rooftops, whispering Mr. Pickles’s name to the wind. Magic coils at his fingertips, weaving through the currents of the world, seeking out the pulse of something small, something white and ridiculous. “Where have you gone, little fool?” he murmurs to the void. “Your mistress grieves for you. And I will not allow it.”

- The answer comes in a flicker of magic—an image flashing behind his eyes. A storm drain, deep beneath the city streets, where a tiny, trembling thing curls into itself. Loki sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Of course,” he mutters, exasperated. Then, in a breath, he is there—appearing in a ripple of green light, boots sinking into damp concrete. The dog yelps, startled, but Loki merely raises an eyebrow. “You are filthier than I expected,” he muses, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares, wide-eyed. Loki clicks his tongue. “Come now, do not be tiresome. Your lady awaits.”

- When he steps into your home, dog cradled in his arms like an offering, you let out a choked breath. Relief breaks across your face, radiant and overwhelming. You snatch Mr. Pickles from his grasp, burying your face in his fur, and for a moment, you are too consumed by joy to speak. Loki watches, arms crossed, head tilting. "You are lucky I find your devotion endearing," he drawls. Then, softer, he reaches out, fingertips ghosting along your cheek. "Do not grieve again, darling. I find I have little patience for it."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint knows what loss does to a person. Knows how it hollows them out, how it lingers in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. He sees it now, creeping into the corners of your beautiful face, sinking into the line of your shoulders. And he hates it. So, with a sharp breath and a determined set to his jaw, he presses a kiss to your forehead and grabs his jacket. “Don’t worry, babe,” he says, shouldering his bow. “I’ll bring the little guy home.”

- He moves through the city like he was born to it—quick, sharp-eyed, hands in his pockets as he scans every street, every alley. He whistles low and easy, calling Mr. Pickles’s name like he’s coaxing an old friend. He asks the vendors, the cab drivers, the kids playing basketball on the corner. And when that doesn’t work, he climbs. Up onto fire escapes, across rooftops, perching on ledges with the keen gaze of a predator. His archer’s eyes miss nothing. Somewhere down there, a small dumb dog is waiting to be found.

- It takes time, but eventually, he hears it—a faint, frantic yipping from behind a chain-link fence, where Mr. Pickles has somehow managed to trap himself in a tangle of garbage cans. Clint huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re really makin’ me work for it, huh, buddy?” The dog’s tail wags furiously at the sight of him. Clint doesn’t hesitate; he scales the fence in seconds, dropping down effortlessly. “C’mere, troublemaker,” he murmurs, scooping the tiny thing into his arms. “Your mom’s losing her mind over you.”

- When he walks through the door, Mr. Pickles wriggling excitedly in his grasp, you gasp, half laughing, half crying. “Clint!” And before he can react, you throw your arms around him, pressing desperate kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, his lips. Clint grins, warmth curling in his chest, burying his face in your hair. “Told ya I’d bring him back,” he murmurs. Then, pulling back just enough to look at you, voice teasing, “How ‘bout a reward for the hero?”

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha does not waste words on comfort. She sees the way your hands twist together, the way your breath hitches unevenly, and she simply touches your arm—firm, steady. "I’ll find him," she says, no hesitation, no doubt. And then she is gone, slipping into the night like a ghost, like a promise.

- Her search is meticulous, methodical. She moves through the city like a shadow, unseen, unheard. She checks every corner, every crevice, following the trail with a hunter’s patience. She kneels in the dirt, fingers brushing over the faintest paw prints. She watches surveillance footage from gas stations and convenience stores, scanning for any glimpse of white fur. Nothing escapes her. Nothing ever does.

- And then, finally, she finds him. A scared little thing, shivering beneath an abandoned car, too afraid to move. Natasha exhales slowly, lowering herself onto her stomach, voice quiet, gentle. "Hey, малыш," she murmurs. "Been having an adventure, huh?" Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, with a whimper, scrambles toward her. She catches him easily, tucking him against her chest. "Good boy," she whispers, stroking his tiny head. "Let’s get you home."

- When she returns, she says nothing—just steps into the room, holding out the small, trembling dog. The sound you make is small, broken, and then you are running to her, hands shaking as you take Mr. Pickles into your arms. Natasha watches, something warm and aching unfurling in her chest. And when you turn to her, whispering "Thank you," voice thick with emotion, she simply pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Always," she murmurs.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows the weight of grief. Knows how it clings to the ribs, how it turns the world gray. When he sees it on you, something inside him twists. He cups your face, brushing his thumbs beneath your eyes, steel and flesh both warm against your skin. “I’ll get him back,” he says, voice rough, edged with quiet desperation. “I swear it.”

- He searches with the kind of relentless patience only a soldier possesses. He moves through the city in silence, scanning every street, listening, waiting. His training takes over—tracking, reading the subtle disturbances in the world. A knocked-over trash can. A set of tiny paw prints in the dust. He follows them like a wolf on a scent, every step precise, measured. He does not stop. He does not falter.

- He finds Mr. Pickles curled up on a stranger’s doorstep, looking lost and exhausted. Bucky crouches slowly, voice soft. “Hey there, little guy.” The dog perks up, ears twitching. A moment passes—then Mr. Pickles scrambles into his arms, pressing his tiny face against Bucky’s chest. The super-soldier lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

- When he brings Mr. Pickles home, you make a sound—something between a sob and a laugh—and Bucky barely has time to react before you are clinging to him, burying your face in his shoulder. He holds you tightly, breathing you in, grounding himself in your warmth. “Told you I’d find him,” he mutters into your hair. And when you pull back, eyes shining, hands cradling his face, Bucky Barnes knows—he would walk through fire for you. Would chase down a hundred lost things, just to keep you from breaking.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- It starts with the sound of your voice breaking. A sharp inhale, a stumble of words, a silence where there should be breath. Matt’s head snaps up immediately, his whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. “What’s wrong?” he asks, already moving toward you, already reaching. And then you say it, voice trembling. “Mr. Pickles is gone.” The world tilts. He doesn’t need sight to know the grief settling in your frame, the way your arms are wrapped around yourself like a shield. He takes your hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll find him,” he promises. “I swear.”

- The city is an orchestra of noise and movement, but Matt filters through it with razor precision. He follows the trail of memory—the last place you saw Mr. Pickles, the familiar scuffle of tiny paws on pavement. He kneels in alleyways, fingertips ghosting over the ground, feeling for the faintest traces: a disturbed patch of dust, a scent still lingering in the air. He listens. A hundred heartbeats, a thousand voices, the ever-present hum of New York’s restless energy. And then—there. A frantic, rapid little rhythm, lost beneath a fire escape.

- He moves quickly, scaling the metal with effortless grace, landing silently in the narrow space behind the building. Mr. Pickles is trembling beneath an old wooden crate, his tiny frame pressed into the shadows. “Hey, buddy,” Matt murmurs, crouching low. “You gave us a scare.” The dog yelps as Matt reaches out, but there’s no hesitation in his hands, only certainty. Warmth. He scoops Mr. Pickles up, tucking him close, fingers gentle against soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- The moment Matt steps through the door, you let out a breath that shatters into relief. He barely has time to react before you are in his arms, hands in his hair, lips pressing desperately against his. Mr. Pickles wiggles between you, but neither of you care. Matt holds you tighter, his own relief threading through his pulse. “Told you,” he breathes against your mouth. “I’d never let you lose something you love.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- You’re crying, and that alone is enough to ignite something violent in Frank. His hands clench into fists, his jaw locks tight, his body coils with the instinct to hunt. But there’s no enemy here. No one to punish. Just you, beautiful and wrecked, your hands trembling as you whisper, “Frank, I can’t find him.” He exhales slow, steady, pushing down the fury. His hands cup your face, rough thumbs brushing over wet cheeks. “I’ll get ‘im back,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

- His search is relentless. Frank moves through the city with soldier’s efficiency, checking every street corner, every back alley, every goddamn sewer grate if he has to. He interrogates people without mercy, his voice low and dangerous as he asks, “You seen a little white dog around here?” Nobody dares to lie to him. He is a shadow in the night, a force of nature, and nothing—not time, not distance, not God himself—will stop him from bringing your dog back.

- Eventually, he finds Mr. Pickles cornered by a stray, trapped between a chain-link fence and a growling, desperate mutt twice his size. Frank doesn’t hesitate. One sharp whistle, one step forward, and the stray bolts. “Damn idiot,” he mutters, kneeling. Mr. Pickles stares up at him, wide-eyed and shaking. “You’re lucky she loves you,” Frank grumbles, scooping him up, pressing the dog to his chest with surprising gentleness. “Otherwise, you’d be on your own, dumbass.”

- When he gets home, you’re waiting at the door, eyes raw with worry. The second you see him, you choke out a gasp, arms reaching. Frank hands Mr. Pickles over, watching as you cradle the tiny thing like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and then you’re kissing him—deep, breathless, full of gratitude. His hands grip your waist, pulling you close, his voice rough against your lips. “Told you I’d fix it, baby.”

Bullseye (Lester)

- “You’re joking.” But the look on your face tells him you’re not. And the worst part? He cares. Too much. About you, about the way your lip trembles, about the devastation in your beautiful, stupid eyes. His fingers twitch, the urge to break something crawling under his skin. He can kill a man from a mile away with a paperclip, but he can’t fix this. Not with a bullet, not with a blade. “Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. Then, voice dark with resolve—“I’ll find the little bastard.”

- Lester doesn’t search like a normal person. No, he turns the whole goddamn city into his hunting ground. He perches on rooftops, scanning the streets below with hawk-like precision. He talks to informants, threatens people in back alleys, flips a knife between his fingers as he leans in close and growls, “If I were a tiny dumb dog, where the hell would I be?” Nobody dares to waste his time.

- He finally spots Mr. Pickles trapped on a moving truck, the tiny idiot balancing on the edge, about to tumble onto the freeway. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lester moves before he thinks. A perfect throw—his knife slicing through the air, puncturing the truck’s tire. It screeches to a halt, and before anyone can react, he’s already there, snatching Mr. Pickles up. “You got a goddamn death wish?” he mutters, tucking the tiny dog under his jacket. “Let’s get you home before I start regretting this.”

- The second he walks in, you’re on him, eyes wide with relief. You press kisses over his face, his jaw, whispering, “Thank you, thank you.” Lester smirks, tilting his head. “Y’know, I don’t do this rescue shit for just anyone.” You arch a brow. “Oh?” His grin sharpens. “Yeah. So, how ‘bout you thank me properly?” His hands slip around your waist, pulling you in, his lips brushing your ear. “In bed.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- He knows loss. Knows the way it digs into the ribs, the way it carves out something hollow in your chest. And when he sees that same ache in your eyes, his heart clenches. “I’ll find him,” he says, his voice low, steady. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking soft against your cheeks. “I won’t let you lose him.”

- He moves through the night like a phantom, like a god of the hunt. Moonlight glints off his armor as he scales rooftops, his senses sharp, his pulse steady. He tracks the city like a predator—footprints in the dust, paw marks in the mud, the scent of something small and lost. Every streetlamp flickers as he passes, every shadow seems to bend toward him. He is relentless.

- He finds Mr. Pickles huddled in the hollow of a tree in Central Park, shivering, tiny paws covered in dirt. Marc exhales, dropping into a crouch, his cape pooling around him. “Hey, little guy,” he murmurs. “Scared?” The dog lets out a small whimper, tail tucked. “Yeah,” Marc sighs. “Me too, sometimes.” He reaches out, slow and patient. Mr. Pickles hesitates—then, finally, clambers into his arms. Marc holds him close, pressing his forehead to soft fur. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, you break. Your arms wrap around him, your whole body trembling with relief. Marc holds you, silent, solid, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “Thank you,” you whisper. He exhales, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll always bring back what you love,” he murmurs. “Always.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- You are pacing. Your hands are shaking. Your lips are parted as if you want to say something, but no words come. Tony watches, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. His skull mask tilts ever so slightly. “You’re stressin’ over a dog,” he drawls, but there’s something in his voice—not mockery, not amusement, just observation. You shoot him a sharp look, eyes shining with unshed tears, and that’s all it takes. His posture shifts, his fingers flex, his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet. A mission, then. “Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s go hunt.”

- Tony doesn’t search. He tracks. He moves like a predator, analyzing the world through the same ruthless lens he uses in combat. He remembers the way Mr. Pickles moves, the rhythm of his little paws on the floor, the places he lingers longest. He follows invisible trails, crouching low to examine scuff marks on the sidewalk, flicking his hood up as he moves through the city like a ghost. He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t need it.

- He finds Mr. Pickles before dawn, stuck in a drainage pipe, trembling but unharmed. Tony crouches, tilting his head. “Y’know,” he muses, voice low and sardonic, “for a dumb little mutt, you got a lotta guts runnin’ off like that.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Tony sighs. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere.” He reaches in, grips the tiny dog by the scruff, and lifts him effortlessly. There’s a moment of silence as he looks at the tiny, ridiculous creature. Then, begrudgingly, softly—“Good boy.”

- When he returns, you practically crash into him, arms wrapping around his neck. He stiffens for half a second—then melts. Your lips find his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, whispering endless thank-yous. Tony smirks against your lips. “Told ya I’d find ‘im,” he murmurs. His gloved hands tighten on your waist. “Now, you gonna give me a reward, or what?”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- The second you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you collapse onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. Johnny is beside you instantly, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands gripping yours. “Hey, hey, hey, no tears, babe,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re gonna find him.” You shake your head, voice breaking. “But what if—” Johnny cuts you off with a grin, cupping your cheeks. “Nope. No ‘what ifs.’ You and me? We got this.” His eyes flicker with fire. “And lucky for you, I’m kinda the fastest guy around.”

- He takes off like a shooting star, flames trailing behind him as he soars above the city, scanning the streets below. He shouts Mr. Pickles’ name at the top of his lungs, occasionally stopping to ask strangers, “Hey, seen a fluffy little guy runnin’ around?” He speeds down alleyways, streaks of fire illuminating the dark corners, his energy boundless, relentless. It’s not just about finding the dog—it’s about fixing you. About bringing back the light in your eyes.

- Finally, he spots a flash of white fur near a hot dog stand. Mr. Pickles is standing on his tiny hind legs, trying to steal a bite from an unsuspecting tourist. Johnny lets out a relieved laugh, swooping down. “Oh my God, you little menace,” he groans, scooping the dog up. “You had her crying, dude! Not cool.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Johnny sighs, tucking him under his arm. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m a sucker.”

- When he gets home, you’re standing by the door, breath held tight in your chest. The moment you see them, you let out a half-sob, half-laugh, arms flinging around both Johnny and Mr. Pickles. “Told ya,” Johnny murmurs against your hair, grinning. “Flame on, baby. Fastest rescue in history.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Now, how ‘bout you show me just how grateful you are?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- The moment you realize Mr. Pickles is missing, you don’t even need to say anything. Reed notices the micro-expressions on your face, the tiny shift in your breathing, the way your fingers twitch like they don’t know where to go. He sets his book down immediately. “I assume,” he says, in that calm, measured way of his, “that we are dealing with an emergency.” You nod, lip trembling, and he reaches out, brushing a gentle hand against your wrist. “Then let’s begin our search.”

- He doesn’t waste time. He maps out the city in his head, calculating Mr. Pickles’ likely movement patterns based on past behavior, environmental factors, and canine psychology. He extends his limbs, stretching impossibly long, weaving through traffic and alleyways, covering more ground in minutes than most could in hours. Occasionally, he stops to scan the area with a handheld device he designed on the spot to track small biological signatures. Mr. Pickles is, unfortunately, an unpredictable anomaly. But Reed does not believe in unsolvable problems.

- At last, he finds the dog nestled inside the engine of a parked car, trapped but unharmed. “Ah,” Reed murmurs, extending a flexible arm to gently extract him. “A remarkably foolish but statistically predictable hiding spot.” Mr. Pickles whimpers. Reed tucks him against his chest, adjusting his glasses. “I would advise against repeating this experiment.”

- When he returns, you nearly collapse in relief. You take Mr. Pickles from his arms, cradling him, whispering his name over and over. Reed watches you for a moment, expression unreadable—then, finally, he steps forward, cupping your face. “There was never a doubt,” he says softly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead. “I will always solve any problem that brings you pain.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- “Aw, hell.” The moment you start crying, Ben is done. He has no idea what to do, how to fix it, how to stop that horrible look on your face. He’s good at breaking things, not putting them back together. But this? This, he can try to fix. He places a massive, careful hand on your back. “Don’tchu worry, sweetheart. We’re gonna get yer lil’ guy back. Just leave it to ol’ Ben.”

- He scours the city on foot, his heavy footsteps echoing through the streets. People move out of his way as he calls out, “MR. PICKLES! C’MON, BUDDY!” He checks every alley, every trash can, even gets on his hands and knees to peek under cars. He talks to street vendors, cab drivers, little kids—anyone who might’ve seen a small, fluffy blur.

- After what feels like forever, he finally hears a familiar yipping sound. He turns, spotting Mr. Pickles perched on top of a hot dog cart, happily munching away. Ben groans, shaking his head. “Ya gotta be kiddin’ me.” He reaches out, scooping up the tiny troublemaker in one massive hand. “Yer givin’ me gray hairs, ya dumb mutt.” Mr. Pickles wags his tail. “Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters. “Let’s getcha home.”

- The second he steps inside, you sprint toward him, practically climbing his massive frame to get to Mr. Pickles. “Thank you,” you whisper over and over, eyes shining with gratitude. Ben rubs the back of his neck, cheeks going a little too orange. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he grumbles. But when you lean up and press a kiss to his rocky jaw, he goes still. Then, with a soft chuckle, he wraps you up in the safest, warmest embrace you’ve ever known. “Anythin’ for you, doll.”

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- The moment she sees the distress in your eyes, the tremble in your fingers, Susan moves with the quiet urgency of someone who has carried the weight of others for as long as she can remember. “We’ll find him,” she promises, voice steady, hands cupping your face. She presses her lips to your forehead, a whisper of warmth against your skin. There is no hesitation in her. No doubt. Only unwavering resolve. “Just hold on, love. I won’t stop until he’s back in your arms.”

- Susan moves like the wind—unseen, yet everywhere. Her force fields expand in rippling waves, creating invisible barriers to guide the search, sealing off streets, preventing Mr. Pickles from wandering further. She steps through the city like a ghost, her presence unnoticed by the world, her focus honed to a razor’s edge. She asks the right people, checks every hidden corner, listens for the frantic patter of tiny paws.

- When she finds him—trapped in a fenced-off garden, too small to climb back out—her breath catches in relief. She kneels, extending a hand. “There you are, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice softer than the dawn. Mr. Pickles hesitates, then scurries into her arms. She holds him close, invisible tears slipping down her cheeks. “You scared us, little one,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his fur.

- When she returns, you barely have time to react before she’s wrapping you up in her arms, pressing you close, Mr. Pickles nestled between you. “Told you,” she breathes into your hair. “I’ll always bring you back what you love.” And then, because she cannot help herself, because she needs to erase the sadness she saw on your face—she tilts your chin up, kisses you slow and deep, sealing her promise with something stronger than words.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- “Oh, baby,” Felicia purrs, cupping your face in her gloved hands, brushing her thumbs over your cheekbones. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll break my heart.” There’s a playful tilt to her lips, but her eyes—sharp, feline, dangerous—gleam with something softer. Something devoted. “No one takes from me,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Not even fate. And definitely not some city street swallowing up our little guy.”

- She moves through the city with the grace of something not quite human, slipping through the shadows, scaling rooftops, landing lightly on balcony railings as she surveys the streets below. The city belongs to her in a way it never will to anyone else—its secrets, its dark corners, its hidden treasures. And tonight, the only treasure she seeks is a tiny, fluffy menace named Mr. Pickles.

- She finds him at the docks, standing nose-to-nose with a massive alley cat. “Oh, sweetie,” Felicia sighs, perching on the edge of a crate. “Making enemies already?” The alley cat hisses. Mr. Pickles barks back, fearless in his stupidity. Felicia chuckles, scooping him up effortlessly. “You really are my type,” she teases, nuzzling him before vanishing back into the night.

- When she returns, she doesn’t give you a chance to react. She drops Mr. Pickles into your lap, then straddles you, tangling her fingers in your hair, kissing you like she’s staking a claim. “Mine,” she murmurs against your lips. “You. The mutt. Everything. Mine.” Her voice is velvet and sin, but there’s something deeper there, something unspoken. She saved your dog because she would burn the world down before she let you cry.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- He watches you, standing in the Sanctum’s grand hall, your arms wrapped around yourself, your breath unsteady. A storm brewing behind your eyes. Stephen has faced nightmares made flesh, walked through dimensions of madness, fought gods and demons alike—but none of it compares to the sheer, unbearable helplessness of seeing you in pain. He exhales slowly, gathering himself. “I will fix this,” he vows, voice a quiet thunder. “I will bring him back.”

- He opens portals, stepping between realms, searching beyond the limits of the ordinary. His cloak flutters behind him as he moves through the city, eyes glowing with eldritch energy, scanning for the telltale imprint of Mr. Pickles’ presence. He does not guess. He calculates. He peers into the threads of time, tracing the tiny, insignificant path of one small life—because no life is insignificant if it matters to you.

- He finds Mr. Pickles caught in a drainpipe, whimpering, his fluffy fur dirtied with city grime. Stephen kneels, murmuring a soft incantation, and the pipe bends, the metal warping to free its prisoner. “You,” he mutters, scooping the dog up with the same careful precision he uses when handling mystical artifacts, “are far more trouble than your size should allow.” Mr. Pickles yips. Stephen sighs. “Yes, yes. Let’s go home.”

- When he steps back through the portal, you are waiting, eyes wide, body trembling. Before you can speak, he hands you the dog, then—without a word—pulls you into his arms. His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips press to your temple. “Do not look at me like I have done something extraordinary,” he murmurs. “You should know by now—I would defy the laws of the universe for you.”

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- “This is unacceptable.” His voice is steel wrapped in silk, his eyes burning with the fire of a thousand storms. He stands before you like a god carved from the depths, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set with unshakable determination. “No creature that belongs to you shall be lost. The world will return him to you—or it will suffer for its defiance.”

- He commands the sea, bending its will to his own, sending forth silent summons to the creatures of the deep. Whales sing in the distance, dolphins weave through the harbor, seabirds circle the skies, their sharp eyes scanning the city for one foolishly misplaced pet. Namor himself moves like the tide—relentless, unstoppable. The people part for him as he walks the streets, his presence commanding, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the city itself.

- He finds Mr. Pickles tangled in a fishing net near the docks, a group of sailors laughing at the tiny creature’s predicament. Namor does not speak. He does not warn. He simply moves, and the air itself seems to bow before him. The sailors stumble back as he lifts the dog with regal precision, eyes flashing like the heart of a storm. “You belong to her,” he murmurs, brushing a careful thumb over the tiny head. “And that means you belong to me.”

- When he returns, he does not wait for gratitude. He places Mr. Pickles in your arms, then tilts your chin up, studying your face. “Never doubt,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, intimate, “that what is yours is mine to protect.” His lips brush against yours, the ghost of a promise. “And I do not lose.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny has seen hell. He has ridden through the infernal flames, faced demons that would drive lesser men to madness, and carried the weight of sins that do not belong to him. But nothing—nothing—unnerves him quite like the sight of you, beautiful and heartbroken, with tears trembling in your eyes. “We’ll find him,” he says, his voice rough, calloused like his hands. He brushes his thumb over your cheek, gentle in a way most wouldn’t expect from a man like him. “I swear on my goddamn soul, sweetheart. We’ll get your boy back.”

- He revs up his bike, and the night itself seems to shudder in response. The wheels burn with hellfire as he tears through the streets, eyes glowing with something unnatural, something righteous. He hunts like a predator, cutting through alleyways, questioning people in that low, gravelly voice that makes even the toughest criminals step back. His shadow looms long and unrelenting, the scent of brimstone trailing in his wake.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the edge of a junkyard, trapped between rusted metal and the prying claws of something dark and rabid. A hellhound, perhaps, sensing something of Johnny in the small creature. The Rider emerges then, the chain coiling in his grip like a living thing. “You picked the wrong damn dog,” he growls, and in one flaming strike, the beast vanishes into nothingness. Johnny kneels, picking up the trembling ball of fluff. “Come on, little guy,” he mutters. “Let’s get you home.”

- When he returns, he doesn’t say a word—just walks straight to you, places Mr. Pickles in your arms, and wraps his arms around both of you. His forehead presses against yours, his breath warm and tinged with smoke. “Told ya,” he murmurs, voice low, gravel scraping against velvet. “I’d go to hell and back for you. And I will—whenever you ask.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- “Oh, babe,” Eddie sighs, running a hand down his face as he watches you crumple onto the couch, Mr. Pickles nowhere to be found. His heart clenches. He’s not good at this—comfort. But he tries. “We’ll find him,” he promises, kneeling in front of you, gripping your hands like an anchor. “Me and Venom, we’ll tear the whole damn city apart if we have to.”

- “YES,” Venom rumbles, the symbiote’s voice crawling up Eddie’s spine. “THE LITTLE FLUFF CREATURE BELONGS TO US. WE WILL DEVOUR ANY WHO HARM HIM.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but the truth is—he’s grateful. With Venom’s heightened senses, they scour the city like something primal, moving through rooftops, slithering through the underbelly of New York, sniffing out every trace of their tiny, ridiculous prey.

- They find Mr. Pickles cowering near a dumpster, shaking but unharmed. “HE IS SAFE,” Venom declares, wrapping tendrils around the small creature, lifting him gently. Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “You look like an idiot,” he tells Mr. Pickles, though there’s no real heat in his voice. Venom coils protectively around the dog. “HE IS OURS NOW.”

- When they return, Eddie barely has time to react before you throw yourself at him, clutching Mr. Pickles between you. He grunts, but his arms instinctively come around you, holding tight. Venom purrs—purrs. Eddie groans. “Great. Now I got two clingy idiots.” But then he buries his face in your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a man of unshakable control, a king whose every step is measured, every breath purposeful. But when he sees you—so strong, so fierce, now unraveled by something as small and precious as a missing dog—his heart tightens. He cups your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I will not let you suffer,” he murmurs. “No matter how small the loss may seem to others, I know it is not small to you.”

- The Dora Milaje move swiftly, Wakandan technology scanning the city with ruthless efficiency. But T’Challa does not simply stand by—he hunts. He moves like a shadow through the streets, his senses sharper than any mortal’s, his agility unmatched. He does not run. He glides, a predator in the night, every step silent as he follows the invisible trail of a tiny, lost thing.

- He finds Mr. Pickles at the feet of a would-be thief, a man who thought stealing a small, expensive-looking dog might earn him a quick payday. The man doesn’t even see T’Challa before he’s on him, a whisper of claws, a silent strike. The thief crumples before he even knows what happened. T’Challa picks up Mr. Pickles, cradling the tiny creature with surprising tenderness. “You have caused quite the commotion, little one,” he murmurs.

- When he returns, he does not speak right away—simply hands Mr. Pickles to you and watches as relief floods your face. And then, with the grace of a ruler, the ferocity of a warrior, he kneels before you, his hands on your waist, his lips ghosting over your knuckles. “You are my heart,” he whispers. “And I will always return to you what you love.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra does not love lightly. Love, to her, is a battlefield—something you fight for, something you bleed for. And so when she sees you, eyes red-rimmed, body curled in grief over your missing dog, something inside her snaps. She kneels before you, takes your hands, and presses a kiss to your wrist. “He will be found,” she vows, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And those who took him will regret it.”

- She moves through the city like a blade, slipping between buildings, whispering threats in the ears of informants. She is not gentle in her search—Elektra is a storm, a hurricane dressed in crimson, and when she wants answers, she gets them. The city bends before her, criminals whispering her name in fear as she cuts a path through the underworld, searching for a dog that dared to run from you.

- She finds Mr. Pickles in the hands of a smuggler, tucked beneath a coat, a prize to be sold. Elektra does not speak. She does not negotiate. She simply moves. The fight is over in seconds—bones breaking, a body crumpling, the sound of breath stolen away. She lifts Mr. Pickles into her arms, brushing blood-stained fingers over his fur. “You are lucky,” she tells him, voice a deadly lullaby. “She loves you. That is why you are alive.”

- When she returns, she does not hand him over immediately. Instead, she tilts your chin up, studies your face with eyes that have seen too much, and kisses you—deep, slow, possessive. And then, finally, she places Mr. Pickles in your hands. “He is safe,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over your forehead. “Because you are mine. And nothing that is yours will ever be taken from you.”

Muse

- Muse does not understand grief in the way others do. Suffering, to him, is art. Blood, tears, sorrow—they are strokes on a canvas, fleeting expressions of beauty. But when he sees you undone, sadness spilling from you like a watercolor bleeding into the edges of the world, something inside him twists. He tilts his head, dark eyes drinking you in, committing your heartbreak to memory. “You are beautiful when you mourn,” he murmurs, almost dreamlike. But then, softer, something close to reverence—“Tell me who I must bleed.”

- He moves through the city like a ghost, a whisper lost in the wind. No doors stop him, no walls contain him. He slithers between cracks in the world, past flickering streetlights, through alleys where rats scurry at his presence. He listens—to the murmurs of the city, to the stutter of fearful hearts, to the stories inked in dried blood on concrete. He sketches shapes in the air as he moves, painting Mr. Pickles’s outline with invisible strokes, willing the world to yield its secrets.

- He finds the dog in a forgotten place—a shuttered church, abandoned and hollow, where the echoes of old prayers cling to rotting wood. Mr. Pickles is curled beneath the altar, lost in something greater than himself, a dumb, small creature in a world too vast. Muse crouches before him, fingers brushing the cold stone. “Even the most foolish of things seek sanctuary,” he murmurs. He lifts the dog into his arms like a relic, cradling him as one would a delicate masterpiece.

- When he returns, he does not hand the creature to you immediately. Instead, he watches you, drinking in the relief that softens your grief, the way you tremble with something raw. “Your sadness was divine,” he tells you, his voice reverent, worshipful. “But your joy—” He steps closer, his breath a whisper against your skin. “Your joy is the kind of art that kills.” And then, at last, he places Mr. Pickles in your hands, his fingers lingering, his head tilting as if considering whether to carve this moment into eternity.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate imperfection. The world is a broken thing, filled with fragile creatures who tremble at the weight of their own insignificance. But you—you are not insignificant. You are his, and that means you are above such things as sorrow. And yet, here you stand, shattered by the absence of something as small, as foolish, as utterly unworthy as a dog. He cups your face in his gauntleted hands, his voice a low command. “You will not despair. Doom will fix this.”

- The search is swift, efficient, without hesitation. His Doombots flood the city, scanning every street, every shadow. There is no corner of the world Doom does not control, no path hidden from his gaze. He does not waste time questioning—he demands. When a man hesitates to answer, Doom does not repeat himself. He simply removes the obstacle. The world bends before his will, because it must.

- He finds the dog in the hands of a thief who does not understand the gravity of his mistake. Doom does not strike immediately. He steps forward, his very presence sending the fool to his knees. “You have taken something that belongs to me,” he states, voice smooth, absolute. “That is unacceptable.” The thief stammers, begs, offers apologies Doom does not need. With a flick of his wrist, Doom reclaims what is his. The thief remains on the ground, trembling—his punishment will come later.

- When he returns, he does not hand you the dog. No, he holds Mr. Pickles before you, as if offering proof of his superiority, as if daring you to ever doubt him again. “Do not weep for lost things,” he tells you, his voice softer now, for you alone. “Not when you have Doom. Nothing that belongs to you shall ever be taken from you while I draw breath.” And then, as though bestowing a gift upon royalty, he places Mr. Pickles into your waiting arms, watching as you press your face into the ridiculous fluff with something close to peace. Doom allows himself the smallest of smiles.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- “Oh, babe.” Peter’s heart breaks a little at the sight of you, curled up on the couch, your eyes wet, your lip trembling. He’s seen you fight, seen you take down things twice your size without so much as flinching, but this—this tiny, stupid missing dog—has unraveled you. He cups your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t worry, okay? The Legendary Star-Lord’s got this. I’ll have Mr. Pickles back before you can say ‘Peter, you’re the best boyfriend ever.’”

- He takes off running—literally. No plan, no strategy, just vibes. He asks around, chasing every lead with the reckless charm of a man who talks his way out of problems more often than he solves them. He nearly gets into a fight with a street vendor, accidentally enters an underground dog racing ring (and somehow wins money he never meant to bet), and ends up bribing a kid with a pack of alien candy just to get a lead.

- When he finally finds Mr. Pickles, the little guy is on a rooftop, looking profoundly lost and utterly confused. “Oh, buddy,” Peter sighs, scooping him up. “Your mom is gonna kill me if she finds out I let you get this far. You owe me, man.” Mr. Pickles licks his face. Peter grimaces. “Gross, dude.”

- He returns to you, arms wide, Mr. Pickles balanced on his shoulder like some kind of pirate parrot. “Ta-da!” He grins as you snatch your dog, pressing frantic kisses into his fur. Peter watches you with something soft in his eyes, something real. “See?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “Told you I’d bring him back. And not just ‘cause I didn’t wanna see you cry—though, babe, I really didn’t wanna see you cry.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, grinning. “Next time, though? Maybe we put a tracker on this little dude.”

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard’s stomach sinks when he sees you like this. You’re never like this—never fragile, never still. But now, your arms are empty, your lips pressed tight, your whole body tensed in a way that tells him just how much you’re holding back. He reaches for you, thumb brushing against your wrist. “We’re gonna find him,” he promises. “No matter what it takes.” And when he says it, he means it.

- He takes to the sky, the city unfolding beneath him in a blur of neon and shadows. He scans every street, every heartbeat, his senses stretched thin, reaching beyond what should be possible. He moves like a comet, burning through the night, a streak of gold and blue against the dark. No lost thing escapes his gaze—not when he is Nova.

- He finds Mr. Pickles in the middle of traffic, a tiny, oblivious fluffball wandering straight into chaos. Richard doesn’t think—he moves. One second, the little dog is about to meet a terrible fate. The next, he’s safe, cradled against Richard’s chest as cars screech to a halt beneath them. Richard exhales, pressing his forehead against the ridiculous creature. “You are so lucky I like your mom.”

- He lands in front of you, Mr. Pickles still tucked in his arms, and the second he sees your relief, he knows—he would have torn the universe apart for this moment. He hands the dog to you, watching the way your whole body softens. And then, before he can say something stupid, you throw your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his. He laughs against your mouth, breathless. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “I know. I’m the best.”

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